They are the figures behind the figures. A vast portion of the humans thatmake up the population of our country remain as dimly glimpsed figures,encroaching only briefly upon our consciousness. We may be travelling to work,and there on the cycle in front is the small bobbing figure of a girl withtightly ribboned plaits. This tiny child is going to school, hanging on for dearlife to her father in front, and the flowers in her hair briefly bring her tonotice, before we move on.
The muscles rippling under skin gleaming with sweat, on the backs of menpulling carts or driving rickshaws may or may not be noticed by us. Ditto thefruit sellers with heavy baskets on their heads, thin varicose veined legs, andthick glasses that are askew. When there is an abundance of poverty around us,it is hard to tell one poor person from another.
And yet Sitaram Raghuvanshi from near the Bijli Ghar in Agra is differentfrom Azmath Khan of Nampalli, Hyderabad, who is in turn different from KripalSaini from Meerut. All these men make and sell toys for a living – toys out ofpaper and cardboard, sticks and glue, paint and string. All of them are justmanaging to survive. But learning about them as individuals uncovers a world ofinvention, versatility, and ultimately self respect.
Since February 2000, I havebeen working on a documentation project for the India Foundation for the Arts.IFA is based in Bangalore, and gives grants towards work on differentcollaborative and research projects in the arts. As part of my particularproject, I have been to several cities like Agra, Calcutta, Hyderabad andVaranasi to meet with toymakers for whom art, craftsmanship and enterprise areall rolled into a single vocation.
For years the sight of these men, and sometimes women, solitary islands inwhirling currents of urban humans, used to fascinate me. On the road leading toDadar station, close to the Chhabildas Hall, a man stood among the incrediblebustle of street shops selling underwear, bedsheets, plastic mugs, electronicgoods and other such stuff. He made a slight noise with his mouth, and had acloth bag hanging from his shoulder. With one hand, he held up a long bandagedstrip of cardboard. This strip was hinged in such a way, that it would displayflowers of coloured tissue paper on one opening, then flatten completely on thenext. The man kept opening and closing his creation, and in that mad bustle, afew like me bought some. The price? Rs. 2/-. This was 1979.
Opposite the Kothari market in Indore, the crowds are often dense, and in theevening light, it was a sight to see a hundred cardboard faces mounted on a tallstick, coming bobbing towards one among all the real faces. The tall stick is atoymakers’ staple form of transport, and the cardboard faces belonged to flatpuppets that moved their hands and legs when you pulled a string at the back. Ibought one and turned it over in my hands. The puppet was made of chart paperpasted on board. His cheerful face, and clothes painted with green and pink dyeattracted attention. His limbs were hinged with string, and he was mounted on astick that was attached to him with glue and newspaper. I parted with Rs. 10/-for him and marveled at both - his intricacy, and his fragility. He representedsomeone’s life.
As the years passed and I accumulated more such fragileobjects, sometimes losing them to the enthusiastic exertions of my children, Ireflected more and more about the people who made them. What hope had theyamidst the shiny new toys coming into the market? What made their makers chooseto do this, rather than a more functional or utilitarian road to survival? Wheredid they stand amongst the skills, strengths and survival tactics that werecommon to millions of Indians? What would become of them?
I was also growing up in some important ways during these years. In mychildhood and adolescence, I had often felt embarrassed by my mother’sattempts at crafts. She is a great bits-and-pieces person. Wood that thecarpenter had left behind, tin foil bottle caps, tablet foil, beads, brokenchina bits – it was all grist to her mill of strange looking objects, heldtogether by Fevicol. I longed for a truly artistic mother, not this muddledperson, whose crafts attempts kept her safe from all neighbourhood gossip, thekeeping up with the Joneses mentality, and other similar evils.
As an adult, Ihad occasion to visit the home of Laurie Baker for filming of a smalldocumentary being made about him. The celebrated architect is a gentle,humourous, lovable person. His endlessly inventive genius finds a lot ofexpression around his house. As I gazed upon things he had created out ofstyrofoam ( thermocol as most of us know it) which he could not bear to throwaway, I felt the stirring of recognition. I revisited my mother’s creations inmy mind, and saw them differently.
It had always been apparent to me that Indiansare great fabricators. When I was crossing the Narmada on a boat that my uncleassured me was fitted with an ancient Crompton Greaves motor that was actually apump, I was hardly surprised. Neither am I astonished by the tempos that plybetween Mathura and Vrindavan, which are started by a long tug on a nylon rope.Indians have a way of making things work long after they have crossed thelegitimate boundaries of existence. I do not see this as something to be ashamedof – as the ‘chalta hai’ mentality often derided and contrasted with thequest for perfection which has marked the development of civilisation in theWest. I see in it the durability of compromise, the necessary underside ofsurvival. What makes India survive through the aeons and upto the present? Isuspect it is the ability of vast numbers of her people to live by the skin oftheir teeth.
