Fatikroy’s clay artisans struggle with rising costs, shrinking demand and declining interest among youth as they work tirelessly to preserve the traditional craft of making Vishwakarma idols.
In Fatikroy, clay artisans work from dawn till night to prepare the divine craftsman for worship. But behind the colours of the festive season lies a less cheerful story — rising costs, shrinking demand and a younger generation turning away from an ancestral craft.
First comes the bamboo and straw. Then the clay.
Slowly, under a pair of practised hands, a human form begins to emerge. Fingers take shape, a face appears, the eyes acquire expression. Later will come the colours, the crown, the ornaments and all the little details that will transform an earthen figure into Vishwakarma — the divine architect and craftsman.
At Rajnagar Shakti Sangha area in Fatikroy, this transformation is taking place dozens of times over.
The workshops are crowded with idols in different stages of creation. Some remain bare clay, their rough surfaces still waiting for the artisan’s touch. Others have received their first coats of paint. A few stand almost complete, brightly coloured and ready to leave for Puja venues.
The smell of damp earth mingles with paint. Brushes, pieces of bamboo, straw and other materials lie scattered around. Hands stained with clay and colour move quickly from one idol to another.
There is little time for rest.
Vishwakarma Puja is drawing near.
For nearly two months, Suman Rudrapal has been preparing for these few crucial days. Around 70 Vishwakarma idols are taking shape at his workshop this year, and as the deadline approaches, he and his workers are putting in 10 to 12 hours a day.
Every idol has to be completed. Every order has to leave on time.
But ask Suman about business, and the excitement surrounding the festival quickly gives way to concern.
Clay costs more. Bamboo and straw cost more. Colours and decorative materials cost more. Hiring workers has become expensive as well.
The finished idol, however, cannot always be sold at a price reflecting those increases.
Demand has also declined, he says.
It is an equation increasingly familiar to traditional craftsmen: the cost of creating their work keeps rising, while the return from selling it remains stubbornly low.
For an outsider, an idol may be something purchased a day or two before the Puja and immersed after worship is over. For the artisan, it represents weeks of work — and skills acquired over years.
That distinction is becoming increasingly important.
Who will mould the clay tomorrow?
There was a time when the craft naturally passed from one generation to the next. A boy growing up in an idol-maker’s family would watch his elders at work, begin by helping with simple tasks and gradually learn how bamboo, straw and shapeless lumps of clay could be turned into gods and goddesses.
That chain is weakening.
Young people, the artisans say, are increasingly unwilling to enter the profession.
The reason is not difficult to understand. Idol-making demands patience, physical labour and long working hours. Income is seasonal and uncertain. And after weeks of painstaking work, there is no guarantee that the artisan will receive a price commensurate with his labour.
The shortage of workers is already being felt.
For Dinabandhu Rudrapal, the change is visible through the perspective of a lifetime.
He entered the profession when he was just 16.
Decades later, his hands are still at work.
Dinabandhu too is preparing around 70 Vishwakarma idols this season. Once they are finished and dispatched, however, there will be little opportunity to put away the brushes.
Durga Puja follows.
Another set of bamboo frames will rise. Straw will again be bound into human forms. Clay will again be moulded, dried and painted. Vishwakarma will make way for Durga and her children.
It is the annual rhythm by which generations of idol makers have lived.
But Dinabandhu says surviving on the craft is becoming increasingly difficult. Material costs have risen steadily, yet artisans struggle to secure a fair price for what they produce.
Around him stand the results of that labour — dozens of gods waiting to be born from clay.
An irony in clay
There is a poignant irony in the story of these craftsmen.
Vishwakarma is worshipped as the divine architect — patron of craftsmen, artisans, engineers, mechanics and those who work with tools and machines.
On Vishwakarma Puja, factories and workshops will be cleaned and decorated. Machines will be garlanded. Tools will be placed before the deity. Incense will burn and prayers will be offered for prosperity and success.
And at the centre of those celebrations will stand an idol made by hands such as Suman’s and Dinabandhu’s.
Yet the craftsmen who create the image of the divine craftsman are themselves worried about whether their craft can continue to provide them a livelihood.
It is a contradiction hidden behind the brightness of the festival.
Across Tripura, idol-making centres are now entering their busiest days. Vishwakarma idols will soon begin their journeys from artisans’ workshops to factories, garages, markets, shops and Puja pandals.
The rough clay will disappear beneath brilliant paint and decoration. The workshops will gradually empty.
And almost immediately, the artisans will begin again.
There will be new bamboo frames, new bundles of straw and fresh clay. This time, their hands will begin shaping the face of Goddess Durga.
For craftsmen like Suman and Dinabandhu, this is not merely festival preparation. It is a way of life inherited through generations.
But as costs rise, profits shrink and young hands move towards other occupations, an uncomfortable question hangs over these busy workshops:
When the present generation finally puts down its brushes, will there be another pair of hands waiting to pick them up?
| Also Read: A Never Ending Journey : Bijoy Hrangkhawl’s Autobiography – What we miss |
