CHINAR SHADE by Autarmota is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 2.5 India License.
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KASHMIR’S NEGLECTED ARTISTIC HERITAGE:
WHY THE SPS MUSEUM NEEDS DR PRATAPADITYA PAL OR AN EQUALLY QUALIFIED SCHOLAR
The progressive Dogra rulers of Jammu and Kashmir, particularly Maharaja Ranbir Singh, Maharaja Pratap Singh and Maharaja Hari Singh, introduced a series of administrative, educational, medical and infrastructural measures that helped transform the princely State from a largely traditional society into a more organised modern polity. They established and expanded courts of law, hospitals, schools, technical institutions and colleges, while promoting roads, bridges, public buildings, communications and industrial enterprises. They encouraged the development of libraries, archives, printing presses and cultural institutions, thereby contributing to the preservation and dissemination of knowledge. The donation of a palace at Lal Mandi in Srinagar for the establishment of the Sri Pratap Singh Museum (SPS Museum) was another significant expression of this public patronage. It reflected an understanding that the State's artistic and archaeological heritage deserved an institution where its treasures could be preserved, studied and displayed for posterity. Their contribution extended beyond buildings and public works. Under Maharaja Ranbir Singh, the State strengthened its judicial administration, supported traditional scholarship, encouraged the study of Sanskrit, Persian and Arabic, and established institutions for the preservation and transmission of classical learning. The Ranbir Printing Press, established in the nineteenth century, helped advance printing and official publication, while the development of the State Gazette strengthened administrative communication.
The SPS Museum ranks amongst the earliest museums established in India. The proposal for its establishment was made in 1889, when a memorandum was submitted to Maharaja Pratap Singh by his younger brother, Raja Amar Singh, and a European scholar, Captain S. H. Godmerry, suggesting the creation of a museum at Srinagar to house antiquities from Jammu, Kashmir, Baltistan and Gilgit. The Maharaja accepted the proposal and allotted his summer guest house at Lal Mandi, on the left bank of the Jhelum, for the purpose. The establishment was supervised by Sir John Marshall, Director General of the Archaeological Survey of India. The first President was the State Accountant General, Mr Blerjee, who prepared the first catalogue of coins. The museum opened to the public in 1898, with its initial collection drawn from the palace Toshkhana: shawls, arms and armour, and decorative household items.
The first nucleus of stone sculptures came later. In the summer of 1892, Aurel Stein and Pandit Govind Kaul conducted an antiquarian tour across Kashmir and collected sculptures and rock carvings. The major addition came in 1913, after the reorganisation of the Archaeological Department under Rai Bahadur Daya Ram Sahni, when antiquities excavated at Panderenthan, Parihaspora and Avantipura were added.
Today, the museum holds over 80,000 objects, including stone sculptures of Hindu deities such as Vishnu, Shiva, Ardhanarishvara and the eighth-century Durga from Tengpora repatriated from Germany in 2015, along with Buddhist images of Buddha and Tara and Jain Tirthankaras, a notable collection of Kashmiri bronzes from the eighth to twelfth centuries, terracottas and stucco from Burzahom, Harwan and Semthan, more than 70,000 coins ranging from punch-marked and Kushana to Sultanate and Dogra issues, Persian and Sanskrit manuscripts such as the seventeenth-century Qur'an bearing Aurangzeb's seal, Basohli and Kangra miniatures, Jamawar, Kani Tosa and Pashmina shawls, and arms and armour from the Toshkhana.
The museum's history has also had a darker dimension: loss by theft. The first reported theft took place in 1917, when sixty-eight objects, including jamawars and Pashmina robes, were stolen. In 1973, six antiquities- five bronzes and one wooden image, including Standing Buddha, Tara, a Jain figure and Ardhanarishvara disappeared. In 2003, the seventeenth-century Qur'an manuscript bearing Aurangzeb's seal went missing. In all, about twenty-eight rare objects and eighty-four coins have been reported missing, and most remain untraceable.