So personal growth for me meant a new respect for the assemblers andthe fabricators – for the people who put together the disparate elements oftheir lives and come up with a recognizable whole. The toymakers who create andsell ingenious and breakable toys are eminently representative of suchfabrication. They are, in a sense, India’s hope.
Samarooh was a colourfulcharacter much in the manner of the Pied Piper. He wore a bright scarf woundturban like around his head, and hanging down one side. His tall stick wasfestooned with toys of many colours – birds made of cloth stuffed with woodshavings and attached to rubber strings, balls made similarly, dolls made withscraps of coloured muslin, exercise book paper and rubber string, and goggles.These were two cardboard circles with red tinted plastic stretched over them.Rubber string enabled them to fit snugly over one’s head. I met him inAgalpura, near Varanasi, where there is the Shitala Devi temple. In the month ofApril, thousands had come for darshan of the goddess and a dip in the Ganga. AsSamarooh spoke to me, he was pestered by crowds of village children for asouvenir. He would take down the goggles, priced at Rs. 1/-, and hand them out.I remonstrated, ‘Aise paise bina liye hi de doge kya?’ (Are you going togive them away free?) and he replied, ‘Ab itne salon se yahan aa rahe hain. Inlogon se prem to ho hi jata hai. Ab paise ka kya sochen?’ ( I have been cominghere for so many years. One gets to love these people. Now how can I think aboutmoney?)I was being introduced to the way of love by a youth whom I may never seeagain.
Samarooh’s toys were very visibly rustic – part of the tradition oftoys sold at fairs and melas in villages all over India. I encountered moresophisticated creations in the cities – bow and arrows covered with shiny,coloured foil, accordion folded fish/snake/alligator which creeps forward on aclay pulley, kaleidoscopes with a neat, symmetrical finish. But the introductionhe gave me to the manner in which the toys are priced was further substantiatedat each encounter. "We can sell our paper trumpet for upto Rs. 5/" says AsifKhan of Hyderabad. "We decide the price according to how much the person canpay.
"Mohammed Tyab, also known as Shyam Lal, lives in an area of Varanasiwhich houses the silk weavers of the famous Benares sarees. The narrow streets,abysmal conditions, and dense population of this area is overwhelming to a firsttime visitor. Tyab’s two teenage sons, Gulab and Banarasi, take the toys tosell in the market mounted on the tall sticks. They also help in the making, asdoes Tyab’s wife Vasanta, and his three other children. I can see Tyab is acheerful, philosophical person, sitting on the floor of the roofless quadranglehe shares with a weaver as his working space. His twinkling eyes are rimmed withkajal. His teeth gleam up at me through the pan stains. "Khushnaseeb hain,khate hain, kamate hain" ( We are fortunate, we earn and we eat), he says,summing up his situation. "kisi cheez ki chinta nahin, haath mein hunar hai"(wedo not have to worry about anything, the skill is there in our hands). This isthe single strongest reason for most toymakers to choose this means to survival.They feel the skill is in their hands, and they are masters of themselves. "Apnakamana, apna khana", say Asif and his cousin Mohammed Khan.
'We do not have toworry about anyone nagging or scolding us," says Chandrakala wife of Suresh,who makes double windmills in Hyderabad. " Not like a job, where even if youfall sick and have to lie down, they will still expect you to turn up."Resourcesare meagre, and precious. Most toymakers, as well as balloon sellers, peanutvendors, rickshawmen and other self employed people, are dependent on dailyearnings to plough back into their trade. When seasons change, and there is nodemand for their toys, they have to think of other ways. " In summers, we makethese toys. In winters we sell gas balloons. In the monsoons, we drive autos",says Rakesh, Suresh’s eldest son. "For four months in the rains, we go toFaizabad, where we have a little land", says Gulab Mohammed. Kripal Saini ofMeerut makes giant trumpets with a fearsome sound out of spinning mill cardboardyarn holders and balloons. He tours with merry-go-round men at fairs all acrossU.P, living in tents in a large group. "When the season of melas is windingdown, I sell plastic wind up toys for Rs. 15/ I buy these at the wholesalemarket in Delhi.
