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Journalism of Courage
The emperor of the world, all yours for fifty paise! I raced up the stairs, entered the dimly-lit hall and scrambled for a magnifying glass. But the hordes beat me to it. Having lost the battle of the glass to nimbler, younger and swifter talent, I rationalised my loss away. After all, who made the paintings? Obviously, artists with normal eyesight. They would hardly have used glasses to paint. Somewhat consoled, I began to circulate. There was a cluster in front of the painting showing the emperor on a hunt. There were innumerable deer whose natural camouflage presented a challenge to the viewers. One art critic focussed his magnifying glass on a thicket and spoke of a rare cinkara there. It was a jackal, but the art critic went on with this learned discourse on cinkaras.
Meanwhile, two moustachioed fellows came up with convex lenses as big as frisbees and, in their hurry, banged them against the people ahead of them. They then applauded the beauty of the hair. I’m sure they were viewing the tresses of the girl in front of them rather than those of the dancer in the painting.
Suddenly, the hall was rent with animal cries. Here were about fifty toddlers, hijacked from their classes. Poor fellows. Instead of Tom and Jerry or the Tijuana Toads, they were being exposed to Ustaad Bakatullah’s paintings. They were bored and presently kicked up a row.
I felt a sharp pain in my ear. It was the long stem of a magnifying glass held by a grim lady that had nearly perforated my eardrum. My cry of pain startled her and she dropped the heavy glass on my foot. It came like a trademark Waqar Younis toe-cruncher. I became a close relative of Timur the Lame and thus, by an indirect route, part of the royalty I was viewing.Learned discussions were in progress concerning the object in Jehangir’s hand. It was not a rose, everyone agreed. I grabbed someone’s lens and took a peek. “Webley Scott,” I read out the name of the manufacturer. The art critic with a cinkara fixation was aghast: “But it can’t be!” “It is as much a Webley Scott as that jackal is a cinkara,” said I.
Meanwhile, a disgusted lady who had been jostled by a score of toddlers got fed up, handed me her glass and walked away. I stood in front of the paintings in which an European visitor was presenting his credentials. This picture contained a profusion of beards — wispy ones, thick ones, curly ones, hennaed ones. I subjected one to closer scrutiny. I counted 141 strands. Thirty were dark, the rest grey. The story would be the same in the owner’s upped storey. The person was about 30 years old. Ergo, in the age of Shahjehan, 79 per cent of a 30-year-old’s hair was grey! In another beard, I could discern the smoking-gun evidence of dyeing. The roots were all grey!
Yes, I saw the celebrated flies on the severed heads. In fact, so realistic were they that I recoiled in horror lest they sit on my nose and bloody it with the blood of the innocents. In any case, a couple of them indeed flew away, because when I saw the painting again the next day, they were missing!The most suave and gentle subjects were the lions. They had wispy manes and rather fat bodies that exuded an innocent air of peace and harmony reminiscent of the Panchsheel doctrine. With a little effort, I could see written across their bodies, “Sara shahar mujhe loin kahta hai!”
Finally, to the visitors book. It sure bore the marks of visitation. From learned commentary on the silk of the brocade to the divine beauty of the flowering of the mango tree, were interspersed gems of observation: “Visited yesterday. Museum closed. Visited today. Overcrowded.” “Jehangir’s nose trifle crooked.” “Magnifying glass not magnifying enough.”
The Padshahnama was a treasure. But it was for the eye, not for the tongue or the hand, or the toddler plucked from his class.
