Mathura Museum

Mathura — a city seeped in history from time immemorial. Known as the birthplace of Lord Krishna, its air hums with devotion, legends, and the faint sound of temple bells. I had always wanted to visit but somehow the chance never came. Then, at Triveni, one day sir suddenly proposed, “We should visit the Mathura Museum,” and I smiled. Initially, I thought I would stay at a hotel one day and come on my own the next day due to the taxing travels. Yet I knew I was neglecting my work for a month due to constant travels  and decided to be with the group and finish it in one day

My dad had been to Mathura Museum years ago and often spoke about the historical artefacts from the ASI collection there — sculptures, ancient coins, terracotta figures, and relics from the Gupta  and Kushan empires. I was surprised my dad had heard of noted colonial archaeologists like Cunnigham and Fuhrer.  The day of departure finally arrived, and excitedly we all reached  Triveni. We started dot a 7 and I thought “Wow we have become good with timings at last” — a myth that would be busted later.

Everyone was excited until we sat on the rickety old bus a stark change from the luxury bus, we took in out last trip to Rajasthan. Suddenly, we were confronted with sparks and tyres under our feet, and the narrow space made us all cringe. We cribbed but adjusted, still excited at what lay ahead. Others joined at two more spots, and we hit the highway — the skyline changing from dusty grey to clear blue skies.

My fellow traveller offered me a lovely cup of tea, and I relaxed and looked out at the villages passing by — open fields, grazing cattle, women in bright saris walking along the road, the hum of daily life against a backdrop of timelessness. Mathura’s outskirts looked like a painting in motion — simple, sun-soaked, and peaceful.

We stopped at a café after almost two hours. The people greeted us with smiles — thinking, no doubt, “great group, great money.” We ordered coffee or tea, and then an avalanche of food came out of purses and bags — kachoris, dal chillam, cake, cookies, mithai, and egg sandwiches. I looked longingly at the delicacies, knowing I should avoid wheat. I ordered a dosa; soon, I was becoming a South Indian foodie. As I sat, I overheard Kavya ma’am accepting greetings for her birthday. I had not attended class for two months and had no idea what gifts or surprises were planned for her.

I realized for her this was a special day — both because she liked Krishna and temples, and because it was her birthday. Perhaps she wished to do darshan in the holy city. She could have easily spent it with her loved ones, but here she was with us. I got a cake and asked her to cut it. Another person had also brought a carrot cake. The mandatory cake-cutting done, we all gorged on the food headlong.

We reached the museum soon. I was feeling a bit tired and sat wherever I could in between the guided tour. As we walked, sculptures of stone from the Gupta to later periods appeared before us. At one point, I would have thought they were all the same, but after three years of Triveni, I realized the immense hard work that must have gone into making each of these unique pieces — hours of hitting stone under the sun, rain, and perhaps wind. From faces made in three inches to figures five or eight feet tall, the stones in shades from brown to black, the workmanship was intricate and powerful.

The Mathura Museum itself stood majestic — red sandstone walls, quiet galleries, and rooms filled with centuries-old stories. Statues of Buddha, Yakshinis, and Krishna stood silent yet alive. Each sculpture seemed to hold not just form but spirit. You could sense devotion and discipline in every curve and chisel mark. What caught my eye were the intricately worked designs resembling cloth patterns in some of the statues  — their precision and smoothness beyond words. The ability to carve multiple dimensions into a single stone — one scene on one side and another on the other — would have taken years. I realized that as a sculptor, I was still a child learning the ABCs even after three years.

The mandatory selfies didn’t stop, and I too was caught up in the era of Instagram and instant gratification. The silent statues watched us — perhaps relieved they were beheaded, not having to see what had become of humans, tied to phones and cameras. If only our own heads were cut off — not literally, but in terms of the digital age — and we actually spent some time with the figures we could get an answer our hearts often longed for.

We left the museum and stopped for lunch soon after. The thali beckoned, and I went headlong into oily food — my tongue loving the taste after two weeks of Ayurvedic food in Kerala. The chatter around the table was lively, and the food felt like a well-earned reward after a long, art-filled morning.

Later we went to the Jain Museum. The intricate work in the small space kept one spellbound — design after design on walls, in nooks and crannies, on the roof and mouldings. It was spectacular — clearly the work of many artists over many years. A tall Mahavir stood in the centre — calm, silent, and all-seeing — as if quietly questioning why we humans have forgotten the art of silence. In today’s world, that truly is a tall order. Had I been alone, I might have allowed the stillness of the place to seep into me — to sit, breathe, and simply be. The space held a quiet, timeless energy, inviting meditation and reflection — but in a large, chattering group, such moments of solitude were hard to find.

As the last of the visits got over, we headed to our buses. At this point, things got a bit acrimonious. The itinerary had mentioned this as the last point, but many wanted to visit the temples. A delay meant extra hours and a long drive home. Some wanted to stay; others didn’t. My back by now was getting tired, and I just wanted to get home and lie down. The temples opened only at 4 or 4:30, and looking at the timings and rush, we knew this was not going to be possible. This disappointed many — it was obvious they felt cheated and perhaps that we did not do justice to the holy city. Others, like me, were relieved thinking we were sticking to the planned itinerary would get home on time.

As we started home around 4, I assumed we’d be back by 7 at the latest. But soon, the detours began — “drop me at my home,” “just stop here for a minute.” One by one, the requests piled up. The result: while a few reached homes on time, others didn’t get back to Triveni — our meeting point — until 9 p.m., a delay of more than two and a half hours. I wasn’t feeling great by then and found myself cribbing constantly. Others seemed equally frustrated and exhausted, yet no one spoke up. It made me wonder — why do we always feel the need to please everyone? Why can’t we simply stick to one plan, one meeting point, and realize that our small choices ripple out, affecting everyone else too?

We talked a lot in the bus about the journey, the art world, and the kind of craft papers people use, the flow state of creation .  Some spoke about how they make stuff daily; others discussed marketing, the world of galleries, artists and money, — how these collide, how some become stars while others remain unrecognized. I realized I was among true artists who had been honing their craft for years, and it inspired me. Along the way, I also heard judgments on different topics — about married people, unmarried so-called frustrated people, horror stories, and more. It was engaging yet exhausting beyond words. I told myself: next time, you should not come, Amrita — or at least get your own vehicle. What will happen tomorrow, I don’t know. I only know that I loved the trip and would join again.

Thank you, Kosal sir and Kavya ma’am, for this journey and for organizing everything.