The anonymous master who had introduced the new genre in Indian miniature art was never heard from again.

The winter skies had grown darker than usual and the chill in the air more unbearable when Muhammad Bakhsh finished saying his maghrib prayers at the Wazir Khan mosque, and headed for his spot near the bathhouse with a white sheet and the carefully wrapped collection of miniatures tucked under his arm. He hung the sheet from the faience tile-work wall, and began stringing up the miniatures on it with hooks.

Images from the legends of Laila-Majnu, Heer-Ranjha, Sohni-Mahiwal, and Sassi-Punhoon; the iconic image of Khwaja Khizr standing over the great fish given out to sea-farers; wrestlers grappling; and animal studies slowly covered up the white background.

In the glow of his lamp the rich hues of the miniatures were already attracting the glances of passersby, but even for a rate of one and two paisas each, they found only two buyers in the first half hour. Belonging to the fifth generation of miniaturists successively associated with the Mughal and Sikh courts, Muhammad Bakhsh had been reduced to peddling his work in the streets. Lack of commissions from the late 19th century had been driving miniaturists into careers as lithographers for publishers in Lucknow, Delhi, and Lahore. Muhammad Bakhsh considered himself lucky that he had not been forced to exchange his sable hair brush for the wax crayon.

But if he considered it the End of Time for the miniaturists and their art, he was to find out that of the many blown out from their ateliers and workshops in the old cities, and into the streets or the abyss of anonymity, there was one who celebrated the moment as was deserved.

Hearing a burble from without Muhammad Bakhsh looked up and saw the men standing at the bathhouse entrance leave with hurried steps. Usually not one for spectacles, that day Muhammad Bakhsh was overtaken by curiosity.The crowd was gathered not too far, and Muhammad Bakhsh could hear a female voice speaking in a high register. “Watch the visions of heaven in hell. Witness the sinners and lechers in torment. Regard the comeuppance of the tyrants and those who were led astray.”

Remarking the unpleasant tone of the strange narration he was hearing for the first time, the miniaturist made his way into the crowd and reached the inner ring. A heavyset woman stood in the centre, making her narration before a painting of a woman being sawed apart by demons in hell. The painting was mounted on a thick bamboo staff and a young girl with an oil lamp illuminated it with the slow movements of her hand.

Muhammad Bakhsh was only vaguely conscious now of the words narrating the grotesque scene, and forgot even to think on the unique style and content of the relatively large miniature. A strange unease had slowly swept over him when he focused on the figure of the woman in the image. The painting kept changing as the narration progressed. In the next picture the same woman was shown surrounded by the flames of hell and demons were inflicting terrible tortures upon her. In the succeeding images clusters of naked bodies were being devoured by snakes and scorpions. Wolves, demons, hyenas and dragons filled up the background in all the paintings.

The narration ended, the young girl held out a copper bowl, and the ring broke. Muhammad Bakhsh quickly drew some money which he could ill afford to spend, and moved closer to have a better look at the image. As the woman bent to search in her satchel, he felt the paper between his thumb and index finger and looked closely. Drawn on the thick Sialkot paper, the image was framed with a wide border of red ochre. The colours were thickly applied and the hues had a strange glow. He could not figure out what pigment was used to give it its glow. The painting was unsigned and as he inspected the back for any clues as to the painter’s identity, it was snatched from his hands. He caught in the contemptuous smirk of the woman a pride that told him he would never learn the miniaturist’s identity. He now tried to guess the woman’s origins. She was not from Lahore. He thought she had come from Gujrat or Sahiwal.

As he moved back to join the next group he saw the new painting on display. “See how the faithful abide in heaven. Look at the dwellings of those bound for heaven. Regard the pious earning their reward.” Muhammad Bakhsh did not note that the tone of the narrator had softened. He was looking at the painting wherein men and women sat by the lakes and cavorted. Again his eyes focused on one image that recalled his past life.

On his way home Muhammad Bakhsh kept thinking about the woman in the paintings. He could not figure out why the painter had shown her both in hell and heaven. Before they disappeared without a trace he had the opportunity to view the minature cinema of Afterlife a number of times. But he never again glimpsed in those images the woman whose love had been both a bliss and torment to Muhammad Bakhsh in his youth. Nor indeed did the paintings depict the same woman.