Again his eyes focused on one image that recalled his past life. He was looking at the painting wherein men and women sat by the lakes and cavorted. Regard the pious earning their reward.” Muhammad Bakhsh did not note that the tone of the narrator had softened. Look at the dwellings of those bound for heaven. He thought she had come from Gujrat or Sahiwal.Īs he moved back to join the next group he saw the new painting on display. He now tried to guess the woman’s origins. He caught in the contemptuous smirk of the woman a pride that told him he would never learn the miniaturist’s identity. The painting was unsigned and as he inspected the back for any clues as to the painter’s identity, it was snatched from his hands. He could not figure out what pigment was used to give it its glow. The colours were thickly applied and the hues had a strange glow. Drawn on the thick Sialkot paper, the image was framed with a wide border of red ochre. As the woman bent to search in her satchel, he felt the paper between his thumb and index finger and looked closely. Muhammad Bakhsh quickly drew some money which he could ill afford to spend, and moved closer to have a better look at the image. The narration ended, the young girl held out a copper bowl, and the ring broke. Wolves, demons, hyenas and dragons filled up the background in all the paintings. In the succeeding images clusters of naked bodies were being devoured by snakes and scorpions. In the next picture the same woman was shown surrounded by the flames of hell and demons were inflicting terrible tortures upon her. The painting kept changing as the narration progressed. A strange unease had slowly swept over him when he focused on the figure of the woman in the image. Muhammad Bakhsh was only vaguely conscious now of the words narrating the grotesque scene, and forgot even to think on the unique style and content of the relatively large miniature. The painting was mounted on a thick bamboo staff and a young girl with an oil lamp illuminated it with the slow movements of her hand. A heavyset woman stood in the centre, making her narration before a painting of a woman being sawed apart by demons in hell. Remarking the unpleasant tone of the strange narration he was hearing for the first time, the miniaturist made his way into the crowd and reached the inner ring. Regard the comeuppance of the tyrants and those who were led astray.” Witness the sinners and lechers in torment. Usually not one for spectacles, that day Muhammad Bakhsh was overtaken by curiosity.The crowd was gathered not too far, and Muhammad Bakhsh could hear a female voice speaking in a high register. Hearing a burble from without Muhammad Bakhsh looked up and saw the men standing at the bathhouse entrance leave with hurried steps. Muhammad Bakhsh considered himself lucky that he had not been forced to exchange his sable hair brush for the wax crayon.īut if he considered it the End of Time for the miniaturists and their art, he was to find out that of the many blown out from their ateliers and workshops in the old cities, and into the streets or the abyss of anonymity, there was one who celebrated the moment as was deserved. Lack of commissions from the late 19th century had been driving miniaturists into careers as lithographers for publishers in Lucknow, Delhi, and Lahore. Belonging to the fifth generation of miniaturists successively associated with the Mughal and Sikh courts, Muhammad Bakhsh had been reduced to peddling his work in the streets. In the glow of his lamp the rich hues of the miniatures were already attracting the glances of passersby, but even for a rate of one and two paisas each, they found only two buyers in the first half hour. Images from the legends of Laila-Majnu, Heer-Ranjha, Sohni-Mahiwal, and Sassi-Punhoon the iconic image of Khwaja Khizr standing over the great fish given out to sea-farers wrestlers grappling and animal studies slowly covered up the white background. He hung the sheet from the faience tile-work wall, and began stringing up the miniatures on it with hooks. The winter skies had grown darker than usual and the chill in the air more unbearable when Muhammad Bakhsh finished saying his maghrib prayers at the Wazir Khan mosque, and headed for his spot near the bathhouse with a white sheet and the carefully wrapped collection of miniatures tucked under his arm. The anonymous master who had introduced the new genre in Indian miniature art was never heard from again.
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