She does not appear to have been a dancer, an identity that was imposed upon her at the time of her discovery in 1926. For us in modern times, she is an exceptional work of art, a testimony to the metallurgical skills of the Harappans, and an invaluable artefact that continues to be interpreted and reinterpreted, claimed and appropriated. Interestingly, during excavations in 2003-05, a potsherd with a graphic of a figure in a similar stance was discovered from Bhirrana, a Harappan site in Haryana. The significance of this posture for the Harappans is difficult to assess.
When Harappan artefacts were officially divided between India and Pakistan after Independence, the Dancing Girl came to India’s share while the ‘Bearded Priest’ went to Pakistan. As late as 2016, untenable claims for transfer of ownership of the Dancing Girl were being made by some misinformed agencies from across the border.
The Mohenjo-daro figurine belongs to an era before the formalisation of religious structures and sectarian categories. Yet, incredulously, there have been attempts to appropriate her identity as a Hindu goddess, a proto-Parvati of sorts belonging to Vedic cultures. One such attempt was evident in a published article in a reputed journal of Indian historical research as recently as 2016. Sadly, academic rigour and historical awareness are often sacrificed at the altar of ideological prejudice.
Although the Harappan script remains undeciphered, the iconography and context of numerous terracotta figurines offer useful insights into their function and ‘social lives’. Metal female figurines, by contrast, are rare. The fact that the Mohenjo-daro metal figurine is a rare example of a sculpture wrought with advanced metallurgical expertise speaks of her special significance for the Harappans.
Her enigmatic appeal has inspired Dhokra metal crafts-persons to create her likeness using their traditional knowledge. Her plaster replicas have been sold as souvenirs by the National Museum in New Delhi for long. Even school-going children recognise her familiar presence. Mercifully, the Dancing Girl has not as yet been axed out of history textbooks. Why then is she such an embarrassment in government quarters, in a country where voluptuous female sculptures are feted as an ancient aesthetic legacy? Two incidents would bear this out. In January 1997, a national newspaper carried an article by veteran art historian BN Goswamy, where he wrote about a pictorial diary that was hastily withdrawn by an embarrassed ‘Delhi sarkar’ because it carried an image of the ‘dancing girl of Mohenjo-daro’. His disappointment with the aesthetic poverty of the decision-makers is evident in his sarcasm about ‘clothing her’.
Ironically, at the International Museum Expo in New Delhi this May, a 5-feet tall Channapatna doll ‘inspired’ by the ‘dancing girl of the sindhu saraswati sabhyata’ was unveiled as the official mascot. This gaudily ‘clothed’, dolled-up version with pinkish flesh appears to have been more acceptable to her patriarchal patrons.
The self-assured sensuality of the tiny metal figurine from Mohenjo-daro does not conform to ideals of feminine beauty and etiquette from a later period. Rather, her attitude appears to cause discomfort in some influential quarters. Not unlike our sterling women wrestlers who have been fighting patriarchy valiantly in the past months.
From another world, almost unwittingly, Maya Angelou‘s verse comes to mind: ‘You may write me down in history; With your bitter, twisted lies;… Does my sassiness upset you?… Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave, I rise!’
The writer is professor of art history, Department of History, University of Delhi