Geographical Indication protection for the rosogolla fails to appreciate the nature of artisanal production.
In late July this year, Pahala, a small village between Bhubaneswar and Cuttack, found itself in the news. The village has been known throughout Odisha as the home of expert sweet makers. But things began to change in late July when the Odisha government asked the Cuttack District industries to obtain a Geographical Indication (GI) for the Pahala rosogolla. That set Odisha on a warpath with neighbouring West Bengal. Bengalis who prided their association with spongy, sugary balls made from chhaina—a cottage cheese made by curdling milk—viewed Odisha’s claim with some indignation. Almost immediately, the West Bengal government contacted the GI office in Chennai to repudiate Odisha’s claim.
Both sides summoned historians to their cause. Bengal reiterated its well-known claim that rosogollas were first made about 150 years ago by Nobin Chandra Dash—an entrepreneur from the state—while Odisha asserted that the sweetmeat had a far longer history in the state: it was apparently made more than 300 years ago as an offering to Lord Jagannath.
With both states refusing to take a back step in this gastronomic warfare, Pahala became almost incidental to the affair. The GI for rosogollas was now a matter of state pride for both West Bengal and Odisha.
The GI is an Intellectual Property Right (IPR). The World Intellectual Property Organization (WIPO) defines it as “a sign used on products that have a specific geographical origin and possess qualities or a reputation that are due to that origin.” WIPO does stress the link of a product with its original place of production. It notes, “the qualities, characteristics or reputation of the product should be essentially due to the place of origin.”
Nearly 500 products in India, including food products as varied as Darjeeling Tea, Mathura pedha and Tirupati laddu, have a GI. But of late in India, GIs are increasingly being seen as a totem of cultural pride, especially when it comes to food items. According to newspaper reports, some connoisseurs of the Hyderabadi biryani have applied for a GI tag. Mango producers from different parts of the country, including of the Ratnagiri, Banganpalle and Rataul, have sought GI for their variants of the fruit. Two years ago, a milk cooperative in the town of Srivilliputhur in Tamil Nadu applied for GI for palkova, a relatively simple sweet made from boiling milk for several hours.
According to its advocates, a GI is said to add value to a product, benefiting, in turn, the communities that produce it. Artisans tend to have low bargaining power compared to producers of manufacturing goods. A GI, it is said, enhances their bargaining power.
Viewed this way, a GI for the Srivilliputhur palkova, the Pahala rosogolla, even the Hyderabadi biryani could bode well for the makers of these gastronomic delights—even when these IPRs are intended to turn a product into a regional or national icon. But in recent times, scholars have noted that GIs have been, at best, mixed blessings for artisans. A 2014 working paper by Amit Basole, an economist at the University of Massachusetts, highlighted the problems that ensued after the Banarasi sari was awarded a GI in 2009. The IPR set rigorous standards of authenticity, which worked to the detriment of weavers who tried to improvise and innovate—and also home in on technical change—to keep pace with competition. This argument holds true for other artisan products as well—including food items. Authenticity is a cornerstone of GIs. While that might offer protection to an artisanal community against purveyors of counterfeits, those wanting to innovate find the criteria working against them. A 2006 paper by Ben Shephard of the Group d’ Economie Mondiale (GEM), Sciences Po in Paris, argued that the strict GI standards were making it difficult for French winemakers to cater to tastes of “New World Consumers.”
A GI is necessarily a preservationist measure. By binding artisanal production to strict standards of authenticity—and origin—it fails to appreciate the nature of such production. Artisanal skills are never set in stone. Artisans have, throughout history, borrowed, collaborated, improvised and innovated. In fact, the rosogolla is a good case in point. According to one story of its origin, the technology to process and synthesise chhaina was taught specifically in Bengal by the Dutch and Portuguese colonists during the late 18th century.
That story might be subject to contestation. But in their one-upmanship over the rosogolla, Bengal and Odisha have failed to appreciate the nature of artisanal production. Governments in India need to provide enabling conditions for artisanal production to flourish. They need economic incentives, skill development, market linkages and protection from factory-produced imitations. Silly chauvinistic battles are hardly the way to help nurture India’s rich traditions of artisan manufacture.
