His Life Is Dedicated To Helping Unsung Craftspeople

Yet, when Roshan Kalapesi looks up from the morning paper, she looks every inch the kind old woman who trains simple impoverished artistes to sell their work at a good price. As a former president of the Crafts Council of India and currently as a patron of Paramparik Karigar, an association of craftspeople, she has had a long involvement with supposedly low-brow artistes from villages. For over three decades she has adopted generations of these craftsmen, saving them from slipping into total poverty. She collects funds to organise exhibitions where they sell lakhs of rupees worth of stuff, and teaches them how to price their goods. Fixing a price was necessary, for at one stage while some were simply not aware of the value of their craftsmanship, others were doubling the amount for the benefit of the stray whites who visited their exhibitions.

Kalapesi wonders at the arrogance displayed by our 'celebrated' painters. "It's Indian sculpture and other crafts which are synonymous with an Indian festival abroad that get sold, not Indian painters. But how our painters strut around! And everybody listens just because they can speak English." Despite being born into the cream of Indian society, she hasn't been consumed by the great upmarket lie. While the rich with a smattering of art are treated as oracles, her sweaty craftsmen are forever given the shove. "Many people in art courses go to the market, buy a pot, make a hole and put a candle in it and call it their work," she snorts.

She says all this only to point out that her craftsmen are denied respect and credit as they haven't learnt how to add an 'f' before art. "For their craft to be good, they need a good quality of life. Most of them don't have it. That's why their children choose not to continue the traditional craft, and thus the craft dies," she says. She may sound anachronistic, but quotes statistics to stress that ours is a nation of artistes, of craftspeople, and fears that we're making it a nation of clerks. As always, the biggest enemy is the government. There are many organisations like the Development Commission of Handicrafts, through which funds are channelised. But most of them are "either places where wives of politicians have a kitty party, or offices which buy sculptures by the kilo and paintings by the metre but do nothing for the craftsmen they're supposed to help." Realising the futility of her fight to change attitudes of the establishment, now a more practical approach has taken precedence.

It is in this context that her Paramparik Karigar is so important. Its active core, with full decision-making rights, is the-now around 1,000 strong-crafts community. Though Kalapesi had conceptualised Paramparik Karigar the day, sometime in the early '80s, when some artistes sought her help, it materialised only in the '90s. Now it's the most lucrative channel for craftspeople from all over the country. Kalapesi says that the happiest moment came after she suffered a stroke and was hospitalised in Calcutta. For three months she was cut off from her craftsmen and Paramparik Karigar. "But the work did not stop. I realised that now they don't need me. Now they can take care of themselves. Paramparik Karigar will continue after I'm gone."Kalapesi wonders at the arrogance displayed by our 'celebrated' painters. "It's Indian sculpture and other crafts which are synonymous with an Indian festival abroad that get sold, not Indian painters. But how our painters strut around! And everybody listens just because they can speak English." Despite being born into the cream of Indian society, she hasn't been consumed by the great upmarket lie. While the rich with a smattering of art are treated as oracles, her sweaty craftsmen are forever given the shove. "Many people in art courses go to the market, buy a pot, make a hole and put a candle in it and call it their work," she snorts.

She says all this only to point out that her craftsmen are denied respect and credit as they haven't learnt how to add an 'f' before art. "For their craft to be good, they need a good quality of life. Most of them don't have it. That's why their children choose not to continue the traditional craft, and thus the craft dies," she says. She may sound anachronistic, but quotes statistics to stress that ours is a nation of artistes, of craftspeople, and fears that we're making it a nation of clerks. As always, the biggest enemy is the government. There are many organisations like the Development Commission of Handicrafts, through which funds are channelised. But most of them are "either places where wives of politicians have a kitty party, or offices which buy sculptures by the kilo and paintings by the metre but do nothing for the craftsmen they're supposed to help." Realising the futility of her fight to change attitudes of the establishment, now a more practical approach has taken precedence.

It is in this context that her Paramparik Karigar is so important. Its active core, with full decision-making rights, is the-now around 1,000 strong-crafts community. Though Kalapesi had conceptualised Paramparik Karigar the day, sometime in the early '80s, when some artistes sought her help, it materialised only in the '90s. Now it's the most lucrative channel for craftspeople from all over the country. Kalapesi says that the happiest moment came after she suffered a stroke and was hospitalised in Calcutta. For three months she was cut off from her craftsmen and Paramparik Karigar. "But the work did not stop. I realised that now they don't need me. Now they can take care of themselves. Paramparik Karigar will continue after I'm gone."