Poor And Perfunctory Labelling and Cataloguing
The
poor aspect of the presentation of Kashmir’s extraordinary artistic heritage
in the newly created premises of the Shri Pratap Singh (SPS) Museum, Srinagar,
is the inadequate cataloguing, identification and labelling of its priceless
treasures. The museum houses an exceptional collection of stone sculptures,
bronzes, architectural fragments and other antiquities that bear witness to centuries
of artistic excellence, religious imagination and intellectual achievement. Yet
the information accompanying many objects does not adequately communicate their
historical context, iconographic significance, artistic merit or place in the
wider history of Indian and Himalayan art.
A
visitor may stand before a magnificent sculpture of Shiva, Vishnu, Buddha or a
goddess and leave knowing little more than the deity's name and an approximate
date. What distinguishes the sculpture? Which attributes establish its
identification? What does its workmanship reveal about the artistic traditions
of ancient Kashmir? How does it compare with similar works preserved elsewhere?
These are questions that a serious museum must help visitors answer.
Poor
labelling is not a minor curatorial deficiency. It diminishes the educational
value of the collection, deprives students and researchers of useful
information, and prevents ordinary visitors from appreciating the
sophistication of Kashmir's artistic inheritance. Inadequate cataloguing can
also perpetuate mistaken identifications, obscure an object's provenance and
complicate future conservation or research. A museum may possess extraordinary
antiquities yet fail to communicate their importance to the public. The irony is
painful: the treasures survive, but much of their story remains untold.
The
devastating floods of September 2014 added to the difficulties faced by the SPS
Museum, damaging cultural property and disrupting conservation work.
Contemporary reporting documented the damage and the challenges surrounding the
restoration and reopening of the institution. In the aftermath, the
presentation of the collection appears, in the author's assessment, to have
proceeded without the comprehensive scholarly documentation and interpretation
that such a remarkable institution requires. Earlier scholars and specialists,
including J. L. Bhan and others who worked on Kashmir's antiquities, had made
valuable contributions to their identification and documentation. Their efforts
deserve recognition. It is difficult not to wonder whether some of that
painstaking work was lost, dispersed or rendered inaccessible during the
disruption caused by the floods and the subsequent shifting and reorganisation
of the collections.
The
impression conveyed by parts of the present display is that the museum's
physical reopening and its scholarly preparation have not advanced together.
Labels that offer only perfunctory descriptions cannot do justice to objects of
such historical importance. If a museum opens its doors without adequately
explaining its collection, the public gains access to the objects but not
necessarily to the knowledge that gives them meaning. The SPS Museum must
therefore undertake a systematic review of its collection records, identifications,
dates, provenance and display labels. Earlier documentation should be recovered
wherever possible, questionable identifications reassessed, and the findings of
established scholarship incorporated into a reliable catalogue.
A
museum is not simply a building in which antiquities are displayed behind
glass. It is an institution that establishes what an object is, explains how
its identity has been determined, records what is known about its history and
communicates why it matters. Kashmir deserves an SPS Museum that fulfils all
these responsibilities.
Dr Pratapaditya Pal, John Siudmak,
Benoy K. Behl and Other Scholars: The Expertise Kashmir Needs
The
question of scholarly intervention brings us to Dr Pratapaditya Pal, one of the
internationally recognised scholars of Indian and Himalayan art. Born in Bengal
in 1935, Pal studied ancient Indian history and culture at the University of
Calcutta before pursuing doctoral research at Calcutta and Cambridge. His
professional career included curatorial responsibilities at the Museum of Fine
Arts, Boston, and the Los Angeles County Museum of Art, as well as work with
the Art Institute of Chicago. He served as general editor of Marg, the
influential journal of Indian art and culture, from 1993 to 2012, and received
the Padma Shri in 2009.
Pal's
book ‘Bronzes of Kashmir’, published
in 1975, is directly relevant to the study of Kashmiri metal sculpture. His
later volume ‘The Arts of Kashmir’,
published in 2007, presents a wider view of the region's artistic heritage,
including sculpture, architecture, painting, calligraphy and decorative arts.
