From the little I have read and the lot I have heard, I have had the utmost fascination for Tagore’s vision of integrating traditional crafts with mainstream livelihood potential. And now that I work with both craft and microfinance companies, I appreciate more deeply how complex the relationships are.
To think that Tagore, decades ago, had the vision to create a school of vocational guidance in Sriniketan (near Santiniketan) for students at his Visva Bharati University fills me with awe. Since childhood we have visited Sriniketan. Textiles, pottery, and paper-making were the mainstay of the vocational training, although I believe there were other crafts which were taught as well.
As I grew up, I was not content at looking at the selling outlet alone. Instead, I would go to the various workshops and where the sound of looms, the turning of the wheels and the smell of paper would transport me to a world of creativity.
The twenty years that I spent in Mumbai, left me little time to think of craft in general or Sriniketan in particular. However, I had heard from many that Sriniketan was no more what it used to be.
When I moved to Santiniketan for good I couldn’t wait to see what was happening at Sriniketan. I remember making the six kilometre journey by cycle rickshaw in great anticipation. But the sales outlet was a deep disappointment. The cupboards which lined the walls with their large glass sliding doors looked just as I remembered them, but they were near empty. Worse there were layers of dust on the counter and many of the products on display.
I had a chance to go back recently. It was mid-afternoon. We were passing by and I thought I must drop by the shop. I looked at my watch and assured myself that it would certainly be past lunchtime and I would find someone at the counter.
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As I walked in, I realised that the store had dwindled to only one cupboard. Only one of the many cupboards that lined the room had things in it. And much of the space behind the counters was taken up by old trunks stacked high.
I asked the price of a fabric that caught my eye through the sliding glass door of the wall cupboard. The gentleman behind the counter reluctantly came forward. He took out the material, inspected it and told me that he would have to consult the files for the price as “the person who mans the counter normally, is not here”.
I waited till he consulted some loose sheaves of paper and then found a pair of scissors to cut me the length I wanted. This transaction of course needed a lot of help from his colleague. Operation over, I asked for the bill. At which point they both disappeared. I waited patiently. A little while later a gentleman emerged, different from the one who had cut the fabric. He had what seemed like a packet of peanuts in his hand. He kept popping them in his mouth as he looked at me curiously. I asked (a little on edge by then) as to what had happened to the gentleman who was supposed to get the bill.
He said nothing but pointed to the door. Through the door one can see a large playing field. I saw the shop assistant furiously gesticulating to a man who was sitting watching a football match at the deeper end of the large field. I had a distinct feeling the man watching the match, who I presumed was supposed to know the intricacies of making the bill, was in no mood to interrupt what he was doing.
For the first time in my life I did not pay for the material I had asked to be cut. I left.