When the Wheel Turned

She  was  sweeping  the floor  and carefully picked up any  clumps of clay that could be used again.  Clay was expensive now. While she cleaned the little verandah behind their hut where her husband worked,  Kamalamma  watched  his every move.  She had always loved watching the way a ball of wet slithering earth mutated into pots and jugs of different shapes  in a matter of minutes, guided by  his palms and fingers. Deliberately taking longer than she needed to, she covered the fresh stock of clay and filled the water pots.  When she couldn’t hang around any more without making her presence conspicuous, she went to the adjoining room and began to prepare the  mudde  and saaru  for the family.

Oblivious to Kamalammas comings and goings Muniappa  was busy  throwing softly kneaded clay on  the wheel, using the just the right amount of force.  As he spun the wheel,  he  pressed  the  clay  down  to  form  a  base  and then cupped his palms to shape a small bowl .   A string  he used  for cutting   was on the floor next to him. As the bowl  reached the  correct shape and size,  he quickly  picked up the string and expertly cut  the spinning clay in a flash. The intense concentration this needed was  etched  on his face as his  fingers deftly  pinched  a neat spout.  A diya was almost ready.  And  then  he began again. Deepavali  was around the corner and the Sahukar had placed an order for 3000 diyas in six different shapes. He would do only diyas all day today

At four o’ clock  in the evening   Muniappa  stopped  working on the wheel and  took a  break. Lighting a beedi he surveyed his days work.  At least  200 wet  diyas were lined up  near  the wheel.  The Deepavali  order  was his chance  to make a bit of money, as the last two years had been very hard, with  mounting expenses  and little income.  And the coming year  looked  hard too. He  would have to repay the loan taken for  his son’s  college fees  and raise money  for his daughters marriage.  He looked at the clock in the kitchen. Suresh would be home soon from college and together they would knead the clay for him to work on tomorrow.

“  Appa, can we start on the clay  quickly today? I have an exam  tomorrow . And there  are four more chapters of history, that I haven’t  revised  yet”, Suresh said  as he took off his worn out slippers and  walked in. 

“ Ok, magane.  Let’s  finish  our tea and  start  right away.” Muniappa   was determined that his son  should not be  a potter and  never encouraged  him to prioritise  their craft  over his studies.

Kamalamma  brought  them  their  tea . Saroja, their daughter,  also came in and sat down in the verandah. She  had just  bathed and her  long  hair was wrapped in a old faded towel.  As she  unwrapped her tresses and ran her fingers through them, Muniappa  watched  his daughter with  pride. Her chocolate coloured skin and delicate bone structure combined to give her an unconventional   beauty. He hoped he could find her a good match. She had finished high school last year.  By next Deepavalli , I  would like to see her married,  he thought as he walked towards  the kneading shed.

Saroja and Kamalamma had finished   breaking  the pre-soaked  clumps, sifting  the clay, pouring  water into the middle of this  mound  and had  kept  it ready for the men  to stamp and knead . Now mother and daughter  took  the wet  diyas  to the kiln and arranged them carefully  so they could be fired evenly.

While   working  the  clay with  their feet, Suresh looked  preoccupied  and tense.  Muniappa was immediately concerned. “ What’s  going on son ?  Something  bothering  you?”

“Don’t know, Appa .  Its all a bit  confusing.  I love our  craft, but  you seem to hate it. And you want me to  go away “ Suresh was stomping  with force, taking care not to slide and fall into the slush.

“ I don’t hate it son, I just hate  how  people treat us  because we work with mud. We  have  never been allowed to forget that we are the panchamas. I  don’t want  you to be humiliated and cheated , the way I have been. That’s  all.”

“ But Appa,  whether we work with mud or not, we can’t change  our caste.”

“ Yes, son. Pour some  more  water  here  and  knead  this  side  properly. Air bubbles are not good  for our work” Muniappa  said, with  slight agitation.” How do I convince you that being  a potter means we will always be called the  kumbharas. If you become a teacher or something like that,  at least your children can  be free of this shame”

“ I don’t know if I want to become  a teacher Appa.  And , I have heard that  there are now machines   which  can  do the kneading. Wheels which run on electricity are also available. We can  work faster and produce more. And I can stay here and look after you as you grow old.” Suresh was now panting and  could hear  Muniappas  heavy  breathing as well.  But the clay did not have the right texture as yet. “ You  have done  enough Appa.  Please  go and have  a bath. I will finish this job and come  soon.  We can then light the kiln together. ”

“ No! Stop telling me what to do” , he snapped.Suresh was a bit taken aback at the brusque tone. He looked down and just stared at the  mush around his feet.  When he looked up again, his father had disappeared. And then he smelt  the beedi  smoke wafting in.

 In a  couple of minutes Muniappa was  back.   He looked apologetically at Suresh and then looked away.  “ I  am  ok, son.  We   will  finish  it off sooner if we work together.  Besides, I have something more to say on this matter. Haven’t   you realised that today hardly anyone uses earthen pots to cook or store water? Roof tiles, chulas and  floor tiles  are all  produced  in factories  these days.  Flower pots are now made with cement or plastic. And  figurines are made with some white  plaster. So it looks as if our days are numbered.  The sooner we get out of this, the better.  After   your exams, please go to Mysore and look for a job.  No more discussion on this. Don’t forget, we need your earnings to get Saroja married.”

A week later Suresh was on a bus to Mysore.  Looking out of the window, he fought the tears that came. He was excited and yet anxious. He was especially worried about how his father would manage. From the advance given by the Sahukar,   Muniappa  had given him  a thousand rupees and  his blessings. Suresh had carefully folded the crumpled notes and kept them in a bag Saroja  had made for him. In the bag were addresses of   places where he could stay, given by one of his college mates .

