Lost in translation

As we can see, the singha has much to tell. Without uttering a single word. It came a long way so we could study it, make assumptions, fantasize… But before reaching a conclusion, what about the little creature beneath it?

We called it a yakṣa, but it surely resembles something more familiar, like a European angel, a putto decorating a church. It has curly hair, an infant-like appearance and wings. Not really similar to the demons depicted in the śārdūla motif. What if this could express a notion of hybridity and a deeper exchange, since it was common practice in Mughal arts to implement European motifs?

Mughal patronage received ideas, styles and motifs from all over the world with open arms, being the epicenter of culture and power it was. The figure of the winged angel seemingly derives from a Western tradition, but way before Mughal times, there was already a connection. In Gandhara art, features like wings were adopted by celestial beings in Indian mythology..Karetzky, P. E., “The Image of the Winged Celestial and Its Travels along the Silk Road”, Sino-Platonic Papers, Number 225. June, 2012, University of Pennsylvania Since then, the image of winged celestial beings may have been lost, but it could be that this connection was rediscovered later in time, when the two worlds were reunited “again”. It may also be that this motif appears in the singha statue as well, and that most probably was commissioned in a shop with Mughal power influence, perhaps unknowingly, unconsciously… but that is the point.

So the story of our singha reaches a conclusion. It has traveled through different worlds, different realms. It has been transformed again and again. It has been born again and again. From an animal it became an object, from an object a commodity to be bought. It ventured deep in troubled seas governed by kings, militaries, explorers and merchants. And what about now?

We know that during a certain period it was acquired by an art enthusiast, Gerrit-Jan Verburgt (1871-1926), and after his death was taken on loan from the Royal Society of Friends of Asian Art (1968). A lonely wanderer, resting by a fireplace after a perilous journey, the singha now lies in the Rijksmuseum depot.

It is hidden, not exposed, almost untainted by human hands. It is an object of study. People decipher it, appreciate it aesthetically, and study it. The only purpose it serves is an academic or a museal one. It almost feels like it’s standing alone in its dimension, as if waiting for something. This is the object’s realm. The questions that are important to us are now a matter of self-reflection.

We use objects as living symbols that can change us, educate us, or simply ignite curiosity in our soul and please us. What is the fascination, you may ask? Well we should ask ourselves something else. Why do we, as did people in the past, find fascination in monstrosity? The appearance of the singha is undoubtedly monstrous, in a sense. But why is it connected with exchange?

The relations between India and the West are filled with stories, anecdotes and chronicles of horrific deities, scandalous practices, terrifying idols. On this, see: Mitter, P. “Much Maligned Monsters: A History of European Reactions to Indian Art”. But here we have a glimpse of what kind of exchanges passed through the minds of explorers and merchants of the past, to our common knowledge: the fascination with an exotic, frightful East, an obscure India.

The singha is an example, brought as a peculiar and weird-looking monster from far away that acts as a paradigm of our perception of the (another) world. Another transformation of the singha is one that happens in our own minds. That transforms us. It is good to remind ourselves that exchange may exist even in subtle forms that are capable of shaping our world view, as they did in the past.