These works demonstrate the importance of examining Kashmir's antiquities as
products of a sophisticated artistic civilisation rather than as isolated
religious images. His scholarship is particularly relevant to the
identification of bronzes, the interpretation of iconography, comparative
stylistic analysis and the relationship between Kashmiri art and wider Indian
and Himalayan traditions. His international museum experience also makes his
perspective valuable in considering how collections should be documented,
researched and presented to the public. Dr
Pal has written over 70 books on Asian art, whose
titles include Art of the Himalayas:
Treasures from Nepal and Tibet (1992) and The Peaceful Liberators: Jain Art from
India (1994).
Another
scholar deserving serious consideration is John
Siudmak, whose substantial study ‘The
Hindu-Buddhist Sculpture of Ancient Kashmir and Its Influences (2013)’
examines ancient Kashmiri sculpture, drawing extensively on material preserved
in the SPS Museum and at sites throughout Kashmir. His research is particularly
pertinent to the museum's stone sculptures and their stylistic and iconographic
relationships with other artistic traditions.
Benoy K. Behl, the Indian art historian, photographer and
documentary filmmaker, has undertaken extensive work on Buddhist art, ancient
murals, sculpture and the wider artistic heritage of India and Asia. His
photographic documentation and interpretation of historic art offer a valuable
perspective on the recording and public presentation of cultural heritage. His
expertise could complement the work of scholars specialising more narrowly in
Kashmiri sculpture and bronzes. Other specialists whose relevant expertise
could be considered include Robert
Linrothe, known for research on Buddhist art and Himalayan visual culture; Christian Luczanits, whose scholarship
focuses on Himalayan Buddhist art and sculpture; and Mallica Kumbera Landrus, whose museum-curatorial experience
encompasses Indian, Himalayan and Southeast Asian art.
These
scholars do not have identical specialisations, nor should they be treated as
interchangeable for every task. Their respective qualifications, nevertheless,
together represent areas of scholarship that could contribute to a serious
programme of research, cataloguing, conservation and interpretation.
The
idea is not to confer an honorary title or invite a distinguished scholar for a
ceremonial visit. It is to seek practical assistance in establishing a
dependable scholarly record of the museum's collections. Such work should
include detailed catalogue entries, accurate identifications, appropriate
dating, photographic documentation, provenance research, references to
published scholarship and informative display labels. Where evidence is
incomplete, uncertainty should be acknowledged rather than concealed behind an
apparently definitive description. A collaborative initiative would allow the
museum to benefit from different areas of expertise while ensuring that its
work remains grounded in the specific character of Kashmir's artistic heritage.
From Repository to Institution of
Learning: A Call for Action
The
SPS Museum should accordingly begin with an audit of its existing catalogues,
labels and archival records. Earlier documentation, including the work of Prof.J.L. Bhan and other specialists,
should be traced and reconciled with present records. Objects requiring
reassessment should be identified, and qualified experts should be invited to
review the relevant collections. The resulting catalogue should be preserved in
a durable digital format and made accessible to researchers, students and the
public.
Such
work requires institutional planning, adequate resources and sustained
cooperation between museum authorities, conservators, archivists and scholars.
It should not depend on a single exhibition or a one-time intervention.
Cataloguing and interpretation are continuing responsibilities, and new
research should be incorporated as knowledge develops. Kashmir's artistic
heritage is not a peripheral chapter in the history of the Indian subcontinent.
Its sculptures, bronzes, architectural remains, paintings and decorative arts
testify to centuries of artistic achievement and intellectual exchange. They
deserve the same seriousness of scholarly attention that leading museums
elsewhere devote to their most important collections.
The
purpose must be to transform the museum from a repository of priceless
antiquities into a living institution of learning, research and public
understanding. Its treasures already exist. What is urgently needed is the
scholarly care to let them speak with clarity and authority to
future generations.
