How I met Krishna

Coming face-to-face with the much-venerated Govardhan Hill for the first time can be an awesome experience. It is a fairly widespread hill made up of large stones. The first thought that comes to mind is - is this the same hill that the seven-year-old Krishna lifted so effortlessly on his little finger? The logical mind refuses to accept it, but then, who is to argue with religious mythology?
Saints tell us that with time, the hill is sinking, bit by bit, symbolising the mounting immorality prevalent in Kaliyuga. On auspicious days like purnima or full moon day, ekadasi, amavasya or new moon day and during Govardhan Puja, the faithful turn up in large numbers and they circumambulate the entire hill, a feat that takes up all of six hours.

Govardhan is a form of Krishna, and it is said that those who come here have their wishes fulfilled. I did my first parikrama in a car and wondered what makes pilgrims walk barefoot on the thorny road that was not clean by any stretch of the imagination. Taking it as a challenge, my second parikrama was with rubber shoes. Pilgrims advised that parikrama must be done barefoot. My third parikrama was done barefoot; not easy at all. I began regarding other pilgrims with admiration. Much water has flown under the bridge since then and I am now a regular here. Guess what, Krishna has made his presence felt several times. Instead of feeling triumph and pride, now I just feel meek.

The parikrama banishes one's ego and presents a level field to all, just as millennia ago little Krishna had destroyed the ego of Indra and saved an entire village, including its flora and fauna from the wrath of Indra, the god of the heavens. Indra had unleashed his anger on the people of Braj with a severe thunderstorm as he was unable to bear the thought that they had chosen Govardhan as their deity on Krishna's advice, and not Indra. Little Krishna asked the people to take shelter under the Govardhan hill that he held up like an umbrella on his little finger for seven days, for wasn't he their protector?

One Sunday, during parikrama, a monkey snatched my purse containing bank cards and cash. Little boys chased it for several minutes. Many joined the chase - a priest, a carrot seller and pilgrims. The monkey finally let the purse drop, intact, on a stone and the team returned, happily shouting, "Purse! Purse!" No one tried to run away with the purse or money. They wouldn't let me go ahead without getting their rewards and I was reminded of the gopis who had to 'bribe' Krishna's friends with butter to let them get close to Krishna.

A while later, I stopped for a glass of sugarcane juice. The 10-year-old boy poured me another half glass when I replaced my now empty glass on the counter. "Here, take the money for the extra half," I said and tried to thrust the money in his hands - but he refused to accept it. "Things are expensive," I coaxed but he refused.

Rushing ahead, I thought of Krishna who fed his friends in the jungle with his baby fingers and then ate from their hands. Krishna lives on in the child-like simplicity and generosity of the children here, in Brajbhoomi, the land of Krishna. Those who sincerely wish to get rid of their false notions of power and ego must undertake the sacred ritual of parikrama of saat kosa at Govardhan.

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Bridge between cultures

Amonoprint is a one-of-a-kind-print. I work with Chine colle paper and use a technique which is essentially a collage," says Suzanne Benton, the American artist whose art was recently on display at the American Center in New Delhi. "The printing plate is inked and the colle papers are placed one on top of the other and glued; along with the image, the whole is then run through a press and when it comes out, the result is a monoprint." As we walk through her exhibits, I notice that many of the prints are circular and they depict Krishna. "They are in a circle because it is so cosmic; it's the cosmic egg," says Benton.
"And the Krishnas?" Benton explains: "When I came to India, the stories people told me were of Krishna. In America, the Krishna story is a myth, but in India, the Krishna story has layers and layers. This is where it can be told and understood."

In the moonlight
We stood in front of a particularly colourful monoprint called 'In the moonlight'. It is a miniature painting of Krishna and Radha in a garden. Krishna is sitting and looking into Radha's eyes and she is looking lovingly into Krishna's eyes.

"He's a god but she has the power," says Benton. "What do you mean - to us, Krishna is always the god with supreme power," I exclaim. "Yes, but in this, Krishna is the god with the manly properties - I wanted to work with your gods and images and present them to you in fresh light - I wanted to show Krishna as a man." As we speak, I notice more and more detail in the monoprint. The lovers are in a corner. It is night and the sky is the colour of denim. The garden is dense with trees - dark in the background and slightly brighter in the foreground. Small colourful flowers like strings of fairy lights are blossoming on the branches. Above the trees hangs a bright moon flooding the garden with its light, but in no way, detracting from the secrecy that pervades the print.

"You know the magic of an evening? Can you sense the air?" asks Suzanne. I can, but can't put it into words. Everything here is blossoming - we have to allow love to happen - it's mysterious. In the same print, Radha is dancing behind a bunch of trees. She is dancing ecstatically by herself, with her hands posed as though she were holding a musical instrument. Why is she doing this I wonder, but before I ask the question, Benton has the answer. "We have all had those times in our privacy and solitude when we have wanted to sing to ourselves - have you ever heard music and wanted to dance by yourself?" asks Benton, her eyes lighting up.

