In the period since the end of World War II, the Japanese economic achievement has been of prodigious proportions. During this period, its growth rate—an average of almost 10% in GNP per year—has been the highest in the world. Japan has become the third-ranking industrial nation and its world standing, in terms of per capita GNP, has risen from fortieth in the early 1950s to twelfth at the present time. Growth so sweeping and rapid inevitably has brought a multitude of changes, not least in the composition of total output. At a highly accelerated rate, industries have declined, others have blossomed, new industries have appeared, and the importance of various sectors of the economy has changed. Amidst the continuing adjustments and readjustments, it is of interest to consider the nature of the impact on Japanese industrial organization. More specifically, what has been the effect on economic concentration and monopoly in Japan?

In 1943, towards the middle of Japan's occupation of the Philippines, as the tide of war was turning, Jose P. Laurel accepted the Presidency of the Republic. Two years later, when he was under indictment for treason, he claimed that he had been forced to take that office. He maintained in his War Memoirs, supposedly written while interned in 1945 by the Americans in Japan, that his collaboration was ex necessitate re and that “forced collaboration is not collaboration. Voluntary collaboration as a means of national survival and to tide over our people to better times is not punishable.“

In the present renaissance of India's traditional arts, a great deal of attention is being focused upon dance and dance-drama. Much has been done for their revival, and several attempts have been made to relate the present survivals of traditional dance and dance-drama to the Sastric literature of antiquity, principally to the Bharata Nāṭyaśāstra. In the West, the study of Sanskrit plays and Sanskrit dramaturgy has been limited mostly to the literature per se and to those aspects of it that could yield historical or philological material. Only in the last thirty years or so has the general social stigma attached to the traditional profession of dance in India been substantially removed, bringing about a new resurgence in practice and scholarship. We are indebted to a number of recent Indian scholars who have done valuable work in tracing the theoretical, and in some cases practical, relationships of the current forms of dance and dance-drama to the precedents and usages of dramaturgy as described in the Bharata Nātyaśāstra and allied works.

When the duplicitous Hou Ching, the Eastern Wei satrap of Honan, declared his independence from the mother state, he invited both Western Wei and Liang to assume his allegiance and his territories. While Liang, capital at modern Nanking, eagerly accepted Hou Ching's bid, Western Wei, capital at Ch'ang-an, rejected it. But Western Wei did reluctantly allow one of its officers, the daring but personally insecure Wang Ssu-cheng, to occupy and try to hold Hou Ching's exposed city of Ch'ang-she in north-central Honan. After neatly sweeping Hou Ching and his Liang allies out of Honan, Eastern Wei turned its forces against Wang Ssu-cheng in Ch'ang-she. A long and costly siege ensued in which Wang Ssu-cheng brilliantly and doggedly fought against the overwhelmingly superior strength of Eastern Wei. Wang Ssu-cheng finally sur-rendered, not to save his own life but to save those under his command; he was honored both by his captors and by Western Wei.

Recently, a group of scholars, all either students of Anil Seal or persons very much affected by his thinking, have produced a volume entitled Locality, Province and Nation: Essays on Indian Politics, 1870–1940,1 which is reprinted from Volume VII (1973) of Modern Asian Studies. Included in it are an introductory essay by eal himself entitled “Imperialism and Nationalism in India,” two essays on U.P. by C. A. Bayly and F. C. Robinson entitled “Patrons and politics in northern India” and “Municipal Government and Muslim separatism in the United Provinces, 1883 to 1916.” There is one essay by R. A. Gordon called “Non-cooperation and council entry 1919 to 1920” and one by David Washbook entitled “Country politics: Madras 1880 to 1930.” The volume ends with two essays on Bengal by Gordon Johnson and John Gallagher entitled respectively “Partition, agitation and Congress: Bengal 1904 to 1908” and “Congress in decline: Bengal 1930 to 1939.” This volume raises issues of great substance for the study and interpretation of recent Indian history. Seal, in his essay, argues that previous historians of India (in which he includes himself) have been too much concerned with policy and with the educated elite bound together by a common ideology. Instead of looking at partnerships of fellows, we should be looking at vertical alliances. After all, according to him, these alliances were mostly cross-caste and cross-religion. “Hindus worked with Muslims, Brahmins were hand in glove with non-Brahmins; and notables organized their dependents as supporters …” (p. 3).

Lost texts are common in the history of ancient Indian literature. Many must have perished altogether—even from memory—victim to neglect and hostile insects; a great number survive only as fragments or brief quotations embedded in other works, and sometimes only as titles. One of these lost works is Bṛhatkathā (“The Great Romance”). Legend tells us that the poet Guṇāḍhya composed it in Paiśācī, an obscure dialect of Prakrit. Now it exists only as a title; but once, to some commentators, it was a famous and important work. Witness Govardhānācāry's high esteem, for example—”We pay homage to the poets of the Śrī Rāmāyaṇa, the Bhārata, and the Bṛhatkathā,” or his remark, “Who would not say Guṇāḍhya is this very same man [Vyāsa] reborn?” Yet, to most scholiasts Guṇāḍhya and his illustrious work are but a memory and a faint one at that. How fortunate it is then that the work has survived, testament to its once great popularity, in several ver¬sions: three in Sanskrit, one in Prakrit, and one in Old Tamil.

