Amitav Ghosh is one of the most celebrated contemporary authors, renowned for his deeply insightful and thought-provoking works that explore themes of history, culture, colonialism, climate change and the interconnectedness of human and natural worlds. Born in Kolkata in 1956, Ghosh studied in India, Oxford and Alexandria, which shaped his global perspective and intellectual curiosity. His acclaimed novels, including The Hungry Tide, The Shadow Lines, The Glass Palace and the Ibis Trilogy, combine historical depth with literary elegance, blending fiction with rich cultural and ecological narratives. A passionate advocate for addressing climate change, Ghosh’s non-fiction works, such as The Great Derangement, challenge conventional storytelling to reflect the urgency of the anthropocene.

Honoured with prestigious awards like the Jnanpith Award, Ghosh continues to redefine the boundaries of literature, offering readers keen insights into the complexities of the world we inhabit.

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Sitting in conversation with The Statesman, Amitav Ghosh speaks about his latest work, Wild Fictions, which gathers his remarkable reflections on themes that have deeply engaged him over the past twenty-five years: literature and language, climate change and the environment, human lives, travel, and discovery. A recurring motif throughout this expansive collection is the relationship between the spaces humans inhabit and the ways they occupy them. From the commodification of the clove to the rich biodiversity of Bengal’s mangrove forests and the radical fluidity of multilingualism, Wild Fictions serves as an acute critique of imperial violence, a compelling examination of the narratives we create to process history and a poignant call for sensitivity and empathy.

Following are the excerpts:

Q. In your discussions in Wild Fictions, you highlight the significance of recognising non-human entities as active participants in history. How does literature effectively reframe narratives to incorporate the agency of plants, animals and ecosystems, thereby challenging anthropocentric storytelling? 

Literature has always found ways to incorporate ecosystems into its narratives. For instance, if you look at the Manasha Mangal Kabya, it vividly reflects Bengal’s environment, portraying floods, tidal bores, famines, storms, and, of course, snakes—an integral part of the region’s ecological world. In the past, this integration happened quite naturally. Take the Odia writer Gopinath Mohanty, for example. His remarkable book Paraja focuses on the forests of Odisha and the lives of the people who inhabit them. It’s a powerful work that highlights the deep connection between literature and the environment. Ultimately, one simply needs to be aware of their surroundings, and that awareness will naturally find its way into their writing.

Q. Do you think Western ideologies are affecting age-old indigenous stories? 

Yes, I absolutely agree, very much so. Around 30-40 years ago, many of India’s prominent writers were deeply attuned to the environmental world. Writers like Mahasweta Devi, Gopinath Mohanty and Shivarama Karanth in Karnataka were very aware of the world around them. However, this has significantly changed over the last three decades. As India has become increasingly integrated into the global capitalist economy, the focus of many writers seems to have shifted. That said, there are still writers who remain deeply interested in environmental themes.

Q. Can mythology inspire social activism and literature influence policymaking?

Speaking of indigenous stories and mythology, they play a role within social paradigms, though the connection to social activism might not always be direct. Yet, they can certainly be utilised effectively. A strong example is the Rights of Nature movement, which has gained considerable influence worldwide. This movement seeks to defend environments by appealing to their sacredness. For instance, in New Zealand, indigenous communities have been instrumental in recognising a river as a legal entity. Similarly, in Ecuador and in India’s Niyamgiri Hills in Odisha, the Supreme Court acknowledged the sacredness of the forests and mountains to local populations. These cases highlight how indigenous perspectives have significantly shaped responses to environmental crises.

While policymaking involves a range of factors, literature can provide a foundational context. For example, literature can influence how we think about mangroves or advocate for their protection. I do believe that literature has played, and continues to play, an important role in shaping environmental consciousness and action.

Q. In your work, you critique the colonial foundations of current environmental exploitation. How can literature contribute to decolonising environmental narratives? 

I believe one crucial task, particularly in India, is to address the colonial narratives surrounding the environment. They were often deeply hostile to forest dwellers and indigenous peoples, marginalising and criminalising them. Simply because they lived in forests and followed certain lifestyles, these communities were stigmatised as “criminal tribes” and treated unjustly. It’s vital to rectify this historical wrong and acknowledge that these lifestyles were, in fact, highly attuned to the environment and played a significant role in preserving the forests.

