“Seems to me that you’ve gotta be in a place you know well, and if that place knows you too, it’ll help you.” ― Amitav Ghosh, Ghost Eye
Ghost Eye by Amitav Ghosh is an intriguing addition to his body of work, blending his characteristic climate change concerns with elements of magical realism, memory, and metaphysical inquiry. Known for novels such as The Shadow Lines,River of Smoke and Jungle Nama, Ghosh has consistently explored the intersections of history, migration, and environment. In Ghost-Eye, he extends this exploration into more experimental terrain, weaving together reincarnation, psychological investigation, and climate activism into a multi-layered non-linear narrative that spans continents and decades.
At the heart of the novel lies a deceptively simple yet deeply unsettling premise of a young girl named Varsha Gupta, raised in a strict vegetarian Marwari household in late-1960s Calcutta, who suddenly insists on eating fish, which is entirely alien to her upbringing. More disturbingly, she claims to remember a past life in which fish was part of her staple diet, suggesting that she may be a ‘case of the reincarnation type.’ This premise immediately situates the novel within a liminal space between rationality and spiritual belief, a tension that drives much of the narrative.
In the early sections of the book, Ghosh meticulously constructs the world of the Gupta household, capturing the cultural rigidity and social milieu of Calcutta’s elite Marwari community. The disruption caused by Varsha’s insistence on fish is not merely dietary but existential as it challenges the family’s worldview and opens a door to questions they are ill-equipped to answer. Enter Dr Shoma Bose, a psychologist studying reincarnation cases, whose rational framework is gradually destabilised by Varsha’s revelations. Through Shoma, Ghosh explores the limits of scientific reasoning when confronted with phenomena that resist empirical categorisation.
What elevates Ghost Eye beyond a simple psychological mystery is its expansive temporal and spatial scope. The narrative moves fluidly between 1960s Calcutta, Sundarbans, and contemporary Brooklyn, where the story resurfaces decades later through Shoma’s nephew, Dinu. This dual timeline allows Ghosh to play with past and present, tradition and modernity, belief and scepticism. The transition is seamless, and the intergenerational narrative adds depth to the central mystery, transforming it into a broader meditation on memory and continuity.
Ghosh uses the motif of reincarnation not merely as a plot device but as a lens through which to examine ecological and ethical questions. The idea of cyclical existence mirrors the cycles of nature, suggesting an interconnectedness between human lives and the environment. As the narrative unfolds, it becomes increasingly clear that Varsha’s story is linked to larger concerns about environmental degradation and climate change. The involvement of environmental activists in the latter part of the novel underscores this connection, tying the metaphysical elements of the story to urgent real-world issues.
Ghosh’s descriptions of Calcutta and the Sundarbans are vivid and immersive, evoking a strong sense of place. The sensory richness in the depiction of food, landscapes, and everyday life grounds the more fantastical elements of the narrative, making them feel plausible within the world he has created. The novel’s magical realism is subtle rather than overt, emerging organically from the characters’ experiences rather than being imposed upon them.While the buildup is compelling and the thematic layers are rich, the ending feels somewhat rushed and less satisfying than the preceding narrative. The resolution of the central mystery, which promises a profound revelation, instead arrives with a sense of abruptness, leaving some threads insufficiently explored. Despite this limitation, Ghost Eye succeeds in pushing the boundaries of Ghosh’s narrative style. It represents a departure from his more historically anchored novels, venturing into speculative and metaphysical boundaries between science and spirituality, memory and imagination, human life and the natural world. The blending of genres creates a unique reading experience that is both engaging and thought-provoking.
The clothes we wear have a hidden afterlife. Even after a garment is worn a few times and forgotten at the back of a wardrobe, its environmental footprint remains in landfills, waterways, and the atmosphere. The global fashion industry today has a material and emissions footprint so large that it rivals that of entire nations. Each year, around 92 million tonnes of textile waste are generated worldwide, most of it ending up in landfills or incinerators, even though a large share of it is still wearable or recyclable. This is not just a lifestyle problem; it is a climate, water, and waste crisis rolled into one. In countries like India, Brazil, and the United States, the scale of textile waste varies, but the pattern remains the same, with fast fashion fuelling overconsumption, linear disposal systems leaking value, and communities paying the price through polluted land, stressed water systems, and rising emissions.
