by B.N. Goswamy
A Chief Justice’s collection
NOT many people are likely to be aware of it at this stage, but a major exhibition, celebrating 50-years of the Supreme Court of India, is currently under preparation. It will go up at the National Museum in Delhi in less than a month’s time from now, and should — considering the feverish activity in evidence at the museum now — be an absorbing event, something to look forward to and learn from. Few know what exactly would go into the show, although it is a fair guess that the distant past will not be left out of it. And the past brings back, as always, memories.

Melody-master Raj Kapoor
By I.M. Soni
RAJ Kapoor was a melody-master par excellence. Lata Mangeshkar says, “One thing I have noticed through the years — that, no matter who be the music director of an RK film, in the end the music is given by Raj Kapoor himself.”

From scrap to ‘scrapture’
By Ajay Pratap Singh

INDIA’S partition uprooted millions. After the nightmare of losing everything, even one’s life, if one was lucky to cross the border, then the hardships and struggles of survival are all too well known. One such family was that of the Lambas from Rawalpindi. After a brief stay in Delhi, the Lambas came to Pune in 1951, and stayed put. Amrit Lamba, a four-year-old kid then, went through that turmoil. He has fleeting memories of those days of carnage and misery. But deep within, his tiny soul looked at the world around him with an artist’s eye. He had a passion for drawing. He drew all over his house — on walls, papers, floors — wherever he could find some white space. His father at first reprimanded him, but then allowed him to draw on the kitchen floor. Amrit drew sketches with charcoal. These at times were appreciated by the family.

Another obsession Amrit had was that of opening up toys and then assembling them again. Many a time, an altogether new toy came into existence. This again was very annoying to his parents. Especially when Amrit opened up the radio set to find out from where the sound came. Little did anyone foresee that years later, it is this pursuit that would get Amrit name and fame. So realising quite early in life his intense interest in art, he went on to study commercial art at Abhinav Kala Mahavidyalya in Pune. Today, two decades later, he is the Head of the Department of Applied Art at his alma mater. Professor Lamba is well known on the Pune art scene. “Good that students call me ‘Lamba Sir’. Had they been calling me by my first name, I would have been ‘Amrit Sir’ (Amritsar)”, he says with a smile.

He has taught several students the entire gamut of art, right from portraits to landscapes. “The medium has never been a problem for me”, he says with confidence. In fact, Professor Lamba can see beauty in the most ordinary of objects and can turn these into a thing of beauty.

“When I was hardly 12 years old, I made an embroidered picture of an Italian woman using my own hair”, he recalls. “It was on a silk cloth and I would thread my hair in a needle; it took me seven days to make it.” As a young lad, he discovered forms of artistry in the torn posters on the street walls. “Often I would shut my eyes and put my head in a bucket of water and see vivid colours which I tried to reproduce in my paintings”, says this imaginative artist.

While studying at Art College, one of the subjects was designing of stationery. Professor Lamba has to his credit designing letterheads, logos and visiting cards of over 150 companies. “It is a challenging job, because sometimes you have to educate the client that his stationery and logo must match the product of his company. Some of the clients would come up with outlandish ideas and want their visiting cards to say too much. Hours have to be spent convincing them about the aesthetic value”, he explains.

Professor Lamba excels in on-the-spot quick portrait-sketching also. Once he drew some 250 sketches at a local fair in a few hours. The turning point in his career came in 1992, when Gurvinder Singh Patheja of a forgings company invited him to his factory. Professor Lamba was shown heaps of scrap material and requested to make something creative and decorative with it. Professor Lamba moulded a six-foot Ganesha out of some of the scrap material. It weighed 2 tonnes. Looking at that Patheja suggested that the work could be called “Scrapture”.

Years later, in early 1996, the Indian Railways, Pune Division, invited him to create art pieces for the “India on Track” railway exhibition. “Visiting the railway junkyard was like stumbling upon a treasure trove,” he remembers with joy. “My mind went berserk with ideas.” The railway exhibition finally had three massive ‘scraptures’ — a wild elephant, a Ganpati and a peacock. These were the cynosures of all eyes at the exhibition.

