Nine Lives(79)
The whole process, explained Srikanda, was itself encased in a fine mould of ancient ritual: only on a new moon or a full moon could a model be begun or cast; no work except finishing could be done while the moon was waning. The idol’s eyes must be carved open between 4 a.m. and 6 a.m., when there was no sound or disturbance which might upset the deity; no meat or alcohol could be consumed while a bronze was being made; a series of ancient Sanskrit incantations—the Admartha Slokas—must initiate the process, and another set—the Dhyana Slokas—must be spoken while the work was in progress. All prayer and thought should be focused on the deity who was to be asked to take possession of the idol. All the proportions, gestures and sacred geometry were exactly laid down by tradition, and only the most elite families of Stpathy Brahmins, literate in Sanskrit and all the appropriate shastras, were allowed to work on pieces intended for worship.
“Our workshop should be like a temple,” Srikanda said. “Every second is holy. Some people think that what we do is an art, but we think of it mainly as an act of devotion. For us art and religion are one: only when there is prayer can the artist make a perfect sculpture. Even the wax models we create have a little of God’s jivan [life] in them, so we give even that reverence, and as we work we think only of God, saying the appropriate mantras as we carve and model.
“These idols are reflections of our minds and spirits, so while we are at work on a sculpture we must behave as if we were in a holy temple: we must speak only the truth, and be kind and polite to everyone. Until the sculpture is finished, for weeks we must follow all the rules and regulations that have been laid down.”
It was true, he said, that there were other workshops in Swamimalai which did not follow these traditions. They didn’t know Sanskrit, so they were unable to read the Shilpa Shastras, and broke many of the sacred rules and conventions. They employed Dalits—untouchables—and atheists, and regarded making idols principally as a business, aimed at selling to tourists. “Some of their work is very good technically,” he said. “Art lovers will be satisfied, but I do not think their idols are divine. No respectable temple will touch bronzes made in this way. That kind of work never moves or touches me. As an outsider you may not be able to see the difference, but we can. It may seem unjust today, and we all respect talent, whatever caste it is born into. But the rules of the shastras are quite clear, and we believe God will only be there if the particular image is made exactly according to the rules.”
I asked whether the gods remained in the images forever. Srikanda explained that Hindus believe that, like humans, the idols of deities also have a defined life span: that the jivan will not stay in a sculpture forever, though it may do so, if properly and faithfully worshipped, for as long as 850 years, the faith of the devotees in effect keeping the idols alive in their old age. But as the idol heads for its millennium, the jivan in even the most adored and carefully tended idols will start to fade and disappear.
If the idol was not properly tended to, the jivan could ebb much earlier, and if stolen or abused, the deity would leave the statue immediately. Such was the case with all the idols in museums, none of which was now alive. Each sculpture has a birth star, and according to its size and proportions, the shastras give elaborate astrological formulations by which the life of a sculpture can be determined, in the same manner as it is believed that the life of a human being can be determined by a carefully calculated horoscope. If the god was intended for private puja in a home, the horoscope of the husband and wife would be taken, and the proportions of the god subtly altered to best suit the stars of that family.
As we chatted, Srikanda was chipping away with his chisel at the rounded breasts of the goddess. I asked whether it was ever difficult or distracting for the sculptors having to deal with such deliberately sensuous forms. Srikanda acknowledged the problem: “We have to look at these idols as a goddess,” he said. “Never as a human body.”
He smiled. “Once when I was installing one of my idols in the Murugan temple in London, I visited the waxworks at Madame Tussaud’s. There I saw an image of Aishwarya Rai, and of course you immediately think of all the love films you have seen her in. When you are making an idol of the Devi you must always fight such thoughts, and instead concentrate on your prayers.”
He paused. “Self-discipline is the most important thing in this job. It is just as important as skill. Many have lost their skills through lack of self-control. If a god is in the heart and that heart becomes corrupted, the deity cannot flow through that sculptor into the idol. Good Stpathys—some of the best artists, unique artists—have lost their abilities in this way. You need to maintain not just your skills, but also your discipline.”