A practical alternative exists, and it is already visible in the reuse models emerging across cities and communities. The ‘collection-sorting-reuse-recycling model’, where clothes donated by households are graded and channelled into resale, regional redistribution, or material recycling, offers a rare triple win. It can save energy and water by avoiding virgin production, reduce landfill pressure and carbon emissions, and create dignified livelihoods across the value chain. In a world searching for climate solutions that also create jobs, textile reuse is a low-hanging fruit hiding in plain sight.
The environmental logic of reuse is powerful. Producing new clothing is energy and water-intensive, especially when fibres are grown, dyed, finished, shipped, and marketed across continents. Cotton alone accounts for massive freshwater use, while polyester is derived from fossil fuels and contributes to microplastic pollution. The fashion sector contributes an estimated 2–8% of global greenhouse gas emissions, making it one of the most carbon-intensive consumer industries.[i] When a garment is reused even once, a large portion of that embedded energy, water, and carbon footprint is avoided. Lifecycle assessments consistently show that resale and reuse pathways can cut emissions per garment by more than half compared to producing a new equivalent, while also sparing thousands of litres of water per kilogram of clothing.[ii] In practical terms, every shirt reused is a shirt not produced, and every kilogram diverted from landfill is methane not emitted during decomposition.
India’s case illustrates both the urgency of the problem and the promise of the solution. The country generates around eight million tonnes of textile waste every year, which is 8.5% of global post-consumer textile discards. India’s textile and apparel sector generates close to four million tonnes of post-consumer textile waste annually, making it one of the country’s largest contributors to landfill, water consumption, and greenhouse gas emissions. While an estimated 57% of used textiles are reused or recycled, these processes take place almost entirely through informal, fragmented, and unregulated channels. The remaining 43% ends up in landfills or is incinerated, reflecting an unsustainable linear ‘buy-use-discard’ consumption pattern that continues to accelerate with the growth of fast fashion[iii].
While India has long traditions of repair and hand-me-downs, rapid urbanisation and fast fashion consumption are overwhelming these cultural buffers. The result is a growing stream of clothing waste in municipal dumps, often mixed with organic waste, making recycling harder and environmental harm more acute. Yet India also hosts some of the world’s most innovative reuse ecosystems. Organisations such as Humana People to People India is demonstrating how urban surplus clothing can be collected and sold through retail channels, and income used for funding social development outcomes[iv], and Goonj collection channelled to rural communities in dignified ways, linking redistribution to community development and livelihoods.[v] Informal networks of sorters, repairers, and traders already keep a significant portion of textiles in circulation, proving that reuse is culturally and economically viable when supported by the right infrastructure.
Brazil presents a parallel story shaped by urban consumerism and rising awareness. The country generates millions of tonnes of textile waste annually, with a large fraction still going to landfills due to limited formal recycling and reuse systems.[vi] Yet a growing thrift and resale movement, especially among younger Brazilians, is reframing second-hand fashion as both affordable and aspirational.[vii] Community cooperatives and small recyclers are beginning to integrate textile waste into circular micro-economies, creating jobs in sorting, resale, and upcycling. The lesson from Brazil is that cultural acceptance of reuse can shift quickly when affordability, sustainability narratives, and local entrepreneurship align.
The United States, often seen as the epicentre of fast fashion consumption, offers a different scale of lessons. Tens of millions of tonnes of textiles are discarded each year, but the country also has one of the world’s most established second-hand markets, supported by charities, social enterprises, and commercial resale platforms. Organisations collecting used clothing divert billions of pounds from landfills annually, channelling them into domestic resale, international reuse markets, and recycling streams.[viii] Even in a high-consumption society, reuse systems demonstrate that scale is possible when logistics, sorting infrastructure, and consumer awareness are aligned. The American experience shows that reuse is not marginal, but can be commercially viable, and environmentally meaningful at the national scale.
