I had never been to Kumartuli before, the abode of our faith transformed into an art form practiced for generations there. The men from the local club, Dakshin Falguni, in Garia were organizing a pandal-puja at their locality and they had agreed to carry along with them an extremely curious student-reporter. There were a total of three four-wheelers making their way through the Eastern Bypass to the North Calcutta region. As the dust-laden grasses and leaves running by the Eastern Bypass gave way to more footpaths teeming with tales and cheap markets, I could hardly stop myself from feeling excited for Kumartuli.
With fairly normal traffic as on city roads for the Kolkata metropolis, Kumartuli is a 50-minute ride from Garia through Eastern Bypass. You could not drive a four-wheeler into the real place. The streets are narrow, flanked by the studios at the sides, and bustling with life plus laughing and chatting men. Keeping in tune with the cheerful aura of the place, our man Laxman Pal led us into his workshop where the idol was stationed, yet to be given the concluding touches. A man well into his middle ages, his face was rendered young on account of the childlike energy that it beamed with. With great enthusiasm did he switch on the little fan in the ceiling, barely fanning us, which is, yet, enough for the artisans. On being asked about the details of the process, Pal replied in a cheerful yet serious tone, "To know that, you must see the 'practicals'."
The foundation for the idols and their base setting or
kathamo is made of tall wooden planks, many of them circular, which Pal showed to me at one corner of the dark workshop. "These support the basic 'tacture' (structure)," he said. They have a special day for beginning this
kathamo. The ceremony of recounting the tale was performed with great solemnity and sincerity by Pal as he went on to tell me how, using the aforesaid wooden structures as support, they shape the figures with hay and mount them onto the wood. The hay structure is, thus, the deciding factor for the idols' final shape and appearance. This hay model, supported as stated before by the wooden structures, is then coated with a special sludge prepared with
doans mati and
tus (
dhan or wheat cotyledon). This, post drying, is followed by another coat of the nearby Ganga River's
bele mati. Pal says, "The Ganga's
bele mati tends to chip and crack." The model is then wrapped tightly with
nekra or cloth-rags in order to develop a smooth finish; otherwise, the "skin" feels dusty and uneven.
The faces of the idols and their
gahana or ornaments are made with the help of
chhanch. "But," says the man who takes the pains to educate us, "The fingers and the thumbs are to be shaped by us, without the help of
chhanch." The last part of this statement contained a distinct sense of fair pride. The artisans have little electric light after sunset and work largely by candlelight.
As far as paints are concerned, spray guns are increasingly used these days, much apart from the traditional mixes. Pal says, spray guns offer a quick and better look. "We need to be faster as demands mount every year," he says. The finer parts of the models such as the fingers are done with pencil-guns.
Idols take months to be finished. They require a lot of hard work and tenacity. But Kumartuli's artisans are deft and bear their love and skill in their genes and in their positive outlook towards work and towards pottery.
After some time spent in educating our urban minds, Laxman Pal's senior brother, Ramchandra Pal, comes out to meet us. He is well past his middle ages and lines of experience mark his face. He looks at my young self with a good-natured, all-knowing expression and allows my companion to photograph him without a change in his regular expression. He is the head of the family profession. His artworks are known to all in Kumartuli and her visitors.
Soon Laxman Pal is leading us through a narrower bylane, flanked by smaller studios, with tall living apartments above, wherein lay other idols. The Kartika was stationed at the last cabin, beyond which were the Kumartuli residences. Talking about paints, Pal suddenly stops at the door of the cabin and turns back with a solemn expression on his face. "The authorities have banned
seese (lead) to be used in our paints," he says. "But we have no substitute either!" He raises his voice and his eyes are passionate with emphasis on what he meant. "We need to run our families; this is our only way to earn. Our
purva-
purush (ancestors) have been using
seese since ages but they were not refused to." A wise man from our team ventured to remark in a soft tone, "But the ban has to be initiated by some generation, after all..." "Why us, then?" retorts Pal with full energy. Then we enter the room where sunlight almost does not stream in on account of the aforesaid apartments.
The Kartika idol for the visiting committee has its face wrapped in clean cloth. Pal removes it deftly to reveal beautiful
Bangali eyes. The
Bangali eyes have a specialty in this case. General idols have round eyes which take lesser time to be painted and are easier to as well. But
Bangali eyes, thickly and gracefully elongated at the corners, are tougher to make and more beautiful. "Have we kept your Kartika's face uncovered," Pal says, "people from other committees would have insisted that we do the same for them. But we cannot afford to do so for one and all so we keep the face covered." And, what do they reply on being questioned about the cloth? "Why, we say that it has broken its nose!" states Pal, his tone sparkling with sensible humour.
I go further on to the residents at the back of this row of small studios. Soma, 23, has watched her parents at this business right since childhood. "I sometimes do the
chokha (eyes)," she says humbly. "There! You got the right person to ask," exclaims Pal on watching us at our talk, "the womenfolk!"
On spotting an aged artisan, skillfully blending the oil with brown paints using a huge brush, I asked, "How long would you take to finish the lion that you are painting?"
"About an hour and a half," he replied briefly, without turning to look at me.
"And, how much for the Goddess Durga?"
"Four hours, atmost," he replied, still absorbed in his work.
For the models, males and females have separate
chhanch for their faces. But the image of the Narayana Devta employs the
chhanch of a female. The models are referred to as
putul or doll untill the day the
pujari or priest does the
pran prathishthaa.
Pran prathishthaa, translated, means invoking life. Laxman Pal is proud and happy to speak of the ancestral heritage quality of their art form. "We have inherited this business from our ancestors and our children grow up in this environment," he tells me. He dispenses a pearl of wisdom for his young learner, "A doctor's son has to study medicines before he can become a doctor like his father but our sons learn by watching their fathers at work."
"
Kumarer chhele-
ke kumar howar jonne porte lagena!" he smiles. (A potter's son need not study to become a potter). It is a gradual process, he says, and the child learns by watching and practicing.
To conclude from our association with Laxman Pal, artisans in Kumartuli have a natural love for and inclination towards idol-making and pottery. They are passionate about their art and know all about it. They earn by this means but above all is their stamina to propagate the family tradition.
Special images of fibre-glass material decked up with oil paints are also in vogue. Some artisans work for family celebrations as well. During this time of the year, Kumartuli is well invaded by tourists from Kolkata as well as abroad. One could see backpacks and cameras all around, European and American skin as often as the tanned Indian skin. Raphaele, French, finds Kumartuli "a very attractive place".
With North Calcutta as the backdrop, Kumartuli is well viewed at this time of the year or, better still, a couple of weeks or three earlier to enjoy the place in all its life and originality.
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