Poison in the air, the earth, the water. Poisoned mind, body, psyche, society. I relocate the mythological figure of Neelkanth, the blue-throated god who swallows poison, in the Indian metropolis, where the five elements – earth, fire, water, air, ether – and the homologous five senses – smell, sight, taste, touch, hearing – are in a state of toxicity.

Entering the field of the installation is like walking into a mythical city, looking down on hundreds of gleaming, reflecting, miniature skyscraper-like towers. These are made of lengths of extruded aluminium commonly used by Delhi masons as a low-cost trowel. The top of each tower carries an illuminated photograph of one of the five sense organs, transforming the cityscape into a massive living organism. The towers are ordered into a series of triangles contained within a square, to create a mandala-like configuration. At each corner of the square the glow of a translite indicates a path leading to the centre. The centripetal geometry draws one towards the heart of the installation, where four paths converge at a video.

Initially mysterious, the blue video image slowly reveals itself to be a gigantic throat, convulsing with small involuntary movements. Both human and archetypal, its skin is inscribed with paint and projections. The video camera is used with restraint, almost like a still camera. The throat attempts to swallow whatever comes into it. Images of garbage appear, dissolve, morph in the throat; its effort and discomfort are palpable. Watching the ceaseless struggle from above is a visceral experience as, despite brief moments of respite, the loop enacts the continuous effort to contain and possibly digest poison. Mounds of waste, massive landfills of garbage, heap up in the translites. These backlit photographs, reminiscent in their sepia tones of the seductions of colonial landscape photography, play upon one of several binaries called up in the installation: fragmentation–order, beauty–degradation, poison–nectar.

The allegory is a reminder of alchemical principles: that opposites partake of each other; that poison judiciously used can be medicine; that nectar can turn into poison; and that, in turn, every poison contains the possibility of nectar.

For once, the legend goes, the gods and the demons decided to cooperate. Driven by greed and the desire for immortality, they began to churn the cosmic ocean, intending to force it to yield amrit(nectar), the elixir of immortal life. The giant serpent Vasuki, king of the nagas (snakes) was the rope. The gods held Vasuki’s tail, the demons his head. As they churned, a thunderous noise arose. Trees crashed against the revolving mountain. The enormous friction caused the water itself to burst into flames, killing all the animals. The resin of the trees, the sap of the plants, mixed with the waters of the ocean.

Though exhausted, they continued to churn. Then, from the teeming, seething whirlpool, wonders arose: the moon and the sun, the wish-fulfilling jewel, the cow of plenty and the goddess of luck. But no amrit. Desperate, the gods and demons churned with renewed vehemence. As the ocean heaved and spat, a terrible mass of poison emerged. Blazing with venomous fumes, it threatened to destroy all of creation. The gods realized that in their greed for immortality, they had generated Death. This poison was a concentrate of all the greed and suffering of the universe. Horrified, they cried out for help.

Shiva, aloof but watching, heard the gods. Moved by compassion, he opened his mouth and swallowed the flaming black mass. He contained the terrible poison in the vishuddhi chakra, the centre of purification which lies in the throat, from where the power of speech, the word, arises. The black poison did not harm Shiva, but left a dark blue stain. He became Neelkanth, the blue-throated one – the peacock-stain an ornament, as though a serpent had kissed his throat.

From ancient texts – the Mahabharata, Markandeya Purana, Skandha Purana – and popular contemporary retellings of the myth of Neelkanth.