Geetanjali Krishna: Zen and the art of casting

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I held the intricate wax figurine of the mother goddess in my hands, transfixed with wonder. In an indeterminate colour, with bulbous eyes and a big belly, she wasn't exactly Miss Universe. But she was much more to me. Although the very nature of her existence had rendered her short-lived, she represented history. For she'd soon lend her form to metal, in a casting technique that's the oldest known to mankind.

Made by tribals in Orissa, Bihar, Madhya Pradesh and West Bengal, Dhokara is one of the few living crafts practiced today just as they were in the Bronze Age. No workshops, no heavy tools "" instead tribals use wax, resin and firewood from the forest, clay from the river bed and kilns that are little more than holes dug in the ground.

Coming out of my reverie, I realised the Dhokara craftsman Daman Singh was looking at me enquiringly. He couldn't understand why I was mooning over the wax figurine: "This isn't the final product, you know," he explained earnestly. This figurine, he said, was the first step of the laborious process of making Dhokara metalwork. I asked him to educate me about his craft.

"The wax figure in your hand has a small inner core of clay," said Singh. Different tribes make this inner core differently, some with a mixture of clay and dung, others with clay mixed with sand, or clay mixed with fine rice husk. Then, he added, they melt wax and push it through a sieve to make thin strands: "much like noodles," he laughed. These are then wrapped around the clay core. Details of the figure are worked out, and tiny loops and curves are made using the fingernails as the main tool.

"This wax figure is then coated with very smooth textured clay "" so smooth that it sets over even the smallest details of the figurine," said Singh. This is dried and fired in a pit furnace. The wax melts and flows out from an aperture in the clay mould. "We drain the wax carefully, re-using it again and again for this purpose," he explained. Molten brass, melted in the same primitive furnace, is then inserted through the same aperture. When the casing is broken, the Dhokara figure comes to life.

The entire process is long and labour-intensive. Unlike modern metal workers, Dhokara craftsmen have to create a fresh mould for every figure they make. "A six-inch piece could take more than ten hours of work to make," said Singh. Their earnings in comparison are very meagre, but Singh's not complaining. "If I'm lucky, I make Rs 2,000 a month, but I get to do as I please and live in the village of my forefathers instead of in the city," he said, buffing an elephant figure before handing it to me.

I held it in my hands, marvelling at its likeness to prehistoric cave paintings. "We've traditionally sold these in village fairs, markets and occasionally in metros," he said, "but people now want newer designs." He showed me ash trays, plates, Ganesha statues and other designs which he'd created specially for urban buyers. "This time, our jewellery has sold very well," he said, showing me earthy pendants, earrings and necklaces. "So, I'm going to develop more designs in this now!"

I realised that in many ways, someone who loved his craft and village roots and was content with his earnings, was pretty much an anachronism in the modern world. It seemed as if the creator too broke the mould after he made Daman Singh "" just like the Dhokara craftsman did with his own creations every day.