I was ten years old, when I watched a basket weaver take thin strips of cane to braid together an exquisite cane basket. As he finished, he saw me watching and handed the basket over to me smiling. He had spent three hours meticulously working on it, and had just gifted it to me, a stranger watching him quietly, without an exchange of a word.
I gazed at the basket for days as it sat on my desk at home. He had so perfectly crafted something with his own two hands, and parted with it so graciously. It was the first time I had stopped to pay attention – and appreciate the making of a hand-made product. And noticed also for the first time, the person who made it. And I never stopped appreciating both since.
Over the coming two decades I came to work with craftsmen from across India – known and unknown, Masters of their crafts as well as novices beginning their journey with crafts. My obsession with the world of Handmade took me deep in to the villages of India, into the homes and workshops of artisans. I walked down remote villages and forgotten back-lanes to discover and learn from these artists who still used their hands to create masterpieces of beauty. I saw how they tirelessly worked from dawn to dusk, and lived in often over-crowded homes with small rooms and multiple members.
And yet, how generous and kind and large-hearted they were. How a Kashmiri shawl weaver, while fasting himself during the holy month of Ramadan, laid out a massive spread of food for me to eat, how a Kutch craftsman stopped his own work to rent a car and take me around from village to village so I could do my research work on the Kutch crafts without having to rent my own car. How a Soof embroidery artist messaged me devotedly week after week, to ask after my children and family, gifting me a bag of breathtaking beauty for no reason at all, that had taken his mother over a month to embroider.
How many of us would give away our hard work for nothing in return? How were these people so warm and gracious? How were they so talented yet so humble? How did they part with their labor of love so easily?
It was only by spending hours in their company, in their homes and studios, with their families, near their looms and workshops, sipping their chai and sharing their lunch, that I came to learn their stories. The challenges they faced. The losses they experienced.
The dreams and hopes they harbored in their hearts. And how many of them feared the future. With the world turning more and more towards cheaper, machine-made and mass-produced products, many of them were afraid of losing their livelihood, many had children who were beginning to leave their centuries-old crafts to seek better-paying opportunities in the city. Still others felt their crafts went unappreciated and misunderstood by customers who bargained for few extra rupees when they had spent days and weeks hunched over that single piece.
I realized how much the world needed to know their stories and learn what really went into the making of their crafts. How they needed to know that a Kani shawl took between eight months to a year to weave. How a Banarasi saree weaver lived in a single-room home, with his loom at the centre, and the family sleeping around it. How it took a miniature artist over eight years to perfect his craft and how there were absolutely no short-cuts (or chatGPT’s) to help speed up the process. How it was years of dedication, commitment and hope that kept them working on their crafts, when quitting could provide a quicker route to better money. And I saw also, how much they yearned for an educated customer, who bought, yes, but respected and appreciated their crafts even more.
In my own effort to educate and excite people on India’s diverse craft heritage, I organized multiple craft bazaars over the years, in India and Europe, that gave artisans an opportunity to sell their crafts directly to customers, and customers to learn from and buy directly from artisans. My recent Namaste France Crafts Bazaar held last July in Paris was one such effort, which saw 20 Master artists from across India showcase their products, to a delighted audience, comprised of both Indians living in France as well as the local French population.
I constantly seek such opportunities to partner with people and organizations who care for the arts and want to promote the Handmade cause. Living in San Francisco, surrounded by Indian faces, majority of whom only visit India once in a few years, I keep seeing endless possibilities to connect these artists with Indians of the Bay Area. Would they want to meet these Master artistes from their villages in their neighborhood?
As I write this piece, I notice my three-year old daughter playing innocently with a toy, who’s maker I know, who, similar to a basket-weaver of long ago, gifted it to her. And I imagine her growing up in a world different to mine. I imagine her growing up in a world that is entirely machine-made. I imagine her wearing a dress made by a machine, playing with a toy made by a machine, and eating food made by a machine. I imagine a world with many factories and no artists. And I feel an enormous sense of loss. For her. For myself. And for the world.
Next time you cross an artist working with their hands, stop and notice. Ask them a question or two about their craft. See what their hands are creating. Next time you catch yourself looking for a gift to give, buy something hand-made. Support an artist. Keep a hand-made world alive.
Or a day may come when we’ll find ourselves entirely starved for the touch of a human hand.
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