"Reliance on agencies other than family members, friends, orGod as ultimate provider, is almost unknown. When the chips are down, onereaches for others in a similar plight to one’s own. Although this seemsfutile, it is what works. "At Lumbini Park, we are a community – the icecream and chivda vendors, we balloon sellers, the coconut water man – we eatand drink together, and if one is unable to attend to his duties, others take itup. A lot of give and take, borrowing and lending goes on in our lives. Wesupport each other." Shaik Baba, Lumbini Park balloon seller and my guidearound Hyderabad, describes this network of helpers. "Madad hai to uparwale ki"(If there is help, it is only from God), says Mohammed Tyab, and his sentimentsecho among the rest. "Unu hai to apan hai, unu nahin to apan nahin" (If Heis there we are there, if He isn’t we are not) , says Chandrakala. At everyplace I visit, I bring up the topic of outside help, what if the government waswilling to help in selling, and setting up a permanent shop for these toys? Thereactions are mixed. " Getting payment from the government is a long drawnprocess" says Tushar Ball of Calcutta. "Selling on the streets directlymakes better sense". Ajay, who learnt to make toys and wind jute rope from histalented father Mukandilal, who is no more, says in Agra, " If anyone offershelp, they will have high expectations too. It will become like a duty. Rightnow we have the freedom to work or not work, then we will not have even that."At several places, loans have been promised by local MLAs, or offered by a bank,but never have these come through.
Apart from all the visible elements ofdeprivation and struggle, the stories of the toymakers are also about genius andcreativity. The leading figure here is undoubtedly Iran Ali Mulla who sells histoys to wholesalers in Canning Street Calcutta. This 28 year old has beenexperimenting with different toys since he was eleven or twelve years old. Hebuilt a flute out of snail shells – making holes, filling them up with mud,trying out different notes. He made another rattle to perfectly imitate thesound of a field full of singing frogs. These are sold in packets by the dozentoday. He modified a village rattle with a turbine like creation made withplastic X-ray film to produce a terrific sound. His genius is the impetus formany others in his family to be involved in making the toys he designs. Totally,fourteen people are sustained by the efforts of this single toymaker. "I amat God's mercy. He is looking after me. Hope he makes life better", he says.
Sitaram Raghuvanshi is a toymaker in the old fashioned mould. His fathersold toys for sheer enjoyment. He was otherwise occupied as a guard at the Agrafort. Sitaram walks surrounded by a crowd of eager children. He has difficultywith accounts, often scratching his head. When he describes himself, it is as aloving person. This, he seems to think, is his most important quality. When hisfirst wife died, and his second left him, without any children, he washeartbroken, he tells me. "How could it be, that I with such a loving heart,should leave no trace in this world? I married the third time, against thewishes of everybody, and have a sweet little daughter now". My eyes fill, andI nod. It is not that his story is particularly sad, just that he has touchedthe most fundamental chord in me – is it possible, that for all the love Ihave for this world, I should pass without a trace?
Changing conditions press inon my toymaker friends. Even the humble materials they use for their creations,are becoming costlier every day, and the people willing to pay higher prices forhandmade toys are not to be found. Their selling points in crowded market placesmake them vulnerable to zealous law makers. Their skills seem pathetic andpitiful when placed against a vision of a gleaming, developed India. They do notfall into any recognised category of craftsmen who are eligible to receiveassistance, and their children run the risk of continuing to be sucked into thespiral of poverty and subsistence because of a lack of marketable skills.
Quick intellectual analysis of these problems and the offering of solutionsis beyond me at this stage of my work. I am inclined to blame the creepingcompassion of approaching middle age which makes it impossible to find comfortin judgemental conclusions. The problems of the toymakers can be perceived ascommon to daily wage earners of many hues in our cities – dusty hairedlabourers working on construction sites, vegetable vendors with a small pile ofbrinjals in front of them on a scrap of gunny cloth, cycle repair shops with asingle tube and pump advertising their trade.
And yet, I feel cheered by what Ihave seen. I have seen evidence of sharing meagre resources. I have seen careand consideration being shown towards one’s fellow countrymen. I have seen aninventive streak that soars above circumstances, to reveal itself in unexpected,colourful ways. When I think about India and Indians, these are the qualities Iwant to remember.
Sustained interaction with the toymakers has helped crossanother hurdle – the limitations imposed by family becoming a kind of frozenhorror. Just as I saw myself in Sitaram, I checked on seeing an emaciated figureon a cot leading to St.John’s Mill lane in Agra. The man may have been anyone,but for just a second, an infinitesimal second, those bones made me think of myfather. I recognised the disease, which like death, knows no boundaries. I wasforced to break boundaries again and again, between self, and other.
Perhaps thatbrings me to the single most important question concerning the poor that hascome out of my work. The question of love. How much can we be said to love ourcountry, if we do not love our countrymen? How do we express our love, even ifwe feel it? What does life demand we do for others, that we are not alreadydoing for ourselves? Let us look again at the vast numbers of the poor amongstus. Let us see them, not as victims of rapacious politicians, not as drains onthe national economy, not as unsightly reminders of mortality. Let us see themas ourselves.