Q. Do you believe the recent Los Angeles fires are directly connected to climate change? How about when the Native Americans dwelled in the region?

That’s a complicated question, as the history of the California environment is intertwined with both natural patterns and human intervention. For millennia, Native Americans lived in harmony with Southern California’s challenging environment, which is inherently prone to extremes—heavy rainfall and prolonged droughts. These cycles fuel each other: abundant rains encourage lush vegetation, which, during droughts, dries out and becomes fuel for wildfires. The geography of California, with its mountain ridges creating natural wind tunnels, further accelerates the spread of fires. Indigenous populations, however, had developed methods to manage and control wildfires effectively, often using fire as a tool to maintain ecological balance. Unfortunately, with the colonisation of the region, these populations were largely exterminated, and their deep knowledge of the environment was suppressed. In its place, European ideas of land use were imposed—ideas poorly suited to California’s unique landscape. Climate change has now intensified the already unstable environment, exacerbating droughts and desiccating the soil. For example, this year Southern California went six months without rainfall. These conditions, combined with poor land-use practices, have created a perfect storm for catastrophic wildfires.  Poor patterns of settlement have further worsened the situation. Malibu, for instance, has been destroyed by fire multiple times, yet the real estate industry repeatedly rebuilds, creating dense developments in fire-prone areas. Once a wildfire reaches the interface between wildlands and human settlements, the materials used in construction—many derived from fossil fuels—act as additional fuel for the blaze.

This issue is not unique to California. Globally, patterns of unregulated development exacerbate climate-induced disasters. In Chennai, massive structures are built on floodplains, blocking drainage and intensifying floods. In Wayanad and Uttarakhand, deforestation and construction on unstable mountain slopes lead to landslides and mudslides during heavy rains. In many of these cases, the root of the problem lies in unsustainable development driven by short-term economic incentives, such as those promoted by the real estate industry. By disregarding environmental factors and failing to incorporate indigenous knowledge, we are creating conditions for repeated disasters on a global scale.

Q. Do you think the environmental landscape of the Sundarbans has changed significantly since you wrote The Hungry Tide?

Oh, it has changed a lot. I mean, the transformation was already underway, but the pace of change has accelerated dramatically. The last time I visited, which was in January last year, around Makar Sankranti, I was deeply shocked by the noticeable decline in birdlife. There was a time when the area was teeming with an abundance of birds, but now their presence has drastically diminished.

Tourism, too, has seen a tremendous increase, which, in principle, is not a negative development. In fact, it can be a positive force if it contributes to the local economy. The people there undoubtedly need alternative sources of income beyond relying on the forest. However, the manner in which tourism is currently unfolding raises concerns. The tourist boats, for instance, are extremely noisy, often blasting music through loudspeakers. Furthermore, from Goshaba and all the way into the Sundarbans, a vast network of loudspeakers has emerged, blasting political speeches and bhajans. You can only imagine how terrifying this relentless noise must be for the tigers and other wildlife. I was appalled to witness the extent to which the environment had been disrupted. Adding to this, the tourist boats frequently discard their waste directly into the rivers, leading to mudbanks littered with plastic debris. While increased attention on the Sundarbans is undoubtedly beneficial and can significantly aid the local economy, it is imperative that such activities be strictly regulated. Noise pollution, in particular, demands urgent action to mitigate its harmful effects.

Q. Climate change is both a deeply human issue and scientifically complex. As an author yourself, do you think the world of fact is outrunning the world of fiction in addressing this topic?

That’s a good question. As a fiction writer, I often find myself experiencing moments where scenarios I wrote about years ago unexpectedly become real.  For instance, in my novel Gun Island, there’s a scene where a wildfire in L.A. approaches the Getty Museum. Not long after the book was published, that very event unfolded in reality. Similarly, I wrote about tornadoes in the Venice region, which hadn’t occurred at the time. Now, however, tornadoes in that area are a reality, with countless videos of them available online. It’s fascinating—and a bit unsettling—how often fact seems to catch up with fiction.