I'm facing Ganesha dancing joyfully to music unheard by my ears, his large head tilted, his right leg tucked up against his plump stomach, ready to stomp back down. His six arms all twisting in different directions, his trunk grasping at an unknown treat in his middle left hand.
This Ganesha seems to have it worked out. He loves good music, dancing, and eating and this particular incarnation has been at it for about 1500 years. The stone carved deity living out a carefree fun-loving existence has an infectiously joyous presence that drew my attention amidst the many carvings and idols on display. Come on, he's saying, loosen up a little, chill out, live your life. Somehow I can discern a twinkle in eyes that perhaps only I have seen.
The scars of the centuries add texture and hint at tales long since forgotten. Despite serious wounds, and deep gouges, the playful deity in relentlessly upbeat. Stone does not bleed and Gods are immortal, so what care can he have?
Have you ever stopped and just paid attention to one display at a museum? It is so easy to breeze through, scanning objects of antiquity, speed reading plaques and information boards, without truly paying any true attention to what you have seen. To me these aren't just objects of by-gone eras, or distant cultures, they are living, breathing representations of lives lived.
My dancing Ganesha was carved from a slate grey stone centuries ago. One or more anonymous artisans chipped away with meticulous care to forge a respectful personification of one of India's most popular deities. Why did they do so? Probably it was their career, and if so at what stage were they? Is this an early effort, or one of hundreds they had already carved? What life were they leading when it was carved? Did they have family, and if so are there still living relatives living in India or elsewhere in the world? For whom and for where was the carving intended? The plaque does not know. It may have remained in situ for centuries, dutifully watching over generations of Indian families come and go. Then, not so long ago a journey to a place unlike any other it had previously resided. So many lives seen and touched, right up to the security guard that strides past once or twice a day, and the cleaner who carefully keeps him free from dust and debris.
Perhaps a museum is a sad place to end ones journey. No longer in a holy setting, no temple or building of importance, not even in your country of origin. Instead seated amongst vague relations, on a grey plinth, being passed by fidgeting children and teenagers more interested in their social media updates than the joy of Ganesha. Is this simply a zoo for objects de art?
Yet perhaps this museum has its pleasures too. It is a safe haven, away from the ravages of the elements, and that most destructive of creatures, the human. The museum is not so unlike a holy temple, filled as it is with precious objects to which people from all over the world visit to see in adulation.
I don't think this Ganesha cares. He's found his joy and nothing will stop that. I think I should take a leaf out of his book.
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