Cutting paper for Krishna
YEARS ago, while acquiring works of art for the National Museum, we in the Art Acquisition Committee — a committee incidentally that has not met for years, thanks either to appalling inertia or to infighting — purchased from a Jaipur art dealer a paper-cut of Radha gazing at herself in a mirror she held in one hand. Very little money was asked for it by the dealer which made some members raise the question — high prices being the norm — whether the object was worthy enough to be added to the collection of the museum at all.
But, along with some other members, I found it stunning, both in its conception and the delicacy of its execution. There she was, Radha, both ‘in the flesh’ and in a reflection, the latter part extremely hard to handle given the nature of the technique which requires support of the material even if only in thin strips of paper. That image, with its sweetness and its technical daring, has lingered in my mind all these years. On a couple of occasions when I wished to see it again and share it with aficionados of the art, it was difficult to locate it in the vaults of the museum, buried as it must have been deep under the piles of other, more ‘worthy’, objects. But from my mind, it was never erased.
To my delight, however, I chanced the other day upon a similar, though not identical and not as finely made, paper-cut at the home of a friend who also cares for these things. She had a group of these — ‘sanjhis’ they are generally called — and in that group were the usual, or at least the more familiar, images: Shrinathji, the goddess Yamuna standing, Krishna dancing with Radha, or riding in a boat on the waters of a placid lake along with gopis, and the like. There were, here, delights to be shared. While looking at these, however, our talk turned towards the theme of sanjhi, in general, and what we ended up with was much speculation, and an equal amount of confusion. Topping everything in all this was the matter of what a sanjhi is, and where does the word come from. So much depends, one concluded, is the context in which the word is used.
In the trade, if one can call it that, a sanjhi is a paper-cut design, floral or figurative, of the kind that used to be produced mostly at Mathura — in the Vraja region, properly so called — and for use in the temples (and homes of devotees) of the great Krishna-centred Vallabhachari sect with its main seat at Nathdwara in Rajasthan. Elsewhere, however, in Haryana, for instance, the word signifies something entirely different; there a sanjhi is a highly stylised, elaborately decorated, clay image of the Goddess — Uma, Durga or Katyayani — made in high relief on a wall, and meant to be worshipped chiefly by unwed girls. The girls hold a dialogue in songs with the goddess on the wall, asking her what she would like to wear and what delicacies she would like to have for food, and so on; for nine days this innocent celebration goes on and, at the end of it, the girls ask the goddess Sanjhi for the boon of a good man as husband.
It is all very festive, very lively. At yet another place, in a small but very old temple in the desert of Rajasthan, I found the word sanjhi being used to describe a group of small, painted squares of textiles, each showing mythological scenes, mostly from Krishna leela, or featuring rough topographical maps showing pilgrimage routes. These were the kinds of things that the divine couple would sit and make together in the evenings, delighting in the activity, the priest of the temple told me.
So, what exactly is sanjhi? A paper-cut? a clay image? or a painted textile? The word itself has different meanings. It could come from Sanskrit sandhya, "that twilight area between dusk and darkness where conjunctions take place and transitions are made possible", as a publication on the art says. On the other hand, as related to saanjh (which also means dusk in Hindi), it points towards togetherness, commonality, sharing. The only thing that one can be certain of — whether one sees it as referring to a paper-cut, or clay image, or painted textile — is that with it remained associated, for long, a ritual, a certain sacredness. Thoughts of worship, submission, sewa, came naturally to mind.
Much has changed, however. The sanjhi paper-cuts that one might pick up in the market today, for instance, are sold mostly as decorative objects: elegantly executed but essentially dissociated from sacred use. No longer do they serve as stencils with which groups of women would — ‘in the service of the Lord’ — make designs on the floors of temples, spending hours, filling outlines with coloured powders while singing all the time. Very few would be used today to make patterns, with finely sliced flower petals, on the surface of still waters as they once were. For the context of the new paper, sanjhis is so different. In this respect this art has gradually become one with so much that has been practised in this genre in so many diverse cultures: with the kirie of Japan, for instance, the scherenschnitte of Germany, the papel picado of Mexico. Today, to be sure, some splendid designs are being produced: filigreed trees, playful clouds, strong silhouettes, and the like. Except that the old context has been lost, and new aesthetics are at work.
In the end, a brief footnote. While looking at the art of paper cutting, I came upon two snippets that I found of great interest. It appears that the oldest paper-cut that has survived is from China — where else? — and goes back to the sixth century. And, second: in the Jewish world, the art is traced back to the year 1345, when Rabbi Shem-Tov ben Yitzhak ben Ardutiel, finding that his ink had frozen in wintry conditions, continued to write his manuscript by cutting the letters into the paper.
( This article was published on November 9, 2008)