There could be lessons learnt from Brazil and the USA, and good practices replicated in India. Beyond environmental benefits, reuse models unlock employment that matters deeply for India. Every stage of the circular value chain creates work, from collection crews and logistics managers, sorting centre workers trained in grading and repair, retail staff in reuse shops, resellers in Tier II and III towns, and recycling technicians handling end-of-life textiles. Unlike capital-intensive manufacturing, reuse and sorting are labour-intensive, making them ideal for employment generation in peri-urban and rural contexts. India’s textile and apparel ecosystem already employs tens of millions of people, and circular extensions of this value chain can add new layers of income while formalising parts of the informal economy.[ix] For women and youth, especially in low-income communities, reuse enterprises can offer accessible entry points into entrepreneurship and wage work, from operating neighbourhood collection hubs to running small resale outlets.
Such models fit well within India’s national climate adaptation priorities. The National Action Plan on Climate Change[x]emphasises sustainable consumption, waste reduction, and resource efficiency as pillars of climate resilience. Textile reuse contributes to mitigation by cutting emissions embedded in production and avoiding landfill methane, while also supporting adaptation by reducing pressure on water systems and urban waste infrastructure. In water-stressed cities, every litre saved through avoided textile production matters. In flood-prone regions, reducing landfill volume lowers the risk of waste-choked drainage and secondary pollution. Circular textile systems thus become part of urban resilience, not just waste management.
The social enterprise model further adds public value, where profits from resale and recycling can cover operating costs and fund social programs. By reinvesting surpluses into community education, skills training, or local environmental projects, reuse systems can close the loop between consumption and social impact. This can become an excellent example of regenerative economics, where waste becomes a revenue stream that sustains both the enterprise and the communities it serves. When scaled across cities through partnerships with RWAs, municipalities, and CSR programmes, such models can become a distributed infrastructure for circularity, embedded in everyday life rather than confined to pilot projects.
While reuse alone cannot solve fashion’s environmental crisis, overproduction must be addressed, and durable design, extended producer responsibility, and recycling innovation are all necessary. But reuse is the fastest, cheapest, and most socially inclusive solution available today. It requires no new technology breakthroughs, only better organisation of what already exists and conscious consumerism.
Embracing circular textile reuse at scale in India is not just an environmental choice, but an essential development strategy. It aligns climate action with employment, urban resilience with rural markets, and consumer behaviour with community benefit. Brazil’s cultural shift towards thrift and the USA’s large-scale reuse infrastructure show that such transitions are possible across income levels and cultures. The question is no longer whether reuse works, but whether policy, capital, and civic will can come together to make it the norm rather than the exception. If India gets this right, it will not only reduce its textile footprint but also demonstrate how climate action can be woven into the fabric of everyday economic life.
As the festive season in India is ongoing, jewellers across India are ready, investors tracking bullion prices, and families waiting eagerly for the most “auspicious” day of the year to buy gold. Dhanteras, celebrated two days before Diwali, has long been associated with the purchase of the precious metal, a tradition believed to bring prosperity and good fortune. Similar buying frenzies occur during Akshaya Tritiya, weddings, Karwa Chauth, and harvest festivals, when gold is not merely an adornment but a cultural marker of wealth and status.
Market reports celebrate the crores spent, but beneath the sparkle lies a complex story of culture, aspiration, and economics. Is festival gold-buying a timeless symbol of financial prudence and cultural continuity, or is it a cycle of consumption propelled by social pressure, marketing, and habit?
India’s love affair with gold is centuries old. From the time of the Indus Valley civilisation to the Mauryan emperors to our modern nuclear families, gold has been a medium of exchange, a store of value, and a token of spiritual significance. For millions, gold is not just metal, it is Lakshmi, the goddess of wealth herself. Dhanteras literally means “the thirteenth day of wealth,” and families believe that buying gold on this day invites abundance.
This cultural reverence made economic sense in a pre-banking era. Gold’s intrinsic value and portability provided a hedge against famine, emergency, and currency devaluation. Rural households, lacking access to formal savings mechanism, used jewellery as insurance and collateral. Even today, India remains the world’s second-largest consumer of gold, with annual demand often exceeding 700–800 tonnes. For many, gold remains the most trusted form of intergenerational wealth transfer.
