Evil for us, labour of love for them
Driving past a neighbourhood park, I catch a glimpse of the giant face of Ravana made of brown paper, laid flat on the grass to dry under the mild sun. Till this moment, I hadn’t realised Dussehra was so close.
In the evening, I take my daughter to the park who is fascinated to see the three-foot-long face of the demon king. “Once they are done with Ravana,” I tell her, “they’ll begin working on the effigies of his son and brother.” “What about the sister? They never set her on fire,” she asks. I smile in reply.
The other nine faces of Ravana are resting against a wall, waiting to be painted and adorned with jewellery. A team of four artistes is hard at work, making the frame with bamboo of different sizes. There is something fascinating about the way they work and our visits to the park turn into a daily ritual. I treat it as a lesson in art and hope to catch a few tricks to create a miniature version of Ravana at home for our private celebration.
However, as I watch the work in progress, I realise how complicated the process is, requiring finesse and skill that isn’t learnt overnight in an art class but handed down the generations by involving them into the practice at a tender age. These craftsmen probably belong to one such family that has been pursuing crafting effigies for generations.
Once the bamboo frame of the effigies is ready, the faces are covered with brown paper using the paper mache technique, while the structure of the bodies is covered with coloured sarees.
They work at a steady pace yet the eldest in the team wants to take no chances. “Finish off the crowns today and moustaches by tomorrow,” he reminds the rest.
There are finer details to be attended to, the bulging of the eyes to make them look all the more evil, the jewellery made of foil paper, and the fists that will hold the swords.
During the day, the craftsmen infuse life into the mythological characters and at night they sleep under the canopy in the park, guarding their handiwork.
Days pass quickly and Navratri begins. There’s a nip in the air. The park comes alive with fairy lights in the evening, adding to the festive feel. I set out for a post-dinner stroll in the park. The effigies are now secured with a tent around. I spot a worker sipping tea and contentedly staring at the effigies. “Bhaiya kahan se aaye ho (Where have you come from, brother?),” I enquire. “Saharanpur”. “Ab toh Dussehra dekh kar hi jaoge (So now you’ll see Dussehra before leaving?)”, I prod further. “Na. Pehle hi chale jayenge. Inko jalte huye kahan dekh paate hain (No, we’ll have to leave earlier, we don’t wait to see them in flames)!”
He covers the effigies with a sheet to protect them from the mist that is beginning to fall. We start walking back home, throwing one last glance. They may be painted demons and icons of evil for us but they’re a family tradition and a source of livelihood that turns into a labour of love for the artistes.
I TREAT IT AS A LESSON IN ART AND HOPE TO CATCH A FEW TRICKS TO CREATE A MINIATURE VERSION OF RAVANA