In the 19th century, with the emergence of printing technology, India witnessed a proliferation of mass-produced inexpensive pictures, a huge contrast to the ideas and images in traditional Indian art. Representations of the Hindu pantheon, printed on calendars, posters, stickers, labels and so on, had an overriding influence on bringing about this visual revolution which swamped the whole society.
Ever since, this visual culture has incessantly manifested itself in an ever-rapid rhythm, particularly in the 20th century. Hindu deities in this new realm continued to appear more real than ever in a variety of postures and moods. Whatever it might be, they were all characterised by repose and a serene smile suggestive of their divinity.
However, in the recent past, a sudden shift in their expressions was made visible all over the country—in cities, villages, temples and domestic spaces. Despite various iconographic representations being possible, more often than not, they are poised as militant warriors with an almost frightening fury. The most striking and sweeping are the representations of Rama.There has been a surge of Rama posters reproduced since the late 1980s. Unlike the earlier representations, the newly-depicted Rama appears astride with a masculine body and taut muscles.
Armed with arrows and a bow, he remains undisturbed and firmly planted on Earth in the face of sweeping winds and turbulent waves of the ocean that are suggestive of the fumes and flames of his anger. It seems he has just now driven off his enemies to a distant place outside the pictorial space. Since the beginning of the 1990s, Rama has become more and more militant-like.
Analysing the vengeful, saffron-clad Rama of this period, Anuradha Kapur observes, “The transformation of the Ram image from that of a serene, omnipresent, eternally forgiving God to that of an angry, punishing one, armed with numerous weapons, wearing armour and even shoes is truly remarkable. Where does this new Ram, laden with all manner of martial gear, come from?”
We are also confronted with a flood of posters, calendars and flex boards showing Shiva, Vishnu, Hanuman, etc., appearing in the same militant-like postures (Shiva no more sits meditatively in Kailas, Vishnu no more enjoys reclining on the serpent, Krishna is hardly seen dallying with Radha but is rather busy with Arjuna in the battlefield). They no longer reflect a change in religious philosophy, but certainly a sense of an irresistible tide of a ‘militaristic’ and ‘virile’ Hindutva.
To make it more sensible, it is better to probe into the question of who might be the implied enemy against whom the Hindu deities have suddenly taken up arms. Unprecedented as it seems, why is the enemy not pictured in all these pictures?
Now we need to look back at those late 19th century posters in which a symbol of a holy cow was used for articulating the notion of India as a sacred space and drew popularity in the political ferment of the cow slaughter agitation (More on this in my last column, Imaging Holy Cow as Mother India). The communal hate which comes to the fore with the depiction of the demonic cow-slaughterer in those pictures, still seeks to express itself now. But it is done in a strikingly disguised form.
For instance, a small figure in yellow called ‘Dharmaraj’ (Krishna) of earlier posters on cow protection has now been transformed into a large, single image of Rama. Unlike Dharmaraj, who earnestly requests that the cow must not be killed, Rama does not make a request now; with his muscular body and sharp eyes, he appears enraged and his form is enlarged to the extent of encompassing the whole space.
This new take suggests his heroic triumph. It equally suggests that he has sanctified his holy place, Ayodhya, by eradicating the impure, demonic presence of the cow-slaughterer—the religious other. It is striking to see that although victorious, Rama still remains militant-like, with his watchful eyes glaring into the distance.
Because in his mind, the time has not yet come to relax and keep the weapons aside—the driven-out enemies, he is worried, may pounce back at any moment. This visual imagination is a beautiful translation of a long-cherished desire of the exclusionist ideology (“Actions speak better than words! Verily Hindusthan is a holy land . . . Let come what may: Rama has made this land holy and happy”: VD Savarkar, Essentials of Hindutva). It made its perfect expression in the exile of MF Hussain, and in the incessant lynching and murder of many more later.
When Rama becomes militant-like, his dutiful servant, Hanuman, naturally turns more furious. Slugging off his earlier position at the feet of Rama as an ardent devotee or flying with the mountain, Hanuman is now seen storming with a gymnastic body and a raised mace in his hand, as if he will vanquish the enemy the very next moment. Equally prolific are the posters showing Rama and Hanuman deeply embracing each other, a blend of shakti and bhakti—a symbol of political India immersed in the devotions of Rama.
An image in history or mythology never rests within its spatio-temporal boundaries. It rather reappears to articulate related meanings by constantly renewing itself in a new guise. This is precisely what is seen in the lions of the Ashoka pillar, too. However beautiful and meaningful the lions were, they no longer remain so. Being “more ferocious” and roaring louder, the lions of the new national emblem depict new meanings, just as the enraged Rama with an enlarged body does. All this shows a fundamental change in perceiving the religion and the nation.
Chandran T V
Art critic and author. Teaches art history at the College of Fine Arts, Thiruvananthapuram
(chandrantv67@gmail.com)