art of travel

Wandering Through Time at the Indian Museum’s Art Gallery

Miniatures, rebellions, and the quiet music of brushstrokes in the heart of Kolkata

by Kuntil Baruwa, Explorer, Destination Knowledge Centre

This was my first visit to the Art Gallery section of the Indian Museum in Kolkata, and it felt like I was stepping into a conversation that has been going on for centuries. Of stories told in line and colour. Of philosophies, rebellions, love affairs, and lullabies. And if you listen carefully, they have a lot to say—not just about Indian art, but about Kolkata itself.

The gallery itself had its quirks. Balding, middle-aged museum staff snoozed peacefully on plastic chairs in the corners, undisturbed by time or tourists. Meanwhile, the security personnel at the entrance were all sharp eyes and checklists—paranoid about compliance. It was a contrast that somehow felt very Kolkata—chaos and order, indifference and intensity, all coexisting under one colonial roof.

You see, this city wasn’t just a capital during the British Raj—it was a cultural crucible. Even my favourite poet, Mirza Ghalib—famously hard to please—once said: “Calcutta is the mirror of Hindustan.”

Take the Bengal School of Art, for example. Born right here in the early 20th century, it wasn’t just an art movement—it was a quiet rebellion. A group of artists, led by Abanindranath Tagore, who decided they had enough of mimicking the West. Instead, they dipped their brushes into Indian tradition, Persian styles, Buddhist frescoes, Japanese wash techniques, and their own lived realities. The result? Works that were gentle but defiant—paintings that didn’t shout, but lingered. They gave Indian art a new confidence. And in doing so, they gave Bengal one of its proudest intellectual legacies.

And then there were the older rooms—home to the miniature paintings, where you could lose hours without realising. You are surrounded by centuries of meticulous brushwork—jewelled little windows into different worlds.

There is the Mughal school—refined, imperial, full of realism and grandeur. Court scenes, battles, lovers in pavilions under starry skies. Persian influence meets political power here, and every detail is rendered with such care, it draws you in like a secret. In one painting, I found something unexpected: Emperor Akbar, known for his syncretic spirituality, depicted worshipping the sun. A moment of quiet reverence that somehow made the grandeur more human.

Then there is the Rajput school—bold, bright, and utterly unapologetic. These were made for the princely states of Rajasthan. The colours leap out at you—saffron, vermilion, peacock green—and the themes are often epic: Krishna’s divine play, heroic battles, stormy monsoons. It’s as if the desert kingdoms painted their inner worlds in defiance of the arid land outside.

The Pahari miniatures, from the hills of Himachal and Jammu, are softer—lyrical and romantic. There is a kind of musicality to them. Delicate lines, flowing forms, Radha and Krishna in quiet glances or coy gestures. They feel like visual poetry set to the music of the flute.

The Deccani school, from the courts of Bijapur, Golconda, and Hyderabad in south-central India— took me by surprise. Deep, saturated colours. Stylised figures. A kind of otherworldly mysticism. It was here that I stumbled across something that truly mesmerised me—a painting of Raag Megh Malhar. A man and woman entwined on a terrace, bow in hand, monsoon clouds rolling in above them like a celestial drumroll. It was part of the Ragamala series where each raga— melodic notes in Indian classical music—is personified. And even though there was no sound, I swear I could hear the music in the paintings. It was visual melody. I just stood there, rooted, as if they were humming to me in a language I didn’t know I knew.

That is the thing about Indian art—it is never just about what you see. It is about what you feel. What you remember. What you didn’t know you carried.

And in a city like Kolkata, where music and poetry spill onto the streets, where art is debated over tea in crumbling cafés, where rebellion and refinement walk hand in hand—it makes complete sense that a museum like this exists. It doesn’t just preserve art. It preserves imagination.

So, if you are ever here, do visit the Art Gallery of the Indian Museum. Let the miniatures pull you into their stillness. Let the Bengal School’s gentle rebellion remind you that art can be political without ever being loud. And if you see Ragini Megh Malhar again—framed against those thunderclouds—tell her I said hello.