The squelching of my shoes grows louder as I struggle to balance myself camera in one hand, umbrella in the other. The clouds sometimes drift apart to reveal the stony fingers of the mountains that guard the valley. I am in Likir, a village 56 km from Leh on the Leh-Kargil highway in the Sham Valley route. The village buzzes around the Likir monastery. Under the watchful eyes of the 75 ft tall statue of Maitreya Buddha, I walk along to meet Rigzin Namgyal and his father Lamchung Tsepail, the potters of Likir who still manage to make a living out of handmade pottery.
Namgyal is standing in the straw-spattered courtyard of his flat-roofed house with a broad smile. Inside his spacious kitchen, a smoking cup of tea and a plate full of papa — a brown lump made of cheese and barley — waits for me.
On the low dining table for two, typical in Ladakhi kitchens, the father and son proudly showcase all the pottery they have in stock: incense pots and lamps, teapots, water jugs and chang (an alcoholic beverage) makers.
“We were all potters in Likir once; the competition was real and tough. But now it’s only our family that continues this trade seriously. The competition waned and so did the demand,” says Tsepail. The family believes the craft came to Likir from Tibet.
Clay pottery of Likir
Following a legacy
“I was 15 when my father passed away, and I was forced to take up this trade to sustain our family,” says Tsepail, now 58. “I am happy that my son is taking forward the legacy and we are doing well as a team.”
Soil for the pots is collected from Likir village. Two parts of sand and water are mixed with one part of the soil to form clay. “The proportion differs depending on the function of the piece,” explains Namgyal. “If the pots are to be used as everyday utensils, then very little sand is mixed.” He takes me next to his studio where the pots take shape. It is a tiny, incomplete room with mud walls, a low ceiling, a door and a giant open window overlooking the valley.
Sitting among heaps of pots on their way to completion, Namgyal spins the potter’s wheel loaded with clay. As hands run deftly over the twirling shapeless lump, I can see an incense pot taking shape. It will be laid under the sun for two or three days. “In winter, when sunlight is scant, the process takes longer,” says Namgyal.
The kiln is rather simple. The pots are accumulated and smothered in dried dung. Grass, with soil still attached to the roots, is used to cover the dung. “The grass acts as an insulator and traps the heat long after the fire has burnt out,” explains Namgyal.
The fire stops at some time in the middle of the night, but the warmth trapped inside bakes the pots well into the dawn. To test the quality, the artisans submerge the pots in water: the faulty pots break, leaving only the ones fit to be sold.
Unfinished incense burners
Testing time
Namgyal grabs a stick, one end wrapped in animal skin. He dips this end in a concentrated liquid and softly stretches it over the body of a dried pot. The air is heavy with the smell of boiling sulphur. Sourced from the hot springs in Puga 225 km away, it is this sulphur that will give the pottery its distinctive colouring. Puga is a part of the Changthang plateau that wedges into Tibet, and the geothermal activity in this region makes it rich in sulphur deposits, locally known as tsale.
If the day is windy, the sulphur will lend a green colour, otherwise it will be bright red, says Tsepail, explaining how the pots will now be kept under a tin dome with small perforations to dry.
“However, the tradition of using sulphur to colour the pots is slowly dying. The demand is shifting towards earthenware coloured with simple wood polish,” says Tsepail with a sigh.
Their main clients are Ladakhi villagers. During festivals like Losar, sales soar. Now, Namgyal and his father also teach their craft to local and foreign students in their studio as part of workshops held by the Jammu and Kashmir directorate of handicrafts and NGOs like INTACH.
As I hold one of the pots in my hands, the simultaneous fragility and strength of the craft dawns on me.
The freelance writer gets a kick out of immersive travel and sinful desserts.