Yet, today’s festival buying is no longer just about family heirlooms or prudent savings. It has evolved into a multi-billion-rupee economic event. According to trade bodies like the All-India Gem and Jewellery Domestic Council, Dhanteras sales often spike by 20–25% year-on-year, depending on price trends. In 2024, for example, despite gold hovering at record highs of around INR61,000 per 10 grams, jewellers reported robust demand, with many urban consumers opting for lighter designs or digital gold to keep up with tradition.
Specific estimates for festival (especially Dhanteras) sales in recent years help show the proportion of demand tied to ritual buying. During Dhanteras in 2024, around 20-22 tonnes of gold were sold, worth nearly INR 16,000 crore. The full jewellery sector during the festival period saw sales in the INR 18,000-20,000 crore.
The annual figures show India’s gold demand continues to be immense, though shifting in nature,
In 2024, India’s total gold demand rose to around 802.8 tonnes, up from 761 tonnes in 2023.
The value of gold purchases in 2024 was estimated at INR 5.15 lakh crore (~US$60-70 billion depending on gold price).
Jewellery demand in 2024 was ~ 563 tonnes, with the non-ornamental purchases (coins/bars) making up ~ 239 tonnes.
These numbers reflect overall demand, not just festival or Dhanteras purchases, but festivals remain a major driver. The data show that although overall demand has often crept upward in value terms (driven by price inflation), the volume of jewellery demand has at times fallen or stagnated. For example, in 2024 jewellery tonnage demand dropped ~2% compared to 2023 even as value increased.
Targeted marketing plays a huge role. Advertisements link gold to auspiciousness and emotional milestones, “Gift prosperity,”“Secure her future,”“Start your Diwali with gold.” Social media influencers and celebrity endorsements reinforce the message that a festival without gold is incomplete. This creates a powerful psychological loop: buying gold is not just desirable, it is expected.
The Dhanteras gold rush is fuelled by a mix of fear and aspiration. Gold retains a near-mystical aura as a hedge against uncertainty. Global financial instability, inflation, and geopolitical tensions often send prices higher, reinforcing the perception of gold as a “safe haven.” For middle-class families, a few grams bought every year feels like both a celebration and a safety net.
But there is also the quieter pressure of status. Weddings, festivals, and social gatherings often showcase jewellery as a measure of success. The fear of “falling behind” relatives or neighbours can nudge families, especially in smaller towns and rural areas, into stretching budgets and even getting into debt trap to maintain appearances. What was once a hedge against uncertainty can change into a source of financial strain.
From a macroeconomic perspective, India’s gold obsession is a double edged sword. While the jewellery industry supports millions of jobs, from miners to artisans to retailers, it also represents a massive outflow of capital. India imports more than 90% of its gold, spending billions of dollars in foreign exchange each year. Economists have long argued that this “dead investment” locks up household savings in a non-productive asset, diverting funds from sectors like manufacturing, infrastructure, or technology that could generate higher returns and employment.
For individual households, the opportunity cost is equally significant. A family buying gold at festival-time may forgo investing in equity markets, mutual funds, or even bank deposits that could provide compounding growth. Gold prices, while generally stable over the long term, are not immune to volatility as we are witnessing now with gold prices rising to INR 120K+ per 10 grams. The metal offers no dividends or interest; its value lies only in resale or emotional satisfaction.
Beyond economics lies an often-ignored cost, the environmental impact of gold mining. Extracting gold is an energy-intensive process that generates toxic waste and contributes to deforestation, soil erosion, and water pollution. Globally, gold mining is associated with mercury contamination and significant carbon emissions. While India imports much of its gold, domestic refining and artisanal mining also pose environmental challenges.
Consumers rarely connect their festival purchases to these ecological consequences. The cultural narrative of purity and prosperity masks the fact that every bangle and coin carries a hidden footprint. Ethical sourcing, such as recycled gold or fair-trade certifications, is slowly gaining traction among urban, environmentally conscious buyers, but remains a niche segment.