Scrapture caught the fancy of numerous corporate houses. So he made another huge Ganpati, using scrap steel sheet bits of a steel container making company. Then, Manohar Sathe, owner of a biscuit company, asked him to do something with his products. And so a house and a railway engine were made from biscuits and gems! These were exhibited in Nasik. Another offer came from Nagpur. An industrialist dealing in earth-moving equipment and heavy machinery had piled up a huge waste stock. In three days’ time, working at the site, in a thick jungle, Professor Lamba made three handsome pieces — a Ganpati, a peacock and a cockerel.

For him nothing is too worthless to be discarded. So when Vijay Bhatkar of the Centre for Development in Advanced Computing (CDAC) was a guest speaker at his college, Professor Lamba presented him with a scrapture made exclusively out of discarded floppy disk, computer mouse and other discarded computer peripherals.

As more and more assignments came his way, his art became more specialised. His works include “Mother and Child” and “Man and the World”. Though his favourite theme remains the Ganpati, as he believes “Him” to be very lucky for his career. Rhythm, space and balance are his guidelines while creating scraptures. “An artist’s hands should always be moving” he quips. “There ought to be no full-stops in his creativity... nothing to retard his flight of fancy”. Professor Lamba’s concern is not with creating art alone, but being aware and living the eternal moment fully. Then, art and everything else follow naturally. This is his contention. His interpretations are fluid, always keeping with the essence of the element.

Professor Lamba is the proud winner of the Vikasrattan Award, a recognition from Lalit Kala Academy. Apart from the corporate world, a restaurant owner asked him to make sketches on the walls of the sitting area. He also has an invitation from a Japanese company to create scraptures there.

Any connection with the North? “Oh! Of course. My in-laws reside in Ambala. So once a year we all go there”. Ms Lamba is a double graduate from Panjab University, Chandigarh. “She is a great moral and spiritual strength to me”, he observes. His daughter is already married and his son, who is an architect, is also settled. Now in his mid-50s, lately he is getting drawn to his inner call. He has sketched several calligraphic forms of the sacred symbol of the Sikhs, the “Ek Onkar”. He ponders looking at them. Some strokes he points out, resemble the “Christian cross,” while others the “Om” of the Hindus. Maybe with some more additions “Allah” could be perceived in “Ek Onkar”. “Ek Onkar is a symbol of oneness and mankind must strive to attain it”, he pensively broods; remembering, perhaps, the holocaust of those mad days of Partition.

by B.N. Goswamy
A Chief Justice’s collection

NOT many people are likely to be aware of it at this stage, but a major exhibition, celebrating 50-years of the Supreme Court of India, is currently under preparation. It will go up at the National Museum in Delhi in less than a month’s time from now, and should — considering the feverish activity in evidence at the museum now — be an absorbing event, something to look forward to and learn from. Few know what exactly would go into the show, although it is a fair guess that the distant past will not be left out of it. And the past brings back, as always, memories.

The 18th century is a long way off, but I am certainly reminded of the remarkably active interest that the very first Chief Justice of a court in British India, Sir Elijah Impey, took in the art of this land. Many will know the name well, for history tells us much about this man who, in Macaulay’s unjust but ringing phrase, was “rick, quiet and infamous”. Impey was in India for just a little over eight years but, in this short span of time, he, together with his distinguished school-mate and the first Governor General of India, Warren Hastings, stirred up enough controversies to become the subject of a debate which still finds partisans among historians.

In these crowded years the unsavoury drama of the Nandkumar case, which shook British India and in which Impey had a cardinal role, played itself out. Allegations that he was Warren Hastings’ “convenient tool” rang in the air, not only here but also in England. And Impey’s recall, in 1782, was followed a few years later by his impeachment, together with that of Hastings — proceedings which gave rise to some of the most brilliant flights of oratory in the history of Parliament — on this and many other counts. The barbs in the polemics were singularly bitter although Impey managed eventually to hold his own. He survived the impeachment attempt by a quarter of a century; slander, however, continued to dog him, and Macaulay kept insisting that no other judge “had dishonoured (more) the English ermine since Jeffries drank himself to death in the Tower”.

