Shukratal

To the east of Muzaffarnagar, on the banks of the ganga a collection of mythologies cluster around the ghats overlooking the flatlands and fields towards the river. a small narrow tributary runs along the ghats with monkeys stealing fish feed. over here on a  hill is a tree growing in all directions where it is said that shiva told a never ending story to parvati- but she fell asleep and the story was instead stolen by the parrot.  and then more followed that i got lost in and cannot remember. the tree itself is now surrounded by a cluster of shrines and trust buildings- including a dharamshala. many other dharamshalas cluster around the street leading to the temple- one for each caste.

along the river are also dotted ganesh dham, hanuman sham and durga dham- and probably more- each marked by a gigantic statue of the god concerned. these gaudily painted apparitions rise above the half built streets and homes in surreal strangeness. along the river there is a garden planted in a circle where plaster rishi meditates in the center. all around him women in salwar kameez and saris take evening walks as 9 trees in a circle miniaturised tell stories of the nine planets. boards in pure hindi tell us of their auspicious nature. a hut in the corner with peacocks perched on the ridge has another meditating man while the garden itself is guarded by tribal men and tigers. narratives of myth seemed to be appropriated into a a story of overwrought passion for a hindu identity through the process of making visible and monumental the ephemeral magic of the story. but, yet i think there is something missing in my understanding. the love of abstraction that seems to be my own conditioning through what? family? education? or architecture? as if by being less legible, we automatically become more profound. can it be that these exaggerated over expressive icons where image is not to be seen or even 'felt' or 'entered' as my own conditioning would like me to believe- as if there is a transparence between the sign, the signified and the reader / devotee. instead, the subject is asked to read the signs like a text perhaps- where the dagger is.....; or the peacock feather is ...... where the image reads like a metatext containing all the stories connected to it.. a hyperlinked image connecting across to others forever in a linked rhizome like chain. each image claims it's own identity, its own story. this over-legibility produces a plethora, an excess of meaning in which we could be immersed- story tellers each of us- some that we know and others that we don't but create anyway. in the hanuman dham while a stray dog lounged in the courtyard, a god man preached on the loudspeaker as different species of monkeys sat on top the parapet of the wall overlooked by the saffron monkey god in the evening light.