Calendar Art
The first and
generally lasting mental images of our pantheon of Gods and Goddesses derive
from creations of inspired artists of their chosen deities, mostly
in scenes of victory over evil (the mardana or mardini mudra)
or in resplendent attire and ornaments (the shringaara mudra).
Of this form of art, the paintings of Raja Ravi Varma are by far the most
notable, his works revered as much in studio discussions as much as in
kiosk temples and home Pooja cubbyholes. Very few others have
attained such heights of recognition, but that notwithstanding, there is still
a substantial patronage for such art effort. Over time, themes have
gone beyond pictures of Gods and Goddesses to those of Temples, Mosques
and Gurudwaras, famous monuments like the Taj Mahal which the
artist would scarcely have even visited; watershed events from our
history – Pandit Nehru unfurling the Tricolour at the Red Fort. The end product
is therefore an amalgamation of a ‘core concept’ sourced from a newspaper or
magazine or from a scene in a film and embellished by the artist’s imagination.
The culture
wallahs have always considered this brand of artistry far too infra dig
to merit reportage or critical reviews yet even they cannot deny that
this enormous culturally ‘subterranean’ effort plays a role in the
propagation of religion and national heritage.
Siddappa was
a foot soldier in this Art Brigade. His circumstances unfortunately made him
entirely dependent for sustenance on his creations compelling him to work full
time. Also, his physical handicap denied him the use of fine drawing
implements like pens and brushes and to attract attention to his work he
had per force to make up for lack of intricacy through very large portrayals of
his themes. These were carpet sized rangoli spreads on footpaths that involved
especially from a paraplegic, much more effort than a picture on the same theme
on canvas or paper.
As Siddappa commenced
his work, curious onlookers would collect around to watch him stretch and exert
his incapacitated body non-stop in silence. He refused to be distracted
and waved away those seeking his attention. Finally, somewhat like the
French artist who knew that his painting of the female form was complete
when he felt like pinching it, something inside Siddappa told him his work was
done.
Tucked away
somewhere deep in the Nilgiri Mountains, in the shadow of, or very
close to Doda Beta, is the village from which Siddappa hailed. There he spent
his childhood craning his neck upwards in awe at the imposing peaks surrounding
his home. The high hills, like the vast oceans by their awesome
presence subdue those who live in their vicinity to a humility which fosters
co-operation and joint effort. In every waking moment of Siddappa’s early
years the high mountains were always there - in variegated colours varying with
the seasons.
About the
Gods, he learnt from tales told by the local temple priest around whom the
village children conglomerated in the evenings. The images he
formed of characters from these stories had the ‘third dimension’ of
reverberating echoes of monsoon thunder or the droning backdrop of seasonal
rivulets and formed the sights and sounds of his dreams. An artistic seed
had been formed, but suppressed by circumstances into a hibernating dormancy to
break ground much later in life.
The
deep purple Shiva sitting cross-legged atop a brown powdery peak with the Ganga
emerging as a shooting fountain in white chalk from amidst coal black hair had
been always his patent. Other Gods live in the heavens, Siddappa used to
say, but Jathadhara lived here with us on the earth, within
reaching distance of the beckoning bhakta. Though
Siddappa spoke little of how he came to have a street side existence
in Poona, his incapacitated limbs and the telltale burn and abrasion scars
made it easy to piece together his life story. He had left home early to
join the circus. A child of the hills no doubt had the physical strength,
agility and courage to endure the precision demands of the trapeze or the
animal ring. The event that brought down the curtains on his career as an
entertainer was perhaps the ladder jump - a breathtaking act once quite popular
in public fairs and exhibitions across the country. A jumper doused in
kerosene climbs to the top of a high vertical ladder where he lights himself
afire and then jumps down as a flaming human ball into a pool of water. Both
speed and accuracy are of the essence in performing this feat. Maybe
Siddappa’s foot slipped just a little or he lost balance or whatever, but that
was his final and his only un-applauded act. The time for the latent artist in
him had now to emerge to enable him to sustain himself.
Always a
performer, Siddappa reveled in the attention he drew at the annual Navratra
Mela held each year at the base of Poona’s Charturshringi
hill. Here, with surging crowds watching him intently, Siddappa drew
pictures of Gods and Goddesses and filled them with bright gaudy colours.
The pool of water into which he once jumped from great heights was now a
shallow trough about a foot deep with the surface covered with a floating layer
of wood shavings and sawdust. Around this Siddappa moved with a devotee’s
fervour to draw images and spread rangoli using his left and only functioning
hand. Those appreciating his work would drop a coin gently onto the
drawing sometimes just to see the near miracle to the deity devouring the coin
as it plunged through the floating surface causing just that small ripple.
Siddappa’s earnings meanwhile accumulated safely behind the Gods who helped him
earn them.
Those were the days when the Chaturshringi Temple was still
considered at a mental distance from the main Poona town. The mela goers
walked to the temple in hordes to first to pay obeisance to the
Goddess Bhavani and thereafter descend for a joyous evening at
the mela. The proceedings here began early evening and as night
progressed, the cacophony and teeming crowds created a terrific ambience.
There were
giant wheels, merry-go-rounds and many other rides; a special feature was the
photo studio with a wall-sized backdrop of the New York skyline
dominated by the Empire State Building. (The WTC towers were not
there. yet to be built then and for a different reason are sadly not there
now). Large families sat on stools behind a cardboard cutout
of a limousine to create a photo image of them driving about in the Big
Apple. The inevitable food and cassette shops, toy and balloonwallas
were all there, in competitive numbers. Good fun time, with good earnings for
the entrepreneurs.
The inevitable skill displayers were there too. There was the ‘Well
of Death’, set up with wooden planks held together with ropes into which a
motorcyclist rode his vehicle devoid of all trappings like mudguards, moving in
oblong circles and in a grand finale ride out of the mouth to a thundering applause.
Whispers of a rider having crashed to death ‘some years ago’ abounded and
enhanced the risk potential of the act. In the days before the grand
television invasion, the mela was no doubt a thrilling and
complete family outing.
A local rubber-shoe manufacturing company once commissioned an agency to
capture the sights of the Mela as a theme for its calendar.
The picture for the month of January, quite aptly, was of Siddappa’s rangoli of
Goddess Bhavani - attired in gold, ochre, red and brown, embellished with
marigold petals -riding her equally ornamented vaahana, the
tiger. Siddappa was there beside his creation, with a satisfying smile
shining through a wrinkled face.
Pictures for other months were also good ones but January gave Siddappa a
‘first picture advantage’ and he drew more than a one-twelfth share of media
attention the calendar received.
Not enough to
raise him into the big league of culture vultures, but for a brief period the
sun did shine bright on this lad from the Blue Mountains. His efforts recognized
– if not as Art, then at least as Calendar!
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