A test of mettle

Traditional Dokra artists of West Bengal are struggling to survive in a world of mass produce.

I looked on excitedly as Mangal Karmakar firmly, but cautiously, hammered away at the mould. As the covering fell away, the figurine of a horse emerged from within. Maybe, it will never find a place among the show windows of a crafts emporium, but to me, it was worth its weight in gold. My first attempt at making a ‘Dokra’ artefact.

On paper, the process seemed simple enough. But, in practice, it was exactly the opposite, as I found out during my visit to Bikna, a small village in the Bankura district of West Bengal, which specialises in the making of Dokra (or Dhokra). It is said to be one of the world’s oldest forms of metal casting.

Practised at many places in India, especially the tribal belt of central India, and appreciated for its intrinsic beauty, Dokra, like many other traditional art forms, is fighting a losing battle against machine-made goods.

It was during a discussion with Sudhir Karmakar, an artisan from the eponymous district headquarters, that I was inspired to try my hand at the art.

In the beginning, he used to make cow bells. But, as the demand for these bells declined, he began making figurines, including that of gods and animals. Today, a two-time state-level award winner, he also trains young children so that the art form does not die.

I contacted Bikna’s Dokra Hastajata Kutir Silpa Kalyan Samity, an artists’ cooperative, to know more about the art. According to some of them, the origin of Dokra art in Bikna goes back to a group of artists who arrived from Odisha and settled here. The families have a common surname, Karmakar.

Dokra artist Mangal Karmakar from Bikna agreed to teach me the art. However, he warned: “It takes years to set one’s hands and attain perfection.”

Labour-intensive

We began by making a basic structure using mud, dried it in the sun and then applied mustard oil to soften it. It took me one whole day to accomplish what resembled a horse.

The following night, the structure seemed dry enough to start working with. Next, we used lac to create design patterns over the mould. After that, using heated wax, we created the appendages, such as ears, nose and the tail of the horse.

Then we covered the horse with two layers of mud — plain and sea mud — leaving a gap between the two layers to pour molten brass.

It was almost dawn by the time we were done. I helped Mangal shut down the workshop and decided to take some rest.

The following morning, I arrived early at the workshop. We spent the first half of the day melting locally bought brass in a furnace. The brass was then poured into the gap left in the mould and the gap sealed with mud.

This mould was placed in the furnace in a straight position. We waited for a yellowish flame to come out of a hole, the signal to remove the structure in a motion that leaves the horse upside-down.

It was an intricate step. It could either lead to wastage of raw material or a well-crafted brass horse. The entire mould was cooled off with water and then the mud covering chipped away.

The heat from the furnace was difficult to bear. So, after a wash and a drink of water, we sat down to polish the brass piece with the help of a machine.

Mangal had bought the machine for Rs 7,000 and was proud of it. As Mangal handed over the brass horse to me, I was delighted to have tried my hand at it.

Now, as I sit at home, thanks to the lockdown, I look at the Dokra horse for solace.

Did you know that the Bengal Dokra has also earned the prestigious Geographical Indication tag? I looked at the horse and worried afresh about the plight of the artisans in this pandemic.

TWF