Geetanjali Krishna: A non-resident ... villager?

PEOPLE LIKE THEM

Prakash sits amidst large rolls of what looks like twine, fingers moving dexterously across the skeleton of a basket.

Within a matter of minutes, a pretty white basket begins to take shape.

Behind him, the radio is blaring out oh sexy lady and he hums along. "I love to listen to the radio when I come to Delhi, the songs on FM have such a good rhythm that I find I can weave faster!" he says, blissfully oblivious to what's actually playing. I ask where he's from, and he tells me all about his little village near Kanpur, where he and his sons till their ancestral land.

I watch him complete the basket, and then ask how long he has been in Delhi. "The last three months," he replies, "in fact, I've missed the planting of the crop, several festivals and weddings.

But as soon as I complete this order in a couple of days, I'm going to head home!"

Prakash says he only travels out of the village when there are orders for baskets to be executed in Delhi and other cities: "I've worked in Kashmir, Assam, Kanpur and Delhi "" I go wherever my work takes me!" he says.

He picks up some more pieces of twine, crisscrossing them into a star to form the base of another basket. All the while, he tells me about his work. I realise that basket weaving is a lucrative job. Basket exports are booming in India, he says, and skilled basket weavers like him are in great demand for making samples and innovating with newer weaves.

"I also weave rattan baskets for the military under a contractor in Kanpur, which are so strong, they'd easily last 50 years, for which I get paid Rs 1,000 a day," he says, "and in Delhi, I earn pretty much the same." Even after giving a hefty cut to his contractors and accounting for the fact that he doesn't necessarily get regular work through the year, Prakash manages to make a fair amount of money from this cottage craft.

The radio is playing a hip-hop number now, and Prakash moves in time with the music, adding finishing touches to the basket he's making. It seems unusually pliable, I comment, watching him mould it expertly into a perfect round. "It is made of paper rope," he says, "none of the basket-makers in Delhi succeeded making these exactly as per the sample given, and that is why my contractor summoned me here from my village."

I ask him what he plans to do once this order is completed. "I'll just get a week in the village this time, then I've to return to Delhi for another order," he said ruefully, "my family is already scolding me, saying it's better I don't come at all!" In the course of the conversation, it transpires that Prakash actually spends so much time in Delhi that he has a room to stay here and a bicycle parked in front to move around in.

"So how much time do you get to spend in the village in one year?" I ask. He shrugs ruefully: "Don't ask! I try very hard, but don't manage to stay there for more than 45 days in the entire year ...."

"Yet when people ask you where you live, you give them your village address?" I ask in astonishment. "Of course," he says simply, "I might need to work for months on end in Delhi and other cities, but I'd hate to live anywhere else! The village is where I'd like to live, so that's the address I give!"