(Avtar Mota)
THE SOCIAL WORKERExcerpts from my Short story ' The Social Worker " Under completion." When Sham Rani died, her family was overwhelmed with grief. Relatives arrived, and rituals had to be arranged. Everyone was grieving, but grief does not organise itself. Roshan Lal took charge. A priest, rice, flour, a tin of P Mark mustard oil, a gas cylinder, 10kg potatoes, pulses, 100 bottles of packaged water (250 ml) , 10 litres of Amul Tetra Pak milk and other necessities arrived. The cremation arrangements were completed. Every ritual was performed carefully. Usha Ji, Sham Rani's daughter in law felt grateful and obliged for Roshan Lal's timely support. Many elderly relatives were deeply moved."This man has a noble soul," someone said."May he be present when my time comes," another replied.Roshan Lal heard such words often. He never corrected them. Perhaps because he believed them. Perhaps because he needed them. Among those who developed the greatest faith in him was Chanda Jigir. Before exile, she had known Bal Ji, her family priest in Kashmir. Bal Ji had never demanded anything. He performed rituals quietly and accepted whatever people offered. For Chanda Jigir, he represented trust without possession. After Bal Ji was shot dead by terrorists in the 1990s, she lost not only a priest but a connection to a world that had vanished. When she saw Roshan Lal performing Sham Rani's final rites, she believed she had found something similar. She was not looking for a man. She was looking for certainty. That is the weakness of human beings. We often do not fall in love with people themselves. We fall in love with what they appear to protect us from. Chanda Jigir feared a lonely death. She feared that her children would perform her last rites mechanically.She feared that after leaving this world, even her farewell would reveal how alone she had become.
Chanda Jigir had saved Rs 25,000 from her J&K Bank family pension, though Gasha Ji, her son, kept the ATM card in his purse, withdrawing Rs 15,000 each month, handing her Rs 3,000 and keeping the rest for his expenses. He was not a villain, just adding this 12000 every month to his income. And from this3,000 rupees, she built a tense, and trembling world: birthday gifts for her daughter's grandchildren wrapped in newspaper with shaking hands, a strip of BP tablets cut day by day to last longer, an antacid bottle every month, a strip of Supradyn multivitamin tablets that Dr Sarvanand had prescribed her in Kashmir.From this 3000 rupees, she had to also to spend on the Shraddha expenses of her dead parents, her late husband, and his parents. While her son held the ATM card, Chanda Jigir held the meaning, counting each rupee like a breath, stitching her old clothes , walking instead of an auto, saving not money but dignity, till that handkerchief-wrapped Rs 25,000 became her silent rebellion against dependence itself.
So she prepared a bag for Roshan Lal. Inside were two Kashmiri shawls, 25000 rupees in five hundred rupee notes, coins, Gangajal, incense sticks, sandalwood pieces and a white shroud. She decided to keep the bag with Roshan Lal who lived close to late Sham Rani's house in Keertan Colony . Everything was arranged carefully. She believed she was preparing for death. In reality, she was preparing for the collapse of an illusion.The first crack appeared when she visited Usha Ji. Shw walked to Keerthana colony with the bag and entered late Sham Rani's house . Sham Rani was her husband 's younger sister
"Is Roshan Lal Ji well? I wanted to see him. ", she asked.
Usha Ji's expression changed."Do not mention his name here."
Chanda Jigir was shocked."
........... This story is under completion .
( Avtar Mota )
Camus wrote it in his diary, in 1959, one year before his death ( Book : Carnets III, page.304)
"Rereading the Upanishads. A strange peace."
Only seven words. He had written books to explain the world. At the end he needs seven words. He says rereading. Not reading. He had met them before, when he was twenty, hungry for absolutes. He was fifty now, hungry for something else - not truth, but rest. And a book waits for you to be old enough to read it properly.
What had he lived through? He had believed in justice and seen justice become terror. He had believed in reason and seen reason become an excuse for murder. He had believed in fraternity and watched his own city, Algiers, his own friends, divide into those who kill and those who justify killing. He had asked the world for meaning, and the world, as always, remained silent.
For twenty years he had called that silence the absurd, and he had made of it an ethic. Hold fast. Do not lie. Do not kill. Love the light, even if the light does not love you. It is a noble ethic. It is also exhausting. And then, in a quiet room, he opens the Upanishads again. Not as a scholar. As a man who is tired.
The Upanishads do not argue with him. They do not say, Camus, you were wrong. They say something softer, and more devastating: you were looking in the right direction, but you thought silence was emptiness.
