You never know where you might land up when you start exploring the covered markets (locally called katras) opposite Jaipur’s City Palace. Comprising of lanes so narrow that two people standing shoulder to shoulder would cause a traffic jam, the katras are a mass of controlled chaos. That’s where I found myself last week, plunging every now and again into one of those many dark alleys that sprouted from both sides of the main katra like the roots of a plant on steroids. Shops selling lac jewellery in the most gorgeous hues kept drawing me in. No wonder then, that when I finally stumbled into the blinding sunlight, I had nary a clue to where I was.
I blinked several times, for I found myself facing mounds of shimmery green, pink, blue and red powders. And beyond, in a shop that looked like it had been there forever, lay mountains of rich, amber-coloured crystals. This shop sold raw material for lac jewellery — lac, colours, shimmer, stones, sequins etc. I’d emerged at the mouth of Maniharon ka Raasta in Tripolia Bazaar, where the famed lac jewellery of Jaipur is made.
The owner of the shop, Mohammad Iqbal, looked as old as his shop. I went in with alacrity, for the raw material of the bangles I’d been admiring looked really compelling. There were more grades of lac than I knew existed. The powders turned out to be pulverised seashells, in great demand for making bangles and valued for their beautiful natural lustre and sheen. Priced between Rs 6 and Rs 25 per 100 grams, these powders were the most expensive items in his shop. I gazed entranced at all the goodies, and Iqbal took it upon himself to broaden my education.
Lac was actually a sticky, resinous substance secreted by a family of plant-sucking insects. The word lac, he said, derives from the word lakh — for it takes that many insects to produce one pound of it. “Look at this piece of lac against the light,” said Iqbal, “it’s our best quality, and it is completely translucent, a beautiful shade of amber…” The lac he sold came from Madhya Pradesh and Bengal, brought to Jaipur by agents. “The finest lac,” said he, “costs as much as Rs 300 per kilo.” Pointing to another piece, more granular in texture, he said, “this is lower grade… See how opaque it is!” This was, said he, used to make most of the bangles I’d seen earlier. “The location of my shop is really good, for the bangle makers pass by when they go in,” said he.
However, lac doesn’t just find favour with Jaipur’s bangle makers: “Lac’s been used for the past 5,000 years for other purposes as well — in Ayurvedic medicines, as a dye and as an adhesive. What’s more, Rajasthani women used it to redden their lips in the olden days!” said he. Few people buy Ayurvedic medicine any more, cheaper chemical dyes have eroded the natural dye market and lipsticks have long replaced lac — but Iqbal’s shop has stayed exactly the way it was when his grandfather started it in the turn of the century. He still remembers how, as a child, he’d watch the jewellers in Maniharon ka Rasta make the most artistic replicas of traditional kundan and meena jewellery. “Much of that artistry is now lost, as popular tastes now veer towards more showy designs replete with sequins and mirrors,” he rued.
I left him in his old shop in that old labyrinth of a market, surrounded by things that wouldn’t have been out of place half a century ago. Maybe, I mused, I’d not just been lost, but had also stepped back in time to find old Mohammad Iqbal and his old curiosity shop.