Notwithstanding the considerable body of scholarship on South Asian history that has appeared over the past several decades, we still live with the image of a monolithic and alien Islam colliding with an equally monolithic Hinduism, construed as indigenous, and from the eleventh century on, politically suppressed. Such a cardboard-cutout caricature survives in much of India's tabloid media, as well as in textbooks informed by a revivalist, aggressively political strand of Hinduism, or “Hindutva.” Though useful for stoking primordial identities or mobilizing support for political agendas, this caricature thrives on a pervasive ignorance of South Asia's past. Removing such ignorance is precisely the endeavor to which academic institutions, and scholarship more generally, are properly committed.

In this article, I juxtapose the ways the “father of modern Sinhala drama,” John De Silva, and the Sinhala language reformer, Munidasa Cumaratunga, utilized music for different nationalist projects. First, I explore how De Silva created musicals that articulated Arya-Sinhala nationalism to support the Buddhist Revival. Second, I investigate how Cumaratunga, who spearheaded the Hela-Sinhala movement, asserted that genuine Sinhala song should be rid of North Indian influence but full of lyrics composed in “pure” Sinhala. The purpose of this comparison is to critique Partha Chatterjee's notion of the inner domain. Chatterjee focused on Bengali cultural nationalism and its complex relation to Western hegemony. He considered Bengal, the metropolis of the British Raj, to be representative of colonized nations. This article reveals that elsewhere in South Asia—Sri Lanka—one cultural movement sought to define the nation not in relation to the West but in opposition to North India.

Lala Lajpat Rai is increasingly viewed in historiography as a “Hindu nationalist” with a strong affinity with Savarkarite Hindutva. This article demonstrates that during the Khilafat movement, Lajpat Rai articulated a secular Indian nationalism that was sensitive to Muslim religiosity and Indian Muslims’ extraterritorial sympathies toward the caliphate and the Muslim world. Pigeonholing the entire thought of Lajpat Rai as “Hindu nationalism” obscures a historical-intellectual juncture when a Hindu political figure like him enthusiastically supported pan-Islamism as necessary for Indian nationalism. This article complicates scholarship that portrays Hindu responses to the Khilafat movement as consisting solely of fear and counter-consolidation. More importantly, by unveiling Rai's Khilafat-era nationalism, it uncovers the intellectual and political possibility of firmly holding a Hindu identity and articulating conceptions of Indian nationhood that are at ease with Islam and the wider Muslim world.

Perhaps no area of China-related scholarship has taken longer to recover from the access limitations of the mid-twentieth century than the study of Xinjiang. In the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, the study of Xinjiang was so fashionable that it had a wide following in the Western popular press, where the region was better known as Chinese Central Asia, Chinese Turkistan, or Eastern Turkistan. When the turmoil of the Republican and Mao eras made the region almost entirely inaccessible to outsiders, the study of Xinjiang began a long sojourn in the Western academic wilderness. After all, the earlier interest had always been tinged with Orientalist travel fantasy and imperial desires that required scholarly boots on the ground.

This essay considers the meanings of Sino-Japanese collaboration before the Second Sino-Japanese War (1937–45) through the personal diary of one collaborator, Bai Jianwu (1886–1937). Rather than debate the veracity of the diary narrative, the author considers the diary as a “political performance”—as an assembly of formulaic elements borrowed from contemporary discourse, historical example, and generic conventions that was designed to locate collaboration within a range of conceivable responses to China's predicament. While the emerging narratives of national resistance typically portrayed collaboration as an unthinkable transgression, the collaboration narrative of the diary, shifting and often ambivalent, illuminates the terms on which Bai was prepared to argue that collaboration with the Japanese was an acceptable choice, and the place that he allowed collaboration in the story of his life.

My left eyebrow has a scar. It is jagged, and usually the droop of the eyebrow hides it from view. I see it sometimes when I look in the mirror. When I see it, I am reminded instantly of my father. He was sitting, reading a newspaper, on the lawn of our Lahore house. It was near to 6:00 p.m.—late evening to dusk. I had recently conquered the art of biking and I was eager to show him how well I rode. I kept going past him on the bike, but he was engrossed in the paper. Finally I decided that to really get his attention, I would need to go really, really fast. I went a ways, and began to pedal furiously. Right as I gathered full speed and came up to him, I looked at him to see if he was watching me. He wasn't. That split second, however, was enough for me to lose control of the bike, which swerved radically to the left, and I went face-first into a column of bricks. He looked up as I stumbled up, my eye covered in blood. I have no memory of this, except for when I “see” my scar.