I now shift my focus to the significance of colour, all in neat geometric designs around the central image. "Colour means a lot to me," says Benton. "It informs me of the work - look at the monoprints here," she says pointing to monoprints showing Krishna and Radha. "You see that Krishna is dark blue and Radha is also blue - but she is a shade lighter than him because she is reflecting his colour."

Using vivid colours
"Are the colours so vivid because of India?" I ask. She repliles: "Yes, the colours are more dynamic because of India."

We walk around the show with Benton showing me her other works: portrait boxes, metal masks and fixed pastels. The first of these - portrait boxes - is very interesting. Benton uses a special paper called 'Fabriani' to make these boxes (yes, regular boxes) and paint two faces - (the public and the private/everyday face) of the same person. So we see the image of a man called Pankaj as he is at work; intense, focused, brows almost knitted, on one side of the box; but look on the other side and the same man is a completely relaxed person at peace with himself.

"If I did the face in a traditional way, it would be glossed over," says Benton, so I thought "what else can I do with the face? I can put it in a box."

And it's the same who-you-really-are face that Benton brings to life in her metal mask stories. As she went round the world she realised how the ancient form of mask making "helped people share the stories of their lives. The mask is a window to the soul - the stories people told me were real stories - these people became honest the moment they put on a mask," she says.

"What is the philosophy behind all your art?" I ask as a final question. "Making a work of art is meditation," says Benton. "Work is meditation."

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Poetry in stone

 Dance is like mobile sculpture, while sculptures are frozen dance," says dance historian Sunil Kothari. He is talking about the synergy between the classical dance form of Odissi and  sculptures at the Konark Temple in Orissa.

Celebrating heritage
An annual celebration of this synergy is the Konark Dance Festival in which artistes converge here to pay tribute to the rich cultural heritage that has been handed down from one generation to the next.

Having performed here six times, Odissi artiste Madhavi Mudgal admits that the experience each time has been an extremely energising one. "In the realm of spirit, dance, too, is a form of religion and I would like to believe that dance is my religion; to me it's a form of divine worship." And what could be a more fitting venue than the precincts of the very temple at Konark, where, reportedly, dancing figures sculpted in stone reflect the synergy of Shaivite and Vaishnavaite traditions, enriching both art and faith.

The 13th century Konark temple, located not far from the sea, is renowned for the profusion of exquisite and intricate sculptural work. Dedicated to the Sun God, it is designed in the form of a chariot drawn by seven carved horses. The plinth of the natya mandapa located in its precinct is replete with sculptures depicting nayakas or dancers in various poses, inspiring artistes over the years.

Temple dance
"Odissi essentially evolved as a temple dance form. Dance was seen as a way to achieve union with God and, therefore, was part of temple ritual. No puja was complete without a dance offering as it would prove to be unfruitful without it. Dance represented prakriti, the female principle — that's to be combined with purusha in order for creation to happen," says Mudgal.

It was the maharis and gotipuas who gave dance performances in early times. Maharis or devadasis were dedicated by their parents to temples. Over time, with the growing influence of the Vaishnav tradition, the presence of rajas who declared themselves as incarnations of God, even Lord Jagannath, saw the the maharis performing in royal courts and hence they came to be known as nartakis.

Since young girls were discouraged from taking to dance, the maharis began to train young boys and they played both male and female roles, and often portrayed Radha and Krishna. These boy performers came to be known as gotipuas. Kelucharan Mohapatra belonged to the gotipua tradition.

The rich dance heritage inspired sculptors to "freeze" movements in stone. "When you see the dance postures there, you realise how the two — dancer and the sculptor were interdependent. Both of them shared a common language, common aesthetic principles and a kinetic language that explains body movements," says Kothari.

In Jain caves in the region, the dancer is shown performing with musicians seated around, says Mudgal. Each religious wave is said to have influenced dance — from Buddhism, Shakta and Shaiva to the cult of Jagannath.

Odissi manual
The Konark Sun Temple is virtually a manual of Odissi which helped artistes to revive the tradition after long years of neglect. "The dance per se did not have any notations, so the sculptures gave guidelines," says Kothari. Odissi exponents like Mahapatra would often take their students to this temple to study the form.

Inspiring Sun
Also adding to the performers' delight is the sun connection. The temple architecture includes three images of the Sun God, positioned to catch the rays of the sun at dawn, noon and sunset. Also, earlier, when the main sanctum sanctorum of the temple used to be open, you could see the sun's rays move across its walls, circumambulating it through the day. "The sun takes on a new meaning for an artiste. Surya is about creative energy, the cycle of day and night, the presence around which everything else moves," says Mudgal. 

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