Most historians today agree that Emperor Akbar was dyslexic, and some art historians use this as a reason for his added interest in miniature painting. Not only did he make the artists of his atelier visualise fantastic scenes from the Hamzanama and the Ramayana because he could not read them, but made them paint real people and actual events as a form of historical recording. This is why the recently added illustrations in Rajasthan’s Std X history textbooks would have confused the third Mughal emperor. Akbar won the 16th-century Battle of Haldighati, but the Rajasthan Board of Secondary Education has decided to rewrite the outcome in favour of Maharana Pratap of Mewar. The textbook’s vivid depiction of a Mughal general being cut in half would have had Akbar, whose name literally means “the great”, rethink who he is and his purpose in life. His son Jahangir, on the other hand, was more cunning with respect to images.

Jahangir was an ardent connoisseur of art and some of the finest miniature paintings were made during his reign. One such celebrated example is the sketch of the dying Inayat Khan. The image, attributed to Hashim and dated circa 1618-19, depicts one of Jahangir’s severely ill attendants who was on his way to his hometown when the emperor ordered that the man be brought to court so that the royal artists could sketch his extraordinarily emaciated body. It’s a delicate yet powerful work of art that also throws light on Jahangir’s strange disposition. But, in the age of Photoshop, it’s another set of miniatures referred to as the “allegorical paintings” that have special relevance.

Jahangir was a weak ruler compared to his father and his ambitions of being the seizer of the world — that’s what his name literally translates to — were more symbolic than real. The allegorical paintings were a manifestation of this tendency. Take, for instance, the image of Jahangir embracing Shah Abbas, the Safavid king of Iran. Painted by Abu’l Hasan circa 1615, the image proclaims Jahangir’s superiority by depicting him as being larger and more opulently dressed, while the puny Shah Abbas cowers like a lamb. When the image was painted, Jahangir’s court was in disarray and Shah Abbas, a powerful ruler, was a few years away from usurping Kandahar from the Mughals. Moreover, the two men never met. Jahangir spent much time and resources making several such miniatures — one even shows the haloed ruler destroy the personification of poverty with his excellent skills in archery.

An image is like a factoid, when circulated widely enough it gains the status of truth. This is why men in power have used and continue to use visual art — be it hieroglyphs, painting or sculpture — for propaganda. But an image contains within it a paradox. On one level, we accept it as a piece of documentary evidence: this person existed and this event definitely took place. On another level, we recognise that an image — whether made by a human hand or the camera’s eye — is a construction and, hence, a half-truth. The image, then, remains a factoid; it carries within it its own grain of doubt. Why would the emperor’s atelier bother personifying poverty if the empire was indeed prosperous?

Our current Prime Minister’s Office and Press Information Bureau have much in common with Jahangir’s atelier. From the fake photograph of Prime Minister Narendra Modi conducting an aerial survey of flood-affected Chennai to daily Twitter posts where the PM’s valiant-looking portrait is pasted alongside some vague inspirational quote, we are bombarded with allegories and factoids. The charade is made further absurd by some of the PM’s supporters lending their own artistic flair to the cause. A recent “work of art” has Modi photoshopped on to an empty chair at the G20 Summit to make it seem that US President Donald Trump and Turkish President Recep Tayyib Erdogan are consulting him on some serious matter.

These images are so poorly constructed, both visually and in their logic, that they are countered within moments of their appearance on social media. Even when a large number of people buy into them, the images dematerialise before they can gain any lasting status as truth. What we are left with is a meaningless Photoshop repartee and no worthwhile visual data that could go on to be part of history.

As governmental bodies at the Centre and in BJP-ruled States hasten to wipe out the Mughals and other Muslim rulers from our history, it would help to know that visual cunning doesn’t always help. Akbar’s legacy is much bigger than the outcome of the Battle of Haldighati, while Jahangir for all his image-savviness was considered incompetent by the political emissaries who visited him.

Images tell the truth better than they lie.

(This new monthly column approaches broader social concerns through the prism of art)

Blessy Augustine is an art critic based in New Delhi

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