Kalapesi wonders at the arrogance displayed by our 'celebrated' painters. "It's Indian sculpture and other crafts which are synonymous with an Indian festival abroad that get sold, not Indian painters. But how our painters strut around! And everybody listens just because they can speak English." Despite being born into the cream of Indian society, she hasn't been consumed by the great upmarket lie. While the rich with a smattering of art are treated as oracles, her sweaty craftsmen are forever given the shove. "Many people in art courses go to the market, buy a pot, make a hole and put a candle in it and call it their work," she snorts.

She says all this only to point out that her craftsmen are denied respect and credit as they haven't learnt how to add an 'f' before art. "For their craft to be good, they need a good quality of life. Most of them don't have it. That's why their children choose not to continue the traditional craft, and thus the craft dies," she says. She may sound anachronistic, but quotes statistics to stress that ours is a nation of artistes, of craftspeople, and fears that we're making it a nation of clerks. As always, the biggest enemy is the government. There are many organisations like the Development Commission of Handicrafts, through which funds are channelised. But most of them are "either places where wives of politicians have a kitty party, or offices which buy sculptures by the kilo and paintings by the metre but do nothing for the craftsmen they're supposed to help." Realising the futility of her fight to change attitudes of the establishment, now a more practical approach has taken precedence.

It is in this context that her Paramparik Karigar is so important. Its active core, with full decision-making rights, is the-now around 1,000 strong-crafts community. Though Kalapesi had conceptualised Paramparik Karigar the day, sometime in the early '80s, when some artistes sought her help, it materialised only in the '90s. Now it's the most lucrative channel for craftspeople from all over the country. Kalapesi says that the happiest moment came after she suffered a stroke and was hospitalised in Calcutta. For three months she was cut off from her craftsmen and Paramparik Karigar. "But the work did not stop. I realised that now they don't need me. Now they can take care of themselves. Paramparik Karigar will continue after I'm gone."

Kalapesi wonders at the arrogance displayed by our 'celebrated' painters. "It's Indian sculpture and other crafts which are synonymous with an Indian festival abroad that get sold, not Indian painters. But how our painters strut around! And everybody listens just because they can speak English." Despite being born into the cream of Indian society, she hasn't been consumed by the great upmarket lie. While the rich with a smattering of art are treated as oracles, her sweaty craftsmen are forever given the shove. "Many people in art courses go to the market, buy a pot, make a hole and put a candle in it and call it their work," she snorts.

She says all this only to point out that her craftsmen are denied respect and credit as they haven't learnt how to add an 'f' before art. "For their craft to be good, they need a good quality of life. Most of them don't have it. That's why their children choose not to continue the traditional craft, and thus the craft dies," she says. She may sound anachronistic, but quotes statistics to stress that ours is a nation of artistes, of craftspeople, and fears that we're making it a nation of clerks. As always, the biggest enemy is the government. There are many organisations like the Development Commission of Handicrafts, through which funds are channelised. But most of them are "either places where wives of politicians have a kitty party, or offices which buy sculptures by the kilo and paintings by the metre but do nothing for the craftsmen they're supposed to help." Realising the futility of her fight to change attitudes of the establishment, now a more practical approach has taken precedence.

It is in this context that her Paramparik Karigar is so important. Its active core, with full decision-making rights, is the-now around 1,000 strong-crafts community. Though Kalapesi had conceptualised Paramparik Karigar the day, sometime in the early '80s, when some artistes sought her help, it materialised only in the '90s. Now it's the most lucrative channel for craftspeople from all over the country. Kalapesi says that the happiest moment came after she suffered a stroke and was hospitalised in Calcutta. For three months she was cut off from her craftsmen and Paramparik Karigar. "But the work did not stop. I realised that now they don't need me. Now they can take care of themselves. Paramparik Karigar will continue after I'm gone."

Kalapesi wonders at the arrogance displayed by our 'celebrated' painters. "It's Indian sculpture and other crafts which are synonymous with an Indian festival abroad that get sold, not Indian painters. But how our painters strut around! And everybody listens just because they can speak English." Despite being born into the cream of Indian society, she hasn't been consumed by the great upmarket lie. While the rich with a smattering of art are treated as oracles, her sweaty craftsmen are forever given the shove. "Many people in art courses go to the market, buy a pot, make a hole and put a candle in it and call it their work," she snorts.

