national museum of humankind
Time, Culture, and Creation
Visiting the Manav Sangrahalaya also known as the National Museum of Humankind in Bhopal was a quiet revelation. It’s a vast, open museum—not just of human history, but of perspective. Walking through it, I was overwhelmed by how large the world really is. Not just in size, but in depth. There is so much to learn, so much to feel, so much life—before me and after me.
Sometimes I imagine returning there when I feel like my mind has plateaued—when I feel saturated with what I already know. That museum reminded me: there’s always more. More knowledge. More culture. More evolution. If we ever feel like we’ve seen it all, we need only remember how much came before us, and how much will continue after.
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At the entrance (The Sculpt Garden), we saw idols made from mud, clay, and marble—lying casually on the ground, as if unaware of their beauty. I couldn’t help but wonder: if a Westerner had seen this during colonisation, they would have taken it, priced it, and profited from it.
That’s what happened.
India was exploited because it was rich—not just in material, but in spirit. Our sculptures, our art, our ways of being—we never felt the urge to capitalise on them. Maybe because we find peace in simply being with what we have. We don’t always see the need to market our heritage, but perhaps we should. Not for greed—but so that artisans feel seen, and can thrive. Imagine if the people who made these beautiful pieces had been fairly compensated—not just with money, but with recognition. Maybe then they’d be able to keep creating more of what’s real.
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Another section (The Technology Garden) had traditional tools—machines that farmers used before electricity. Devices to extract sugarcane juice, to irrigate fields, to press oil, to make salt. All handmade. All genius.
I found myself longing for that world.
No phones. No shortcuts. Just being. Of course, life wasn’t easy then. But is it easy now? We say we’ve made life easier—but we’ve made it too easy. So easy that we no longer feel alive. Now, we press a button and expect everything instantly. But stress hasn’t gone away. In fact, it's only grown.
They may have struggled—but they were present. We’ve traded presence for convenience. And in that trade, something vital feels lost.
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The next section displayed tribal houses from across India. Each one reflected the geography, history, and spirit of the community that built it. The Tamil Nadu homes had triangular roofs and tiny doors. Dark and simple. Maybe they were made just for sleeping—maybe the people spent their days outside, living under the sun.
The houses from Gujarat had Madhubani paintings, while the ones in Maharashtra featured Warli art—stories painted on the walls by women using stick figures and symbols. In Manipur, homes had protective symbols in white over black walls, said to keep away evil spirits.
Each home told a story. Each roof, wall, and painting held something timeless. And it made me realise: we may forget the names of the people who lived there, but we remember what they created.
Maybe that’s what matters.
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Inside, there were masks, musical instruments, clothes, utensils—from all over the country. Each item shaped by the land and the life it supported. It hit me: there’s so much culture in India I’ve never seen. So many dances, so many rituals, so many lives I didn’t even know existed.
We get used to our tiny worlds. We forget to look up.
The masks were especially beautiful—handcrafted expressions used in performances across the northeast and south. It’s art like that which makes me want to keep discovering. To not get stuck in what I already know.
I saw the evolution of humans—from ape to man. But what struck me was this: even after all that evolution, we’re back to having a hunch. Not from climbing trees—but from hunching over screens. We’re still bending forward, just in a different way.
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In Bombay, I often feel cramped—physically and mentally. But walking through the Sangrahalaya, I remembered that there’s space. That land, air, and possibility still exist. That life isn’t meant to be lived from a chair.
We get too comfortable, and in that comfort we forget what else is possible.
This visit reminded me: I want to keep exploring. I want to see new things, even in my own city. I want to keep creating something worth remembering—not for fame, not for legacy—but because I can. Because what survives us isn’t our name. It’s what we made.