As India’s economy digitises, a quiet transformation is underway. Younger consumers, especially in cities, are exploring alternatives to physical gold. Digital gold platforms, gold exchange-traded funds (ETFs), and sovereign gold bonds (SGBs) allow individuals to invest in gold without worrying about purity, storage, or theft.
These products offer flexibility and sometimes better returns. Sovereign gold bonds, for instance, pay annual interest and are exempt from capital gains tax if held to maturity. Yet they also challenge the cultural core of gold-buying: there is no ornament to wear, no glitter to display, no festive ritual of walking into a jewellery shop on Dhanteras. For many families, the emotional experience is as important as the investment itself. Still, the shift is undeniable. Digital gold platforms have reported double-digit growth during recent festivals, particularly among younger investors who value convenience and liquidity over tradition.
So where does this leave the Indian consumer? To dismiss festival gold-buying as mere superstition would be simplistic. Traditions provide continuity, identity, and joy. For rural households with limited access to financial products, gold remains a practical and trusted savings tool.
But to ignore the economic, environmental, and social pressures embedded in this ritual is equally shortsighted. When a practice once rooted in prudence becomes a compulsive annual expense, it risks becoming a trap. The symbolism of prosperity can mask financial strain, and the celebration of abundance can conceal environmental degradation. Festivals can retain their joy without becoming economic burdens. A few grams of gold bought with intention, rather than compulsion, can honour tradition while respecting modern realities.
Dhanteras will always hold a special place in the Indian calendar. The sight of families entering jewellery shops, and elders blessing the new purchase is undeniably heartwarming. Yet it is worth remembering that true prosperity lies not in the weight of gold but in the wisdom of choice.
As India strides into a digital, climate conscious future, perhaps the most auspicious act is not buying more gold, but buying it mindfully acknowledging its beauty, its history, and its hidden costs. The goddess of wealth, after all, smiles brightest on those who balance tradition with thoughtfulness.
Buy thoughtfully. Celebrate responsibly. Live consciously.
In last 2-3 years, I have been part of several discussions to define and build a consensus on understanding of urban marginalised and vulnerable population (UMVP) in the context of India, and how this population group has been evolving and growing in numbers. India’s rapid urbanization over the past few decades has transformed its cities into economic powerhouses contributing 60% of India’s GDP. While in 2023 around 37% of India’s population lived in urban areas, it is estimated that by 2036, half of India’s population will live in cities. However, this growth has also led to the marginalization of a significant portion of the population. Cities Alliance estimated that 25% of the population living in urban areas are below the poverty line. By this estimate, a shocking 125+ million people are marginalised and vulnerable living in the urban areas. The urban marginalized and vulnerable groups comprising of slum dwellers, informal workers, migrant labourers, women, children, and the homeless face numerous challenges like access to basic citizens’ rights, services, and opportunities. As India continues its urban transition, addressing the vulnerabilities of these populations is critical to achieving inclusive development.
The UMVPs live in precarious conditions, often lacking access to basic services like clean water, housing, sanitation, healthcare, and education. Their vulnerabilities are shaped by socio-economic, cultural, political, and structural factors that leave them excluded from mainstream urban life. They often lack the necessary documentation to access government schemes and services, such as ration cards, Aadhaar cards, or voter identification. This exclusion prevents them from benefiting from welfare programs like the Public Distribution System (PDS), healthcare subsidies, or housing schemes. The UMVPs can broadly be classified in five sub-groups,
Slum Dwellers: According to the 2011 Census, about 65 million people in India live in urban slums. Slums across India have poor housing, lack of sanitation, overcrowding, and a high risk of diseases, especially communicable. People living in the slums often have insecure tenure, making them vulnerable to eviction and displacement due to urban development projects. Displacement not only disrupts their livelihoods but also pushes them further into poverty. Poor living conditions contribute to health problems, including respiratory diseases (especially TB) and waterborne infections.
Homeless Population: India’s urban homeless population is particularly vulnerable, facing extreme marginalization. With no permanent shelter, the homeless are exposed to harsh weather conditions, violence, and health risks. They have limited access to government welfare schemes and often fall outside the purview of census data, making it difficult to design targeted interventions. HLRN estimates that there could be more than 3 million homeless individuals. Extreme poverty, unemployment, displacement due to natural disasters, mental illness, substance abuse, runaways, are often the causes of homelessness, and their numbers are continuously increasing in urban India.
