The Thinking Mumbaikar's Museum

Jeejamata Udayan, Bombay's rundown, ramshackle zoo, is no place for a museum. But in a city that works in mysterious and baffling ways, the zoo is precisely what the Bhau Daji Lad Museum calls home. And if location weren't enough of a disadvantage, it is also commonly acknowledged that the Prince of Wales Museum (situated in the heart of Bombay's tourist district) houses a far more impressive collection, in a structure that's considerably larger and better taken care of.

So what, if anything, does the BDL have going for it? A sense of its place in history, and a vision for its role in the city's development.

Established by Lord Elphinstone, the museum was meant to be a storehouse for industrial products, arts and crafts. Ransacked during the 1857 Mutiny, it was resurrected by a committee of prominent citizens, given its present home, and refurbished with donations from the government and the public. With India being absorbed into the British Empire, in true colonial fashion, the museum was named after Queen Victoria and her consort, Prince Albert.

Over the years, though, the V&A Bombay, fell into disrepair and was almost totally neglected. Its restoration was a protracted affair, requiring the combined efforts of an unusually enterprising director, an unprecedented public-private partnership, and several craftsmen and experts. Once restored, the museum was re-named after the founder who had most ardently championed its cause. Today, the modestly-sized BDL looks sumptuous, saturated as it is with color and intricate detail. Columns soar to the ceilings, tiles gleam, and light fills the building. 

The collection remains largely unchanged from the one seen by millions at the Crystal Palace in 1851. It consists of artifacts -  textiles, lac work, daggers, vases, brass platters and even carved coconut shells - from across the country, products traded by neighboring states, and dioramas constructed by students from the (then) Bombay School of Art. 

This was a collection designed to convey the diversity of India and the capabilities of its craftsmen. But it also pandered to the sensibilities of the average 19th century Briton. Indians were presented as curiosities, and the Indian village, as a harmonious but dangerously rustic idyll. The colonial government was also preoccupied with the classification of Indians into 'types,' which would explain the presence of numerous figurines representing meticulously delineated sub-communities such as 'Bhatias' 'Amdavadi Banias' 'Prabhus' and 'Surti Bohras.' Pay special attention to the maps - each one is unique, created to fulfill different purposes and answer to different interests - a telling comment on the contentiousness of boundary-making and the covetousness of ownership.

In and of itself, the collection merits one, or possibly two visits. But it is elevated by a spirit of inquiry. The collection is simultaneously two things - a celebration of craftsmanship and the city, and a deliberate, self-conscious investigation into the construction of history and the museum's own past. This self-consciousness is lent weight through collaborations with contemporary artists such as Chintan Upadhyay and Jitish Kallat.

Jitish Kallat's ongoing interventions at the BDL are thought-through and remarkably successful. Whether it's the true-to-scale scaffolding, intertwined with animal sculptures, or a massive wrought-iron stove representing destruction and sustenance, the works draw inspiration from Bombay's colonial-era architecture and its elaborate Gothic flourishes. 'Anger at the Speed of Fright' is a deceptively commonplace diorama. It's easy for a visitor's gaze to slide over the work - but if one is paying attention, one will notice dozens of figurines in two glass cabinets, poised to hurl, maim and hurt - an interesting contrast to the demure goddesses and peaceable citizens that form part of the permanent exhibit.

There are other interventions designed to question the linearity of time and the coherence of space - old-school Roman numerals illuminated by ghastly florescent light, and a single photograph composed using multiple shots taken over time. A particularly elegant intervention involves the projection of a You-Tube 'loading' symbol onto a relief map - an appropriate signifier for a city that is moving too fast to come to grips with itself. My personal favorite is a large waxy looking heart, which on closer examination reveals itself to be an inverted flyover congested with traffic - a tongue in cheek commentary on Bombay's clogged arteries.

Each work has its own integrity but retains a strong and, more importantly, valid link to the museum. The interventions 'belong' - which might be why they are so easy to miss. This kind of dialogue - between artist and museum, between an individual's concerns and an institution's history - allows the collection to transcend itself. I don't expect all the planned interventions to be equally effective, but each will likely have a perspective to offer, and will cast a different light on the objects and artifacts, drawing visitors back again and again.

Unlike the Prince of Wales, which is content with showcasing the past, the BDL seems intent on questioning and challenging itself. School students are invited to attend workshops, study-sessions and walkthroughs, and there are plans to create more educational content, design interactive kiosks and offer full-fledged diplomas. Few Indian museums question their legacy as part of their contribution to their communities. If this doesn't merit a visit to the zoo, I'm not sure what will.

Note: Wanted to rectify a couple of  factual errors:  the museum was renamed in 1975, and has interacted with Sudarshan Shetty, Nikhil Chopra and Jitish Kallat (not Chintan Upadhyay). Many thanks to Varsha R. for the corrections.