Geetanjali Krishna: A lesson in adaptation

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Most of us take our craft tradition for granted, remembering it only when we need to buy a present in a hurry. In fact, now when I walk through Dilli Haat, I feel it's turned into one large gift shop "" where budget rules over artistry and Madhubani paintings compete with Bastar brass figurines to be sold.

Is that all bad? I don't think so. After all, crafts do need a market to survive. But what about crafts that don't really have a market, unsellable in their traditional form? I began thinking about this when I met Vijay Kumar, a stencil cutter from Mathura. All his life, he's cut intricate stencils known as sanjhis, with which temples in Mathura made rangolis (coloured patterns on the floor). Today, few temples adorn their floors thus, and there's hardly any market for Kumar's sanjhis.

But Kumar and his brother, also an accomplished sanjhi artist, have just not been willing to let their craft die, just because there's no market for it. "This craft goes back to the time of Lord Krishna," said Kumar, "Radha and her friends (gopis) used to decorate the front yards of their homes with these patterns to entice Lord Krishna." In his grandfather's time, Kumar said, rangolis were very intricate: "some required several stencils to fill in several colours into the design, making it very labour-intensive....but the end results used to be splendid!"

Kumar's passion for this age-old craft was palpable. His eyes fell on his scissors, sharp and pointy, gleaming in the sunlight. Almost of their own volition, his hands closed over them. Tiny bits of paper fell like confetti as we talked. Within a matter of minutes, he handed me a cutout of a bird, perfect in every detail. "I just can't help cutting up paper like this," he said, almost ruefully, "it's all I know." I noted with wonder that in parts, the paper left uncut was not even a quarter of an inch wide. Some of the designs I saw were so precise that I found it hard to believe that Kumar had done them freehand.

With the help of the Crafts Council, the brothers now apply their skills of paper cutting in the creation of screens (jaalis, as he calls them), lamps, wall hangings, wall stencils, cards and coasters. But even as they've (quite profitably, if I may add) adapted to modernity, the brothers have maintained their repertory of traditional motifs.

Ranging from depictions of scenes from Krishna's childhood and boyhood, to floral and geometric designs, the brothers use them effectively on their new product range. "My father in his time used to also make bindi stencils "" they were very popular and even today we have loyal customers who only adorn their foreheads with bindis made with our stencils!" he said proudly.

The fragile jaali he had recently completed ("It took me fifteen days, it was such hard work") fluttered in the breeze looking like even the slightest gust of wind would cause it to tear. In fact, just to ensure a longer life for some of his handiwork, Kumar now often uses plastic instead of paper. "They are delicate, which makes it all the more incredible that my family has preserved hundred-year-old sanjhis made by my great grandfather ...they should be in a museum but are too precious for us," he said.

Kumar is now teaching his craft to a few students, to ensure its continued survival. Walking out of Dilli Haat, I figured Kumar can teach us much more than how to put scissors to paper "" he can teach us the art of adaptation and that's something we all need, don't you agree?