In his work The Social Life of Things, Appadurai remarks that the study of material culture and the social significance of “things” is “…at the heart of exchange theory and social anthropology generally,” (Appadurai, 5). Indeed, objects are a crucial part of the foundation of culture, with meaning in its every aspect; economically especially, entire systems have been built on the exchange of objects. In this work, however, I wanted to focus not on the social significance of a public or economic object, but of a personal one. For observation, I chose a small statue of Ganesh (Ganpati), a Hindu god of beginnings and the remover of obstacles that was given to me by my father before I left for college. Ganpati is one of India’s most famous gods, renowned for his wisdom and strength of character, and is often invoked for blessings and protection.
In my reflections, I first wondered: what purpose does having this statue serve me? When I asked my father, he gave me a simple answer: “Ganesh is there to watch over you and protect you,” (Prakash). This somewhat vague response led me to my main question: how does this statue protect me? In a broader ethnographic context, what social and religious significance attached to this object makes it protective and valued in my family and, by extension, my family’s culture? Moreover, what extra dimensions are added to its value because it is a family object “bequeathed” to me?
In terms of ethnographic method, the non-materiality of the field—namely, myself, my family, and the theories of the anthropological community—eliminated true participant observation as an option. While I did conduct a brief interview with my father to gain the perspective of the giver, the personal nature of my statue made this inquiry an exercise in reflexivity. I tried to take an etic perspective and examine my own perceptions and biases; I then looked at my results under the lens of various theories by anthropologists within the scholarly community.
I began by trying to understand the social significance of objects in general—in doing so, I wanted to understand how physical things could have such deep mental meanings. Appadurai’s The Social Life of Things was instrumental in this, as it largely defined the way modern anthropologists think about “objects” vs. “commodities.” According to Appadurai, a commodity is a thing with a social potential, specifically the potential for exchange (Appadurai, 6). Anthropologists as a whole see commodities as particularly significant in an economic context; conversely, they are contrasted harshly with the concept of gift exchange (12-13). As such, commodities are often associated with calculation and physical reciprocation—after all, economic exchange demands mutual benefit, (12-13). However, Appadurai argues that this definition of “benefit” is too narrow, and degrades the significance of exchanges that play “for stakes that are non-material and not easily quantifiable…” (12).
Looking, then, at the statue as a commodity, my next step was to extrapolate what the terms of the exchange were, and in what way both parties were mutually fulfilled. Obviously, no money was exchanged between my father and I; when I asked him of the possibility, I was met with only a blank look and a comment on my intelligence (Prakash). So, if not a material asset, what non-quantifiable benefit did my father gain from me having this statue? According to Appadurai, there is a special type of commodity that can be valued in a non-material way; he uses the example of early medieval Christian relics, “…in which the life history of the particular relic is essential, not incidental, to its value,” (25). While Appadurai is referencing objects with a much richer history and significance than my own statue, the point stands; the value of some objects goes beyond simple function and calculation—in this case, as a religious symbol.
Symbols exist in every religion; according to Turner, they “condense many references, uniting them in a single cognitive and affective field,” (Turner, 55). He also emphasizes their significance as social motivators, claiming that “symbols instigate social action,” (55). Moreover, Turner defines symbols as multivocal, meaning they are open to interpretation and accessible to many meanings (55). Different symbols and their meanings give insight into the values of different cultures (55). However, these differences and the deep connection between culture, social structure, and religion can cause friction; often this friction perpetuates misconceptions about the significance of religious practices in outside faiths—for example, “idol” (statue) worship.
Statue worship is a key element of polytheistic, animistic religions like Hinduism, and has been since ancient times (Gupta, 706). Early Judeo-Christian writers mischaracterized it in their “polemic against idolatry”; from their outside perspective, they saw statues of Greco-Roman cult gods as “creations, not creators,” (704-705). Fundamentally, early Judeo-Christians could not understand why people would worship objects made of stone and wood—or in the case of my statue, simple clay and black paint. What the early Judeo-Christians failed to understand was that the statue itself was not divine, but rather that it is a conduit for the divinity of the embodied god (708). This is not to say that the idol is magical, as defined by Guest and Frazer; spells and incantations are not used to achieve superhuman effects, nor does the work pass on magic through contact (Guest, 379). Greco-Roman scholars understood that in their religious rites, the statue itself was not being worshipped; but at the same time, they recognized that the statue contained the presence or the soul of god (Gupta, 707-708).
Anthropological interpretations of this liminal state vary; Gupta mentions that Collins defines these cult statues as social agents, effectively human and treated as such (708). Steiner, however, offers a different explanation: that these statues are objects that stand on the boundary between mortal and spiritual, the world of humans and the world of gods (709). Living and not-living, idols of polytheism take on roles as the stepping stone that connects diametrically opposite worlds, embodying a feature Gupta calls amphicosmic ontology, or “an existence that places the statue on the boundary between two dimensions,” (709). The realization that this was not immediately obvious to outside viewers came as somewhat of a shock; however, the more I examined by own engendered perception of the statue, the more I realized that Gupta and Steiner’s descriptions of the significance of idols were entirely accurate. Speaking to my father I began to notice the particular way he addressed the object—not as “the statue,” but as “Ganesh,” (Prakash).
Moreover, realizing the dual nature of my statue brought about another connection to Turner—specifically in his examination of metaphors. Turner defines a metaphor as “…‘our means of effecting instantaneous fusion of two separated realms of experience into one illuminating, iconic, encapsulating image’,” (Turner, 25). He also specifies that a metaphor brings together two different things actively engaged in each other (29). It is important here to make a distinction between the god and the statue; while Ganesh the elephant god is a cultural symbol, multivocal and with many interpretations, the statue itself is material and must have material significance. In this way, I finally understood how my statue could be seen as a protective force; the statue is not a magical object or a symbol, but a physical metaphor. Having the statue is a metaphor for having the god’s presence and protection—the statue is “as the god.”
Furthermore, it is now possible to identify the non-quantifiable merit my father gains by gifting me this statue. Not only does he give me (in his eyes) divine protection, he passes down a memento of family, ensuring the familial bond remains tight. Weiner’s study of “inalienable possessions” is particularly applicable here. She defines inalienable possessions as “…possessions that are imbued with the intrinsic and ineffable identities of their owners which are not easy to give away,” (Weiner, 6). According to Weiner, these possessions are kept within the family context as much as possible, as their loss takes away from the group as a whole (6). This is even more poignant given the deeply personal, religious implications of bestowing godly protection. Receiving Ganesh from my father reaffirms my place within my clan, and also serves as a symbol of religious communitas, the anti-structure that connects people beyond social factors (Turner, 49).
In summary, what I received in a statue of Ganesh promising divine protection, my parents received in a certain amount of peace of mind. The statue of Ganesh as a “divine physical metaphor” symbolizes not only God’s protection and blessing, but my parents’ wish for my safety. Through this commodity exchange, I am more deeply connected with my family and my religious diaspora, drawing me into cultural communities on the micro and macroscale. Broadly, this experiment in reflexivity underscores the significance of the social life of objects within the greater context of religion and culture, while also the malleability and personalization of things that allows for complex meanings to continue evolving; and I won’t be surprised if later I find myself handling Ganesh with little more care than usual.