She says all this only to point out that her craftsmen are denied respect and credit as they haven't learnt how to add an 'f' before art. "For their craft to be good, they need a good quality of life. Most of them don't have it. That's why their children choose not to continue the traditional craft, and thus the craft dies," she says. She may sound anachronistic, but quotes statistics to stress that ours is a nation of artistes, of craftspeople, and fears that we're making it a nation of clerks. As always, the biggest enemy is the government. There are many organisations like the Development Commission of Handicrafts, through which funds are channelised. But most of them are "either places where wives of politicians have a kitty party, or offices which buy sculptures by the kilo and paintings by the metre but do nothing for the craftsmen they're supposed to help." Realising the futility of her fight to change attitudes of the establishment, now a more practical approach has taken precedence.

It is in this context that her Paramparik Karigar is so important. Its active core, with full decision-making rights, is the-now around 1,000 strong-crafts community. Though Kalapesi had conceptualised Paramparik Karigar the day, sometime in the early '80s, when some artistes sought her help, it materialised only in the '90s. Now it's the most lucrative channel for craftspeople from all over the country. Kalapesi says that the happiest moment came after she suffered a stroke and was hospitalised in Calcutta. For three months she was cut off from her craftsmen and Paramparik Karigar. "But the work did not stop. I realised that now they don't need me. Now they can take care of themselves. Paramparik Karigar will continue after I'm gone."

Kalapesi wonders at the arrogance displayed by our 'celebrated' painters. "It's Indian sculpture and other crafts which are synonymous with an Indian festival abroad that get sold, not Indian painters. But how our painters strut around! And everybody listens just because they can speak English. " Despite being born into the cream of Indian society, she hasn't been consumed by the great upmarket lie. While the rich with a smattering of art are treated as oracles, her sweaty craftsmen are forever given the shove. "Many people in art courses go to the market, buy a pot, make a hole and put a candle in it and call it their work," she snorts.

She says all this only to point out that her craftsmen are denied respect and credit as they haven't learnt how to add an 'f' before art. "For their craft to be good, they need a good quality of life. Most of them don't have it. That's why their children choose not to continue the traditional craft, and thus the craft dies," she says. She may sound anachronistic, but quotes statistics to stress that ours is a nation of artistes, of craftspeople, and fears that we're making it a nation of clerks. As always, the biggest enemy is the government. There are many organisations like the Development Commission of Handicrafts, through which funds are channelised. But most of them are "either places where wives of politicians have a kitty party, or offices which buy sculptures by the kilo and paintings by the metre but do nothing for the craftsmen they're supposed to help." Realising the futility of her fight to change attitudes of the establishment, now a more practical approach has taken precedence.

It is in this context that her Paramparik Karigar is so important. Its active core, with full decision-making rights, is the-now around 1,000 strong-crafts community. Though Kalapesi had conceptualised Paramparik Karigar the day, sometime in the early '80s, when some artistes sought her help, it materialised only in the '90s. Now it's the most lucrative channel for craftspeople from all over the country. Kalapesi says that the happiest moment came after she suffered a stroke and was hospitalised in Calcutta. For three months she was cut off from her craftsmen and Paramparik Karigar. "But the work did not stop. I realised that now they don't need me. Now they can take care of themselves. Paramparik Karigar will continue after I'm gone."

Kalapesi wonders at the arrogance displayed by our 'celebrated' painters. "It's Indian sculpture and other crafts which are synonymous with an Indian festival abroad that get sold, not Indian painters. But how our painters strut around! And everybody listens just because they can speak English." Despite being born into the cream of Indian society, she hasn't been consumed by the great upmarket lie. While the rich with a smattering of art are treated as oracles, her sweaty craftsmen are forever given the shove. "Many people in art courses go to the market, buy a pot, make a hole and put a candle in it and call it their work," she snorts.

She says all this only to point out that her craftsmen are denied respect and credit as they haven't learnt how to add an 'f' before art. "For their craft to be good, they need a good quality of life. Most of them don't have it. That's why their children choose not to continue the traditional craft, and thus the craft dies," she says. She may sound anachronistic, but quotes statistics to stress that ours is a nation of artistes, of craftspeople, and fears that we're making it a nation of clerks. As always, the biggest enemy is the government. There are many organisations like the Development Commission of Handicrafts, through which funds are channelised. But most of them are "either places where wives of politicians have a kitty party, or offices which buy sculptures by the kilo and paintings by the metre but do nothing for the craftsmen they're supposed to help.