The LURU Review: In Celestial Company

There are no small roles, only small actors.

The curatorial team at the Museum of Art & Photography (MAP) is rethinking some curation fundamentals. On our guided walkthrough, Priya Chauhan, associate curator at the museum, along with the exhibitions team seemed to ask: can the subject of an exhibition speak to the objects in the museum’s permanent collection? Can an exhibition “relook” at the “often overlooked aspects” of museum practice?

In MAP’s current exhibition, In Celestial Company, the focus is “less on deities and more on their grand processions of divine helpers, wondrous animals, and mythical beings and their fascinating stories” — a continuation of their curatorial project of “bringing the marginal facets of the world to the centre.”

The empire of the beta

In one of the third-floor galleries, we enter a warmly lit space piped with the subtle strains of Carnatic music. A prabhavali, or ornamental archway, immediately invites us to pay attention to elements we might otherwise fail to notice. Often ignored for the dazzling deity it corrals and cordons off, here, the distraction of devotion removed, we observe the prabhavali itself. We see the wood intricately carved into floral motifs and chiselled into two fierce simha-yalis, or lion-headed guardian spirits; we catch the shimmer of tile-and-mirror work, teardrop-shaped and colourful, embedded like gems into a blossoming creeper.

Just past the prabhavali, we’re swept up into a parade of fantastical creatures, the entourages of our deities across materials and mediums spanning sculpture, textile, painting, and print. We first encounter a half-man, half-bird figure on a silk-and-velvet panel — a representation of Gabriel, the divine messenger. Priya helpfully tells us that “across cultures, an angelic figure plays the role of a sutradhar or narrator”; they seemed to have tasked him with the same responsibility even at this show. Suddenly, more winged creatures, ensconced in various corners of the exhibition, reveal themselves.

There’s Garuda, a half-man, half-eagle figure, the vahana (vehicle) of Vishnu. We spot him in three pages of miniature paintings from the Jaipur school. Against the pink-tinted skies of the desert, his green body and multi-coloured wings stand out. Miniature paintings can be read like comic books, except instead of jumping timelines between frames, here, all of the action happens within a single frame. For example, in one of the miniatures, we first see a sage and his family stepping into Garuda’s open, cavernous mouth, ready to be consumed. We see them again, walking in the background and then into the emptying village, against the tide of fleeing villagers. This recurring motif of the sage and his family speaks of the myth of Garuda sparing a brahmin and his lot while consuming the entire village of Nishada to satisfy his burning hunger.

We find ourselves standing in front of a prominent wooden sculpture: Garuda is on bended knee, a cobra draped across his shoulders. Anglised angels draped in Indian textiles hold up round, metal plaques embellished with Murugan, seated upon his peacock vehicle, Paravani, and flanked by his consorts, Devasena and Valli. Another pair of winged creatures, more cherubic and sculpted mid-flight, is pinned to the walls.

Yin and gang

While deities are always perfectly poised to telegraph their divinity to us, the members of their posse don’t subscribe to these finite, restrictive moulds. Instead, they are garrulous, gaudy, and just a little off-kilter.

We pause in front of a trio of wooden sculptures: Mooshika, Nandikeshvara, and Paravani, placed in front of a large kalamkari temple hanging depicting five gods and their vahanas. These sculptures – used to carry the deity during temple processions – seem to have burst out of the textile artwork. Ganesha’s carrier, Mooshika, complete with a platform for his lord, is ornate but ferocious, his teeth bared; Shiva’s ride, Nandikeshvara, is on one knee, gracefully humanoid with his bull’s head and four arms; and the peacock seat of Murugan is vibrantly coloured, his sharp talons holding down a snake.

Then there is the display of ganas, Shiva’s wild, dancing, singing attendants. Their bodies are more relatable — rounder, softer. Across the room, in a softly illuminated corner, we meet the personifications of forgotten deities. A pair of framed paper stencils depicts Chandra, the moon god, on his chariot, drawn by a swift antelope; and Surya, the sun god, his chariot steered by Aruna and his seven galloping horses. We come face to face with a kalam patua of Dhumavati, the smoky one, the goddess of the inauspicious and the repulsive. Unlike other goddesses, she isn’t coiffeured, styled, or drenched in jewels. She’s blue-skinned and bare, her hair flying in the wind as she rides in a horseless chariot, accompanied by a murder of crows. We stop at a stone sculpture of the serpent-tailed Ketu, a celestial being associated with karma, and learn that he chooses to travel on a vulture.

The curatorial choice to remove the main characters in In Celestial Company allows for another kind of interaction with these everyday, sacred materials — one filled with not just awe but also intrigue. In this exhibition, the ordinary is honoured as extraordinary, not to elevate status, but to make us more aware of the things that don’t hog the limelight. The next time you’re stuck in traffic, notice the tarpaulin-covered rathas, or temple chariots, waiting to be decorated near the Halasuru Police Station; the figures stored away under the Wheeler Road flyover; or the yalis (guardian spirits) popping out of old buildings in the Pete area.

The details: In Celestial Company runs till 18 January 2026 at the Axis Bank Gallery, Third Floor, Museum of Art & Photography, Kasturba Road. Tuesday–Friday, 10 am–6.30 pm; Saturday & Sunday, 10 am–7.30 pm. On Tuesdays: free entry to all exhibitions, all day. Book your tickets here.