Where gods take a form

August 22, 2014 09:44 pm | Updated August 23, 2014 01:02 pm IST - Chennai

DIMINISHING DEMAND Once profitable, idol-making isn't sought after anymore. Photo: R. Ragu

DIMINISHING DEMAND Once profitable, idol-making isn't sought after anymore. Photo: R. Ragu

The muddy entrance to Kosapet is hidden by multi-coloured Ganeshas covered in plastic sheets to protect them from the intermittent rains. Moving past these, a huge mound of sticky brown clay waits to be moulded into the likeness of the elephant-god. A lone sculptor sits amidst the mess, working clay into a mould with nimble fingers and getting it ready for the firing kiln.

Further inside, in a cramped little house, 42-year-old Karunakaran is in deep discussion with one of his customers. “Tell me how many of each size you need. I have to check if I have enough,” he says, as he wraps up a bright blue idol of Krishna in a newspaper and deftly ties it with a string. Once the details are sorted out, he gives instructions to an assistant who starts getting the order ready.

Waving a hand around the room, Karunakaran says, “My family has been in the business of clay sculpting for a long time. I was trying my hand even when I was a toddler. Once upon a time it was a very profitable field, I can’t say the same any more.”

A mere decade ago, large idols of deities were made right here in the heart of the city, he says. “With plaster of Paris, we could make statues as big as, or even bigger than, the ones you see lining the streets now. It would take about ten days each. After the (2004) ban on immersing statues made of toxic materials, we have had to shift to paper mache,” he recounts. But he has outsourced the making of paper mache idols to other artisans, mainly in Andhra Pradesh. “My costs increase as I have to pay for their labour and transport. But it’s the one time of the year I make money, so I have to increase the price for the customers.” It has also become harder to produce the smaller statues as environmental regulations have become stricter. Now, the kiln can be used only two days a week.

Apart from government policy, diminishing demand for the clay images has contributed to the crisis.

“People have to buy things like onion and tomato no matter how expensive they get. These statues are not a priority any more,” he says.

Seventy-year-old Shakunthala is one of Karunakaran’s regular customers and comes in to place a new order. She has been selling statues in the Mylapore area for close to 35 years now and has stories to share. “My mother used to have a shop before me and when she fell sick, she handed it over to me. Getting a small clay statue used to be a very exciting matter for everyone; now it is largely ignored or forgotten,” she says with a sigh, adding that a medium-sized statue that retailed for as little as Rs. 2 when she started selling them all those years ago, now costs Rs. 25. “Even for a bigger statue, if we quote Rs. 100, they ask us to give it for Rs. 25,” chimes in a young girl who helps Shakunthala.

“Last week, we had stocked up on Krishna statues. One lady wanted a very beautiful two feet tall statue, but her husband literally dragged her to their car telling her that it was a waste of money,” says Shakunthala, citing this as an example of what has deeply affected their livelihood.

Paint fumes waft down the staircase from the upper floor of Karunakaran’s workshop. Selvi and Devarani sit cross-legged amidst several pale white and brown Ganeshas, daubing bright paint — blue, green and pink — on the statues, chatting with each other as a Tamil soap runs ignored in the background. They are on the first floor to keep the figurines out of harm’s way till they are properly dried.

Devarani says, “My husband works. My children go to school. At one point of time, I had nothing to occupy my time with. So around 10 years ago, I started working here. We mould and paint statues throughout the year; first Krishna, then Ganeshas and  golu  dolls and later, manger scenes for Christmas.” She says that the number of statues they make has dwindled over the years. Selvi adds, “On the community level, people still build  pandals  and celebrate with a large statue. However, the festivals are not given as much importance at home these days.”

Karunakaran’s wife, Jayanthi, comes upstairs to check on their work. “This has been our life. Whether business is good or bad, it’s all we know. We can’t go on to do anything else,” she says, eyes misting over. Dabbing at her tears with a rag, she adds, “My son and daughter are in school. I make sure they study well even though my education is limited. Their father wants at least one of them to become an IAS officer. They will not follow in our footsteps and even if they want to, we will not allow it.”

The lone sculptor is still moulding statues at the entrance to the colony. A closer look reveals that he is quite young. “I’m 23 years old,” says Manikandan. “This has been my father’s job and his father’s before that. I want to ensure that our heritage does not die out. There’s still hope for our future.”

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