I stand lifeless in the mercy of his dirty hands for a ray of life; those wet muddy hands with bulging veins and slight tremor is delicately carving my intricate features. The dust and dampness in the room is choking me. I feel cramped, tucked uncomfortably in the congested shed heavily covered with plastic sheets.
The unbearable stench of the overflowing garbage piled next to the room makes me retch. It has been raining non-stop for the last two days leaving the dingy lanes waterlogged. The moisture in the air is making the pygmy room even more gloomy and wet. The torrential rains have impacted the electricity supply in this area. Darkness has enveloped the shed, the only source of light is a hand lantern burning feebly with its oiled wicks gradually drying out.
His vision has blurred with age, but he meticulously uses his vivid imagination to mould me. His rib bones are sticking out of his skinny body, but his skill is virtually indomitable. He is plagued with challenges and dwelling in poor working conditions, but that doesn’t deter him from his responsibilities. He is a man of impetuous passion, his hours are unaccounted for. He usually stays up late and works relentlessly through the days only to bring the lifeless me to prominence.
Ushering of autumn, I will manifest in my divine form, permeating the universe to witness the grandeur. While you get busy celebrating my supreme existence with great fervour, my creator will stand long forgotten. He will bid goodbye to his creation with a heavy heart and moist eyes standing unnoticed in one corner. The festive frenzy will overpower the tireless efforts that has gone into putting a life in the clay.
While you offer me your prayers, I hope that each one of you will spare a thought for his artistry that has created an identity for this primordial cosmic energy. His recognition will come once we acknowledge and respect his craftsmanship which gave this lifeless clay a life; the life that you worship as your idol Goddess, Ma Durga.
(The note is a homage to the artisan potters of Kumartuli, the potters’ lane tucked in Kolkata.These artists weave magic with their artistic hands and imaginative minds. May their craftsmanship get due recognition and remain gloried for generations to come. The photographs were clicked at Kumartuli, after obtaining requisite permission from the association and with the artist's consent.)
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