Controversies and all, historians of Indian art tend to take another view of Sir Elijah Impey. For he was a man who, despite all the prejudices he must have brought with him, became keen on Indian art.Together with his wife, Lady Mary Impey, there seem to have been many projects that he got involved in, many Indian artists who, in those languishing years, he employed. In fact, some of the finest work turned out at the end of the 18th century in India was done for the Impesy, and Zain-al Din, Ramdas and Bhawani — three of the artists working for them — were in part responsible for those large and sumptuous studies of birds, plants and animals that one so celebrates today.

There is much keenness of observation in these studies and while the work may not be able to compete with that of the great Mughal master, a certain crispness of execution in them leaves one affected. The work must have gone on for years, and one can almost visualise the artists bringing their work periodically to these new patrons of theirs and having them carefully examined and commented upon, much in the manner in which this was done for Indian patrons in the past.

There is then that series of pictures which we today know as the ‘Impey Ramayana’, each folio of it bearing the seal of the Chief Justice, with its legend in Persian, at the back. Among the most fascinating of the works linked to the Chief Justice, however, is a group of paintings of the Ragamala theme that, years ago, I chanced upon, together with a colleague of mine, in the collection of a foundation at Heidelberg in Germany, the von Portheim Stiftung. Fascinating, because there is evidence in the painted leaves themselves of the degree to which Sir Elijah Impey involved himself in the work that he commissioned or acquired here.

The Ragamala — personifications in visual form of modes of Indian music, all those ragas and raginis that we know well-could not possibly have been a theme that Impey was familiar with. For him to be drawn to them is a fact interesting in itself, therefore. But even more interesting is the fact that the protective fly-covers attached to the paintings are filled with long notes in Hindustani, written in the Latin script, apparently in Sir Elijah Impey’s own hand. These notes are renderings — in broken English-Style Hindustani prose — of the Hindi verses inscribed on the paintings themselves, and their point seems to be to try and understand what the Hindi texts say.

To take an example. In the panel above the painting of the Kamodini ragini, showing her seated praying at a shrine, the verse begins: “Kamodini ati biraha satai/hath jori kari seva lai”. In the Sahib’s Hindustani — something that some engaged pandit must have helped him with — it turns into: “Kaummoad raugnee. Is ka dil ma bahut iskud hy ore oos ko kauvind is ka pas nahinhy”. Meaning, in plain but literal English, of course, that “in her heart there is much love, and her husband is not near her”. So on it goes, text after factured text, leaf upon leaf. But, awkwardness and all, what shines through in all this is a certain seriousness of purpose, a dedication to the task in hand. Even an attempt perhaps — considering the choice of complex theme in these paintings —at understanding what trulyu moved the Indian mind.

More Hindustani, English style

In one of the paintings in the Impey Ragamala series, there is a scene of worship, and the word Salagrama occurs in the text. understanding the nature and the meaning of this ammonite stone, so sacred to Vaishnavas, could not have been easy for the Chief Justice. Recording, therefore, what the pandit must have started explaining to him, he notes: “Jabtuck zammeen par Brumhaa, Bishnoo,” Roodr Voghyra devtau, audmee ka soorat ma rata tha, is vaski jo audmee to oos audmee ka ukkal ore sub cheese jo hy sub droost tha...” Apparently, it was not easy going for the Chief Justice; as indeed his words are not for us.

Computer art inspired by village roots
By Jangveer Singh

FOR someone who joined an art course only to get a salary equivalent to that of a Head master of his village, Malkit Singh has traversed a long distance. Literally so, as his latest work has been done abroad on computer.

Only the board outside Punjabi University Art Gallery betrays the work to be computer printouts. However, despite working in such a medium, Malkit has used a riot of colours and imaginative motifs to put life in the prints appropriately titled “Man, Paint, Machine — Exploratory Vision”.