The sages in the forest say: that which makes you aware of the wound is not wounded. That which sees change does not change. You are not the man who is betrayed and denounced and alone. You are the seeing. He does not become a Hindu. He does not become a believer. He remains what he was: a man without appeal. Only now he knows that to live without appeal does not mean to live without grace.
Rereading the Upanishads. A strange peace.
He had to reread to remember what his heart had always known, that the soul, when it finally stops arguing with existence, does not fall. It rests.
And he wrote it down, as one writes down the date of a return.
( Avtar Mota )
BOOK REVIEW: OUR KIND
OF GAMES BY A. S. DULAT
In the world of intelligence, information is power, trust is
provisional, and what remains unsaid may matter more than what is revealed. A.
S. Dulat’s ‘Our Kind of Games'
invites readers into this elusive world, where political calculations, personal
relationships and competing loyalties intersect in the troubled landscape of
Kashmir. Written by a former head of R&AW, the book draws its appeal from
the author’s proximity to events and his familiarity with the people who
inhabit the shadowy space between official policy and covert engagement.
A.S. Dulat served as the head
of the Research and Analysis Wing (R&AW), India’s spy agency, under Prime
Minister A.B. Vajpayee. He later joined Vajpayee’s Prime Minister’s Office
(PMO), where his job was to ‘monitor, manage, and direct’ the government of India’s
peace initiative in Kashmir.
Dulat writes with the
ease of a seasoned raconteur, turning recollections and conversations into an
accessible narrative. Yet the book raises a question beyond the fascination of
its subject: how much can an insider’s memoir reveal about a world built on
secrecy, and how much of what it reveals will remain significant once the
stories have been told? The foreword by Dr Farooq Abdullah deserves particular
mention for its lucidity, clarity and convincing presentation. Written in a
direct and accessible style, it provides an effective introduction to the
political and human complexities surrounding Kashmir. Abdullah’s foreword complements
Dulat’s narrative by establishing a context for the recollections that follow.
One of the book’s principal strengths is its narrative style.
Dulat writes in a conversational, unpretentious manner, making a specialised
and frequently secretive subject accessible to the general reader. He relies on
dialogue, anecdote and personal recollection rather than elaborate explanations
of intelligence procedures. The result is a narrative that moves with
considerable ease. His professional experience lends authority to many of his
observations, while his willingness to recount personal encounters gives the
book a human dimension. His prose is not especially ornate, but it serves its
purpose: Dulat knows how to hold a reader’s attention without making the
subject unnecessarily forbidding.
The personalities who populate the narrative contribute to
its appeal. Ranjit Soni, a central intelligence officer in the account, is
joined by figures such as Avatar, Shahbaz, Dilshada, Jaanseb, Qureshi, Mrs Jain, Imran,
Major Ali and Rehana. Their interactions illuminate the complicated relationships
that emerge in an atmosphere of suspicion, political uncertainty and competing
interests. Dulat understands that intelligence work depends not only on
information and strategy but also on reading people, assessing motives and
recognising the limits of personal trust. These characters lend movement and
human interest to the narrative. Some, however, could have been developed
further as individuals. They serve their purpose within the unfolding account,
although not all acquire the psychological depth necessary to remain vividly in
the reader’s memory.
The book’s wider significance lies in its evocation of
Kashmir during the turbulent 1990s, when militancy, targeted killings,
political instability and widespread fear transformed the lives of ordinary people.
At that time, Dulat headed the Intelligence Bureau in Srinagar. Dulat’s
recollections of innocent people killed during this period bring back an
atmosphere of anguish and uncertainty that remains deeply embedded in Kashmir’s
collective memory. His descriptions can stir both nostalgia and pain: nostalgia
for the familiar world that existed before violence shattered everyday life,
and pain for the human losses, broken relationships and vanished certainties
that followed. Such nostalgia is never uncomplicated. For Kashmiri Pandits, in
particular, memories of the Valley are inseparable from the trauma of mass
displacement and the loss of their ancestral homes. Dulat’s account is most
affecting when it moves beyond the calculations of intelligence work to
acknowledge the human cost of political violence. These passages remind us that
behind the terminology of security, strategy and negotiation lie individual
lives, often irreparably damaged by events over which ordinary people have
little control.
