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The impressive royal seal, nearly 7 inches in length and 5 in width, meant to be ‘affixed’ but now detached, has also survived, and is now kept just next to the copper plate, making the ‘document’ — recording the gift of a village to a Brahmin priest in perpetuity, “till the moon, the sun and the earth last” — complete in significant ways. Not many copper plates of this quality have come down. Then, greatly strengthened in the last few years was the Benares Gallery, making the viewer witness to the hoary antiquity of the city as also to its ability to survive. It seems to me, however, that Jnana-Pravaha is committed not only to preservation but to constant growth, to expanding its horizons. I was impressed by the range of themes that one of the most recent issues of the research journal of the institute with an eponymous name, JnanaPravaha, carried. A new Rock Edict of Ashoka discovered by a school teacher of Mughalsarai was reported and discussed in it; Winged peris in a Pastoral Retreat was the theme of another article which had a delightful Banarasikajri — song addressed to a master-dyer; a 17th century rust-free window, reminding one of the technology used in the famous rust-free Iron Pillar at Mehrauli, was noticed from Kathmandu; and so on. I was also struck by the manner in which just within a few years a whole atelier has been established on the premises. At the lowest level, next to the gardens, sits now, constantly working, a whole range of artisans, drawn from old Benares families, which, for generations, had been practicing crafts whose future was under threat: metal casters, moulders, lac-workers. I sat and watched in fascination deft fingers at work, sharp eyes looking for possible flaws, agile minds working ideas out. But what fascinated me most was the story I heard there: how a ‘plumber’ from Benares came in to carry out some minor repair job in the building; how, as he was working, casual conversation ensued with Suresh Neotia, a driving force behind the entire institution, and it was discovered that the man in fact came from a family of metal-casters but had abandoned the family profession because of lack of patronage; and how he was invited to leave everything and take up on a regular paid basis his ‘family’s’ work in the atelier in loco, something that he did. Clearly, there was no red tape, no bureaucratic wrangles: talent was identified and, quite simply, engaged. Quietly, almost noiselessly it seems, at least from the outside, work keeps on being done. Supported by a dedicated staff, Dr N.P. Joshi, Sanskrit scholar of eminence, is busy writing volume after volume on the subject of unusual or aberrant iconography; Prof Vidula Jayaswal, distinguished archaeologist, is occupied with identifying lost sites in and around Benares and digging at Rajghat; Dr Kamal Giri keeps editing the research journal of the institution; Mrs Bimla Poddar keeps an eye on everything, just about everything, that goes on. Scholarships are awarded; residency programmes are in place; seminars are held with regularity; a gurukul for training young priests and acolytes in rituals and rites is run in the heart of the city. The emphasis almost all the time appears to be on nurturing talent and promoting excellence. Like I saw when, as it happens, I was there on a very engaging day on which young musicians who were holding grants/fellowships from the institution’s outpost in Kolkata were being asked to perform — a test, as it were, of whether they were living up to their promise — by the celebrated musicologist, Pandit Vijay Kichlu, for an invited audience. A friendly, but stern eye, was being kept. It is possible that I am missing something. Is it all a bit narrow? Too focused on the past? Too private? I do not know. But what I am certain of is the fact that there is reason for hope when institution like this exist, and perform. Their scale — compared to the mega institutions with little outputs that we found on the national scale — might be relatively limited, but there is much to learn from them.
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AT
Benares, on a quiet day, and if you see her from a slight distance, the Ganga seems hardly to be moving. So enormous is her expanse and so steady its flow that you are almost beguiled into thinking that the waters are still. Close to the bank, of course, there is agitation, and when an occasional boat pushes its way forward, ripples form and rings keep spreading on the surface. But see her in the wee hours of the morning, or when dusk sets in, and you sense little else than serene calm. I saw the Ganga like this when, in a recent visit to the city, I was staying at the Jnana-Pravaha premises, right on the bank of the river, across from the old fort of Ramnagar. The brilliantly located residence, away from the din of the city — you can make an immediate descent to the waters from the steps at the end of the sprawling garden — allows you to gain this view from a certain height. And then, standing there and ruminating, I thought how appropriately was this institution named, dedicated as it is to the study of Indian cultural traditions. Jnana-Pravaha — the Flow of Knowledge — is both an island of calm and a springboard for ideas.
I had gone back to the place after a gap of several years: close to a decade, I think. And I was struck once again not only by the elegance of the surroundings and the impeccable maintenance but also by its commitment. Much was familiar but also much that was not. (How does that nice French saying go? “The more it changes, the more it remains the same”.) The museum — housing, for the most part, the Neotia collection — made once again an immediate impression. There were some old friends there — sculptures, paintings, terracottas, coins, textiles — but also some new ones that one wanted to be close to. Like the stunning seventh century tamra-patra, copper plate issued by that great emperor, Harshavardhana of Kanauj and Thanesar: stunning not necessarily because of its contents but because of its pristine condition, its faultlessly engraved language and script. 