Life has been put in the prints as Malkit has gone back to his roots to draw inspiration. His work is dominated by his village background as well as the atmosphere in which he was brought up. He has used the motifs of a woman, tree and fish which occur repeatedly in his prints to convey his thoughts and make the experiment a success.

Talking about his prints which are abstract, including a mustard field, village set, a saint with a flute or even those which refer to the period of terrorism in the state, Malkit says it was a challenge to recreate them. He says the prints took meti-colours planning. As much as one and half years on the computer and several innovations before they could be attempted.

The says he used a photo paint software. “I used it to create images”. Using a brush and colour plates available in the programme, he went about his task. It took him some time to get used to using the mouse for a brush, he says.

Talking of the vivacious colours he has used, Malkit says they were used to brighten life. “They excited me as they were a complete contrast to my earlier works in which I painted realism with deep and harmonious colours. My achievement has been in creating varied art in this medium which has largely been used to create flat images”, he added.

Speaking about himself, Malkit says he had first wanted to be a flute player, then a sadhu and finally a teacher to earn a livelihood. Though the third ambition was partly realised, it helped him blossom as an artist. His other yearnings include wanting to paint Chandigarh which he has not been able to do till now. The village never left me. He says by way of explanation.

Malkit is also holding a workship for students of fine art in Punjabi University. “I am telling them by style and way of life besides questions as to why I paint”, he adds.

Melody-master Raj Kapoor
By I.M. Soni

RAJ Kapoor was a melody-master par excellence. Lata Mangeshkar says, “One thing I have noticed through the years — that, no matter who be the music director of an RK film, in the end the music is given by Raj Kapoor himself.”

He was unlike others who engage a music director and the lyrics are set to tunes. He “composed” the tunes himself and stored them to be used later in his films as when the situation demanded.

O basanti pavan pagal... was shaped into a beautiful song in “Jis Desh Mein Ganga Behti Hai.” But it was first used in a snatch as background music in “Awaara” when Prithviraj Kapoor visits his son in jail and calls him “beta” for the first time.

Sun sahiba sun...was approved by Raj Kapoor for RK’s “Ajanta” as far back as 1952. The film did not go on the floor at all.

Raj had visualised the song on Nargis, but it was finally picturised on Mandakini decades later.

When Raj Kapoor launched on his career as a film-maker, he had wanted Shanker-Jaikishan for “Aag”, but Ram Ganguly was thrust on him by Prithviraj.

“Aag” launched Mukesh as Raj Kapoor’s ghost voice with Zinda hoon.... Mukesh become Raj’s “soul mate” in the latter’s own words.

Shanker-Jaikishan who evolved a fresh style of music for RK camp were guided and inspired by Raj himself. It was Raj Kapoor who fashioned Lata’s singing technique for the duo, according to Kishore Bhiwani.

The dream sequence in “Awaara” was shot for 23 hours at one stretch. The takes were repeated till Lata’s voice became limpid, a silver stream of sweet melody.

Raj Kapoor was always present at the time of song rendering. Chithiye dard firaaq waaliye... (“Heena”) had been composed and ready for Lata. Raj Kapoor came into the recording room. He changed the tune and the orchestration of Ravindra Jain. Chithiye... thus turned into a tune composed impromptu Raj Kapoor.

Laxmikant-Pyarelal who composed music for “Bobby” said they walked out as the music for the film was given by Raj himself. They had only to arrange it.

Raj Kapoor’s heart was not really in the “Mera Naam Joker” songs sans Lata for reason which may not be stated here. The songs did not come from Raj Kapoor’s heart. The voice was missing. The vision (Nargis)had already vanished.

Lata says in the book named after her: “Very few film makers in our industry have such a grounding in music. He could play the piano, the tabla and the flute... The opening lines of the songs in his films were written by him... and even some of the tunes were composed by him, not entire songs, but the opening lines.”

The music master is gone. Now his ever-haunting legacy of songs will endure like the RK emblem — the lover with a violin in his hand.