Informal Workers: The informal sector accounts for nearly 80% of India’s urban workforce. This includes daily wage labourers, street vendors, domestic workers, and construction workers, among others. Informal workers lack job security, social protection, and access to formal financial systems, leaving them vulnerable to economic shocks. The COVID-19 pandemic exposed the extreme vulnerability of informal workers, who faced sudden job losses and had low-to-no access to financial aid. Informal workers often are slum dwellers, or live in low income housing colonies, or are even homeless.
Migrant Laborers: Migration to cities in search of employment and better life is common in India. However, migrant labourers, often from rural areas both intra- and inter-state, face significant challenges in urban settings. They often find employment in low-paying jobs with little to no benefits, live in temporary or inadequate housing, and struggle to access public services due to a lack of local identification documents. Temporary migratory population is also a sub-set of this group, who come to cities for seasonal work, migrate from one place to another, also migrate within the cities in search of work. Construction workers and artisanal nomadic groups can be good examples of migratory population.
Women and Children: Women and children within urban marginalized communities living in slums or informal settlements often work in low-paid informal jobs while managing household responsibilities. They are more likely to experience gender-based violence, discrimination and exploitation, limited access to healthcare, and lack of educational/skilling opportunities. Children in these settings suffer from malnutrition, poor schooling, and limited opportunities for social mobility. They often attend poorly equipped government schools or are forced to drop out to contribute to household income.
India’s urban marginalized and vulnerable populations represent a significant and often overlooked segment of society. Ensuring their inclusion in the country’s urban development is essential for sustainable and equitable growth, while bestowing opportunity and dignity for all citizens as their Right.
Disclaimer: The opinions expressed are those of the author and do not purport to reflect the views or opinions of any organization, foundation, CSR, non-profit or others
“All you need do, is be content with what you’ve got, to be always craving more, is a demon’s lot.” ― Amitav Ghosh, Jungle Nama
“Jungle Nama” by Amitav Ghosh is a captivating verse adaptation of a Bengali folktale from the Sundarbans, the world’s largest mangrove forest shared between India and Bangladesh. Written in a lyrical, rhythmic style, and illustrated by Salman Toor, the book tells the story of “Bon Bibi,” a benovelent goddess of the Sundarbans who safeguards the jungle and its people, and her conflict with Dokkhin Rai, a powerful demon-like figure who seeks to exploit the forest’s riches.
Ghosh’s decision to render this ancient tale in verse brings a unique musicality to the story, echoing the cadence of oral storytelling introducing music to current speech that has kept the folktale alive for generations. His prose is imbued with both reverence for the source material and a contemporary sensibility that makes the story accessible to a modern audience. Accompanying the text are hauntingly beautiful illustrations by artist Salman Toor, whose work enhances the mystical and otherworldly atmosphere of the Sundarbans and its lore.
Beyond its enchanting style, Jungle Nama explores timeless themes of balance between nature and humanity, the perils of human greed, and the importance of respecting natural boundaries. Ghosh subtly draws parallels to modern issues like climate change and environmental degradation, suggesting that the ancient wisdom in the Bon Bibi story holds valuable lessons for today’s world. Through Bon Bibi’s character, he raises questions about stewardship, sustainability, and the price of human ambition.
The book is more than a poetic retelling; it’s an immersive experience that connects readers to both nature and folklore. Ghosh’s evocative language and Toor’s illustrations work in harmony to capture the spirit of the Sundarbans and its lore, making this book a visually and intellectually rich addition to Ghosh’s body of work. The poem-like style of the book follows twelve syllables in each line, and each couplet has twenty-four syllables. After each line there is a natural pause or a caesura, replicating the cadence of the original legend.
This book by one of my all-time favourite authors is a mesmerizing read for anyone interested in myth, poetry, linguistic hybridity, and environment, offering a rare glimpse into a world where nature and spirituality are deeply intertwined.