Equally illuminating is Dulat’s conversation with an
illiterate Shikarawallah who recognises him. The encounter is striking in its
simplicity and human significance. It suggests that even in a profession defined
by secrecy, anonymity and carefully managed identities, individuals may be
remembered by people far removed from official institutions. It reminds a
reader that history is not experienced exclusively by political leaders,
policymakers or intelligence officers; it is also observed, remembered and
endured by ordinary people whose lives become entangled in larger events.
Nevertheless, Dulat’s account remains one perspective on a
complex historical period. An intelligence officer’s recollections can reveal aspects
of decision-making and personal interaction that formal histories may overlook,
but they cannot, by themselves, provide a comprehensive account of Kashmir’s
political history or adequately represent the varied experiences of its people.
The book is best read as an informed insider’s testimony, valuable for its
particular vantage point but necessarily selective in its coverage and
interpretation.
A more difficult question concerns the publication of
intelligence-related recollections. Memoirs by former intelligence officials
can serve the public interest by making institutions and their past activities
more intelligible. Yet such writing requires particular care. Hostile intelligence
agencies or organisations may attempt to connect names, incidents, note patterns
and relationships to draw conclusions about operational practices, vulnerabilities
or sources of information. This possibility does not establish that Dulat has
disclosed classified material or compromised any operation. It does, however,
underline the need for discretion. A former senior intelligence official has a
responsibility to consider not only the historical interest of an anecdote but
also the possible consequences of placing it in the public domain. The
challenge is to preserve the value of personal testimony without inadvertently
providing information that could be misused. This is a legitimate question
about professional responsibility, not a reason to dismiss intelligence memoirs
as a genre.
Another noticeable feature of the book is the recurring
presence of alcohol, particularly Old Monk rum. These references help establish
the informal atmosphere in which conversations take place and sometimes lend
the narrative a recognisable social texture. They suggest how professional
relationships may develop outside formal meetings and official settings.
Nevertheless, the frequency of such references occasionally draws attention
away from the more substantial issues under discussion. This is a reservation
about emphasis and composition rather than a judgement on the author’s personal
habits.
The principal limitation of ‘Our Kind of Games’ concerns its
lasting impact. Dulat is an engaging storyteller, and many of his recollections
hold the reader’s attention. Yet the immediacy of an anecdote does not always
translate into deeper reflection. The episodes invite questions about loyalty,
morality, political judgement and the human cost of conflict, but these
possibilities are not invariably explored in sufficient depth. Readers seeking
a sustained historical analysis or a searching examination of the ethical
dilemmas inherent in intelligence work may therefore find the book less
conclusive than its subject promises. Its strengths lie primarily in
recollection, observation and narrative accessibility rather than systematic
analysis.
This distinction matters because a book about intelligence
operations has the potential to do more than recount encounters and describe
personalities. It can examine the tension between national interest and
individual conscience, the limits of secrecy, the uncertain boundary between
negotiation and manipulation, and the consequences of decisions made with
incomplete information. Dulat’s professional experience gives him a vantage
point from which to explore such questions. At times, however, the narrative settles for telling the story rather than fully examining its wider
implications. The result is readable and informative, but not always as
intellectually probing as the subject might lead one to expect.
Dulat succeeds as a conversational narrator and an informed
witness, though less consistently as an interpreter of the larger historical
and moral questions surrounding his subject. The book should not be judged as a
comprehensive history of Kashmir or a systematic study of intelligence
operations; it does not set out to be either. Its achievement is more modest:
it brings readers closer to the people and informal networks behind a largely
hidden sphere of public life, while occasionally recovering the human anguish
that can disappear beneath the language of strategy and security. It holds the
reader’s attention and, in passages recalling the suffering of the 1990s,
evokes emotions that extend beyond the world of intelligence. Yet its insights
do not always linger after the final page. It is an engaging account of a
secretive world, with moments of genuine human poignancy, even if it does not
fully translate that access into lasting literary or intellectual
significance.
(Avtar Mota )