Hope eludes lamp makers this festive season in Assam

As one walks down the narrow paths of Palpara in Mowatari village, within a kilometre of Chapar township in Dhubri, Assam, the sight of pottery drying under the sun catches the eye. Here, the earth is brought to life, moulded into beautiful lamps (clay lamps) and figures of deities, essential to religious celebrations. Yet, a closer look reveals a different reality—a world where tradition is not just an art but a struggle for survival.

At the neighbourhood’s entry point, the artisans’ dedication is evident in the intricate statues of goddesses crafted precisely. A simple glance might suggest a thriving craft village, but venturing further into the alleyways uncovers the profound hardships faced by the potters.

Tucked away in a shanty, amidst the stacks of freshly shaped clay lamps, lives Alo Pal, a class 6 student, who embodies the dichotomy of this world. She diligently dips the lamps into colour bowls and arranges them under the sun, displaying an elegance that belies her age. Her skill with the clay is apparent, yet her future remains uncertain.

“Don’t give up your studies, come what may,” I encouraged her as she worked. But it was not Alo who responded. A neighbour, standing nearby, interjected with a reality check: “She is Paran’s daughter. We are not sure if she can continue much further. Her father is indebted.” Alo’s mother, Kalyani Pal, remained silent, her hands busy dyeing the day’s batch of lamps.

The Pal family is characteristic of the pottery community’s plight. Paran Pal, Alo’s father, once laboured tirelessly alongside his wife in this age-old craft. However, the meagre income from pottery was not enough to sustain the family, pushing him to seek work in Kerala. Kalyani, now shouldering the responsibility alone, continues to craft up to 500 lamps a day. The process is labour-intensive: shaping the clay on the wheel, drying the lamps, dipping them in colour, drying them again, and then firing them in the kiln.

Despite the enormous effort, the real output after accounting for drying and imperfections is only around 200 lamps daily. These are sold at a rate of 1,000 lamps for Rs 500, a price that barely covers the cost of living. Room for savings or emergencies is far away.

“We don’t know any other profession,” Sumitra Pal, a fifty-year-old artisan, explains. “We don’t have any property except the narrow homestead.” This modest home, hemmed in by poverty, serves as a workshop and shelter.

The struggles of Sumitra’s family are compounded by illness. Sumitra’s husband, Dhiren Pal, a 62-year-old potter, has been suffering from filariasis for 20 years. His voice is weary, “We worked so hard all our lives, but we couldn’t make money. Now, I am unable to work.” For the last three years, he has just been surviving. “I haven’t money for treatment,” he admits, “we don’t have a child either.”

The process of pottery, deceptively simple in its appearance, involves various inputs and challenges. Suitable clay, sourced from Chirakuta 20 kilometres away, costs about Rs 3,000 per tractor load. Even the soil’s availability is threatened by rising costs and depleting resources.

The kiln, requiring a week of fuelwood to fire the clay, adds to the expenses. While some artisans have turned to cheaper alternatives like sawdust, the escalating prices of fuelwood have become a significant concern.

Yet, despite these struggles, the potters remain committed to their craft, even when it brings little financial reward. “Sawdust is a waste matter and cheaper,” an artisan remarks, voicing his concerns over the increasing scarcity and price of fuelwood.

But it’s not just about economics. For many, this craft represents the last link to a tradition passed down for generations.

However, tradition alone is not enough to sustain the families. Anna Pal, a widow with three children, represents another aspect of the community’s misfortune. Her husband, Bipul Pal, died young, leaving her with little more than a narrow two-room house and a few unpaid debts. With no insurance or savings, Anna struggles to keep her children in school.

Government schemes like the Pradhan Mantri Awas Yojana (PMAY), which offers housing for the poor, or low-cost latrine initiatives, have not reached her. “How is it all possible?” she asks, her voice laced with sarcasm as she gestures to her humble home.

Even among those who have sought a way out, the journey is difficult. Gayanath Pal, a 50-year-old former potter, has long recognized that pottery alone would not secure a future for his family. His efforts to get support for an alternative job turned futile.

Finally, he left the craft, leaving his wife to continue, and borrowed money from Bandhan Bank to start a business making muri (fried rice). “Now I earn more; once I can repay the loan, I shall be better off,” he says optimistically. Yet, Gayanath’s decision to keep his wife in pottery work is not just about preserving tradition—it is also about necessity.

Gayanath went a step further in connecting the community with voluntary organizations to sustain the tradition. He said, “I requested Anchalik Gram Unnayan Parishad, an Assam-based organisation with experience working with potter communities, to support us.” It is assessing the variables with the assurance of interventions, he added.

The community is small, with around 120 families, and their living space is shrinking due to a growing population and external factors. The railway line that cuts through the colony displaced many, taking up a significant portion of what was once their space.

Compounding the problem is the threat of annual floods, as the small canal near the colony connects to the Brahmaputra River. When the river swells, as it does each year, the potters’ homes are often inundated up to the waist, damaging whatever little they own.

“This year, the village reeled under high floods,” recounts Parimal, an artisan who makes flower pots that sell for just Rs 15 each. “We didn’t get any help except a single day’s government ration. It’s nominal.”

The challenges extend beyond economic instability and environmental threats. There is a glaring absence of any state-led efforts to uplift the community or develop the craft. Despite pottery being an integral part of Assamese culture and the traditional work of Mowatari’s potters holding historical significance, the families have not received the necessary equipment or support from authorities.

Even though many hands, including children, contribute to the family earnings, the community remains ensnared in poverty. Yet, the potters continue their craft with patience and resilience, embodying a quiet determination that has kept the tradition alive through generations.

There is a certain irony in how the lamps they create light up festivals and worship ceremonies across the state while the creators themselves dwell in darkness. The lamps illuminate the faces of gods and goddesses in temples and homes, yet those deities seem indifferent to the plight of the artisans who shaped them.

The potters of Mowatari represent the intersection of tradition, poverty, and resilience. Their hands shape the earth into objects of beauty, yet their lives remain unshaped by the progress that has bypassed them. As the lamps they create light up the homes of many, one can only hope that some light may finally find its way back to the potters’ own homes.

Need for skill development training:

These traditionally inspired artisans can be provided skill development courses to help them produce market-oriented products faster. Such programs may serve two distinct objectives: the artisans will earn more, and the art will remain alive, attracting the new generation with the prospect of a good income.

Also Read: Drugs are destroying youths in lower Assam, but locals are now fighting back