Life  in Mysore  came as  a shock.  His teacher’s   cousin had arranged for a temporary job in a shoe godown, but every where Suresh went, he was asked  “ Where are you from? What is your  father’s name?” 

Once his caste became evident, people came up with different excuses not to give him a room. He finally found a place in a  Muslim  mohalla, where   people  from the  cobbler community lived. He sent word to his family that he was fine, though he hated the stuffy and claustrophobic places he had to live and work in. Suresh missed the family and working as part of the home team.  And he longed for the feel of cool clay licking his fingers. The joy of creating things with his hands and the clean air of his village all seemed so far away.

Back home, things had changed too. Muniappa  had slipped and fallen  while kneading  clay  just  three days after Suresh left. He was bed ridden for almost a week.  And he was in a foul mood. muttering  under his breath all day.  This was a real crisis. The Deepavalli order had to be delivered on time or all that they had made would be wasted and the advance would have to be returned. More than the pain in his foot, the stress  caused  Muniappa's health to deteriorate.

One morning,   Muniappa woke up to sound of the potters  wheel whirring. He hobbled to the door to see  what was  going  on. Kamalamma was sitting at the wheel, trying  to make diyas! Muniappa  was astounded. This was too much. He exploded in a burst of  fury..” What do you think you are doing , woman? It’s forbidden  for a  woman to sit on the wheel!  You are going to bring a curse on our family. Stop! This instant!”, he was screaming as fear and anger possessed him completely. He threw his  pack of beedis  at  her. It was the only thing within his reach. If it hadn’t been for his foot, he would have hit her, he thought. 

Kamalamma continued as if he hadn’t spoken at all.  Her attention was fully on what she was doing.  It struck him that there was no defiance in her, but something else.   Determination and concentration   without   any  rancour. He noticed that some eight or nine odd shaped diyas were lying on the floor. But now she seemed to be doing better. In fact the last three diyas, were almost perfect.

Then Saroja appeared. “ Why are you shouting Appa.  Both Amma and I  know  how to work with the wheel. Whenever you went to buy clay or sell pots, we tried our hand at the wheel, copying what you  do carefully.”

Muniappa was stunned into silence. The thought that things had been happening at home behind his back also made him angry.  Struggling to come to terms with all this he sat down at last. “But who taught you?”,he asked after a while. “Without realising it you have been our teacher, Appa. In fact Amma  has been trying  to make pots for a few years now. She also helped me learn.  Anyway,  what is  important now is that  we can  manage to finish the  Deepavalli order on  time ”said  Saroja with  more than a slight cheekiness  in her voice.

Muniappa was beginning to feel relieved and scared at the same time.  Over the last few days he had been  tempted to  call Suresh back  from Mysore. Thankfully he had not given in to that impulse, he thought. Maybe the present crisis at least could be handled with support from his wife and daughter. In a month when his foot was better, things could go back to the way they were.

Saroja and  Kamalamma were  gradually  allowed  to  work on the wheel  openly.  Muniappa  even came and sat down to watch them  at work, giving  them tips and showing them  how to press  down, form  different kinds of bases and then  pull  up  for the neck.  Kamalamma  proved an excellent  student. Eager and hard working, she followed his instructions meticulously. They also talked a lot about their fathers and grandfathers and the variety of pottery items they used to make in the old days.  Muniappa was forty  nine years old and had  been  working on the  wheel  since he was  fourteen. There was so much to share. He slowly started looking forward to these conversations.

And he wasn’t the  only one who did the teaching.  A  fortnight later, Saroja  showed him  little  beads she  had been making  and her experiments with pendants and ear rings. “Where did you get these ?  Muniappa  asked  her. “ I made  them, Appa”  was Saroja’s reply.  “ Suresh anna    once borrowed   a piece of terracotta  jewellery  from   his  classmate. He showed it to me and I decided to try my hand.   So I experimented and   then managed to make a few. Suresh’s  classmate  Krishna  also helped me  create a hook and a  clasp with some wire. I have been having fun with creating designs,  Appa.  And  Krishna told me there are  young girls like me in big cities who love to wear them ”  Saroja explained. She  showed  her surprised parents  the dozens  of  pieces she  had made, using  an imagination and dexterity  she  did not know she  had.

She put on a pair of earrings she had made. As they dangled merrily she  continued excitedly. “ See,  I did  not need  the wheel  for these “ she said  as she demonstrated how she shaped the clay using her palms, fingers  and a simple cutting knife. All she needed now were proper hooks for the earrings and the strings for the pendants. And some colours to add to the clay to create even more attractive pieces.

While  Kamalamma  was  openly ecstatic , Muniappa showed his admiration grudgingly. He was also irritated with the number of times Saroja  mentioned  Krishna’s name and wondered  what was going on.  Krishna was one of those upper caste dandy boys who was always trying to be stylish and Muniappa was glad that his Suresh was different.

As he  thought  about  their livelihood as potters, he  felt  that diversifying into new  and   artistic products  could  be  their  salvation, but  he was not sure  how  that  would  actually work out. He had heard  about potters in Bangalore making murals, vases and  even  big ovens. How could people  in our little  village  know what people far away  need or like? What about breakages?  And who would  sell  them?  His mind was  now whirring,  faster than his favourite wheel.

Suresh  was  coming  home for  Sankranthi. That was just two weeks away.  They would talk about  it then. He also decided to find out more about the kneading machine that Suresh had mentioned.