An enigmatic work

A skilfully painted, almost poetic, 18th century Pahari work makes one contemplate 
on the mystery behind this painting

Understanding, at least getting under the skin of, works of art is not always easy. And encounters with them can turn sometimes into a challenging affair. What, for instance, in an oft-seen Pahari painting, is this oval form floating on a vast expanse of water, one can keep wondering? What series of repeated shapes — in a Central Indian painting — is the saintly figure offering sacred leaves to, each containing within itself a network of streams and mountains and unlikely animals? Is he to be seen as performing a mental pilgrimage? What concentric rings are these, in an unpublished painting from Mysore, which appear constantly to expand from within outwards? Layer upon layer of the worlds that form this universe? And so on. Something keeps eluding us, it would seem.

Not exactly of this elevating category, but still mystifying, is a painting that I chanced upon while leafing through a fairly recent sales catalogue. It is clearly a Pahari work going back, in terms of style, to the last quarter of the 18th century: a lush, wonderfully green, landscape with a gently undulating ground, trees that grow lyrically out of the painter’s mind, climbers wrapping themselves around trunks, leafy bushes that seem upon the point of bursting into flaming flowers.

The Tiger and the Composite Animal. Pahari painting. From the family workshop of Seu-Nainsukh ca. 1780. Private collection, London

The atmosphere evoked by the painter is such that the work reminds one of great series like the Gita Govinda or the Bhagavata Purana that the painters of Guler turned out at that time with such brilliance. But there the resemblance abruptly ends. For in this landscape are no lovers, no heroes; on the other hand are seen two beasts, one a tiger walking away and the other a composite animal — a lion’s paws, lithe athletic body of a feline, the face of a monkey, and the ears of a jackal — that sits majestically at a slight distance. No human being makes an appearance; no direct relationship is established between the two beasts. But, somehow, tension seems to hang in the air. As the entry in the sales catalogue notes, there is clear hostility between the two beasts, "a chilling wave of antagonism" sweeping between them and almost filling the space.

What exactly is going in here, in this painting, remains obscure however; decidedly hidden from our view at least at this point of time. The mystery of the composite animal deepens further when one sees that the uncommonly long tail he possesses ends up in a coiled pile, hard bristles sprouting everywhere, at the top of which is balanced a cup into which the beast seems to be urinating. A urinating composite animal? Nothing like this has one encountered anywhere in the entire range of Indian painting, and one is driven to the very edge of puzzlement.

What strikes one is the manner, almost cowardly bearing, of the mighty tiger — he also bears some features of a lion — who seems to be slinking out of the frame of the painting turning back to look over his shoulder at that strange chimera, the shimmer of a feeling of fear noticeable in his eyes. Have the two beasts met before, encountered each other at close quarters, one wonders? Or has the tiger suddenly caught a glimpse of this strange creature from a distance and decided to move away from something he cannot puzzle out?

The singular and inordinately long tail of the composite animal — wondrous in itself, and coiling in this manner — balancing a bowl in which his urine is gathering, seems to strike terror in the mind of the tiger. For the sight is bizarre, anomalous.

There appears to be no textual authority to which one can turn for making sense of the work. Some opinions have certainly been expressed about this mysterious painting, however.

Robert Skelton, distinguished art historian, seems to think that the painting comes from a local Pahari folk tale or proverb, but what precisely nobody seems to be able to determine.

An interesting view has been offered by another researcher who draws some degree of parallel between what is happening here and a Jataka — those famous ancient tales of the former births of the Buddha, each establishing a principle or pointing towards a moral — that speaks of the "Dreams of King Pasenadi".

The king Prasenajit of Kosala — ‘Pasenadi’ is the Pali version of the name — the Jataka tale narrates, was troubled by many of his dreams in one of which he sees a jackal urinating in a golden bowl. When he seeks the meaning of his dream from the Bodhisattva, he is told that the dream presages a disaster that will befall a kingdom in which power will slip from the hands of a weak ruler into those of the lowly and the incompetent, personified by the jackal. In part, the parallel — the image of a urinating jackal — is undoubtedly of interest, except that there are far too many departures from the Jataka episode, and the desired measure of clarity still does not return to this image.

The feeling of wonder persists, and one keeps on speculating. Is it a folk tale that the painter had tapped into, as Skelton suggests? Something in which a tiger knows, as happens often in fables, that his end will come when he sees a vision of that unlikely kind? Is that the reason for his anxious look and the sense of fear that one can almost smell on him?

On my part, I have shown this painting to many persons of my knowing who come from the Pahari region, but have, so far, not got any answer. Everyone is greatly intrigued, but no one really knows. Perhaps some alert reader would provide a clue to this enigma. Meanwhile, one has this most skilfully painted, almost poetic, work for one to contemplate. And to puzzle over.

HOME