If we take a close look at the current landscape of Indian art, it becomes evident that three distinct artistic traditions coexist. One of these is modern or contemporary art, whose origins lie deeply rooted in Western academic systems of art education. Concentrated largely in metropolitan centers, this contemporary art practice is fundamentally shaped by Western standards and definitions. In recent decades, however, a noticeable shift has emerged—this domain has begun to incorporate elements of Indian folk and tribal arts.
In my view, this inclusion is less an act of generosity by elite collectors and art-world gatekeepers, and more a compulsion. In the age of social media and the internet, it has become increasingly difficult to pass off imitation of Western styles as original expression, something that was relatively easier until the late 20th century. The rise of digital communication has also enabled folk and tribal art forms to gain wider global visibility. Yet, despite these changes, artists from these traditions still do not receive the same social recognition within major institutions as a select group of so-called contemporary artists—especially those favored by private galleries, curators, and urban critics.
With artist friend Vidhan Rahi at his studio
Alongside this elite sphere exists another vast and deeply rooted artistic community spread across the country. These artists are not only numerous but are also socially embedded within their local contexts. Most of them are self-taught, while some belong to hereditary lineages where artistic practices have been passed down through generations.
During my childhood in Munger, I witnessed such a vibrant local art ecosystem. These artists were institutions in themselves—you could commission anything from posters and banners to paintings and sculptures. In some places, even theatrical backdrops were hand-painted. One such figure I remember vividly was Chhakku Pandit of Moghal Bazaar, a sculptor and artist whose workshop I would pass by often. Watching him create idols and stage curtains sparked in me a quiet desire—to be able to create something similar someday.
Kuldeep ji
Another significant place was Bata Chowk, near the fort, where artists could be seen painting signboards, crafting banners, or cutting tin stencils for wall prints. Recently, when I met a young artist from Munger, Vidhan Rahi, I was delighted to learn that he belonged to the same artistic lineage. A few days ago, during a visit to Munger for a family engagement, I made it a priority to revisit those childhood memories. At Madhopur, where I had gone for an event, I waited eagerly to meet Vidhan. When he arrived, my first request was to visit the Durga Sthan workshop where his grandfather, Kuldeep Ji, had spent his life creating art. Though he is no longer alive, the space—decades later—retains much of its original character.
Of course, much has changed over time. Hand-painted posters, banners, and signboards have largely been replaced by digital prints. The use of tin stencils for wall advertisements has almost disappeared.
Studio
In our conversation, Vidhan shared insights about his grandfather. The tradition of installing Durga idols in Munger’s Shadipur area is quite old, which is why it is known as “Badi Durga Sthan.” In his youth, Kuldeep Ji would frequently visit the site, where idols were made annually by a sculptor from Bengal named Shambhu Pal. Kuldeep Ji, along with two companions, apprenticed under him and learned the intricacies of sculpture. One year, however, Shambhu Pal could not come due to unforeseen circumstances. With no means of communication available at the time, Kuldeep Ji was entrusted with the responsibility of creating the idol himself—for the first time—and he accomplished it successfully.
Studio
One would expect this achievement to bring him joy, but instead, he was deeply troubled, worried about his guru’s well-being. With only partial information, he set out for West Bengal to locate Shambhu Pal. Upon reaching his village and learning that his guru was safe, he finally found peace. The reason for Shambhu Pal’s absence, as it turned out, was a devastating flood that had struck his region that year.
This narrative raises an important question: why is it that artists like Kuldeep Ji, Chhakku Pandit, and Shambhu Pal—who have sustained the continuous flow of artistic traditions across generations—remain largely ignored by the mainstream art discourse? Why have writers, critics, and researchers in modern and contemporary Indian art overlooked these deeply rooted practices? Could this be a reflection of the old adage “ghar ka jogi jogra”—the tendency to undervalue what is closest to us?
At a time when the number of PhD scholars in art institutions across India is steadily increasing, I would urge emerging researchers to prioritize the documentation and study of such local artistic traditions. Only then can we ensure that future generations remain connected to these living, breathing legacies of Indian art.
