It had been almost two weeks since that painful journey in what they called a SpiceJet and almost a week since I had gotten used to walking barefoot in the house, feeling clean tiles, a welcome respite from the layer of dust and sand which usually covered my hostel room. Itching to discover useful ways of wasting time apart from the usual books and movie 'projects' which I had undertaken, most of which were past deadline, I decided to buy a new Ghatam.
After making a few calls and inquiring about prices and doing a bit of asking around, facts came to light. The air-conditioned, upmarket music showrooms were owned by daylight robbers who sold Ghatams at ten times the price they brought them for. Not to degrade my instrument or anything, but it's only a clay pot, albeit one of a uniform texture, pitch and heat treatment but nonetheless, a clay pot. And if a Ghatam costs you an arm, a leg and pretty much your whole torso to buy, without Vinayakaram's autograph to show for it, you know the world is coming to a sad capitalist end.
To cut down on the cyphers at the end of the price tag, we headed to the very source, the 'factory' in Mylapore, where apparently existed a street with a dead-end. Every family on this street had once depended on the different shades of brown and the vastly diverse shapes clay could inhabit. As time wore on, the art was still passed from one generation to the next, but the money in it declined, and they were forced to seek better paying jobs. A few vestiges of the profession remained, and only one family made Ghatams in that street.
Small, freshly molded dark green toy pots laid out for drying by the hundreds, pots and strange looking vases immaculately being carved by swift and nimble hands which guided the clay as it took shape and of course, Ghatams of every size, thickness and Shruti, pitch were present.
What stuck me as very strange was the whole 'architecture' of the buildings, built with absolutely no gaps in between. This particular dead-end street was slightly cut off from the usual Mylapore (For that matter, what is usual Mylapore? Stupid Area). Disproportionate buildings which ran high up were no more than four arm-stretches wide. We were led into a 'house' which wasn't very wide but was three floors high and ran as far as the eye could see! I later realized that they were actually many homes which were simply built with common walls like a slum, but very unlike one, as cement and bricks instead of tin and tarpaulin and plasma TVs instead of soot from burning wood adorned the walls! They were well-to-do families. The street was an economy on its own.
As the husband was out working, the lady of the house displayed a few Ghatams on the floor as I sheepishly tested a few of them, having completely no idea how to select one. Picking two which sounded good and of appropriate size, we were astounded when the lady charged us almost thrice the amount we paid the last time. "We don't make them anymore. Only a handful of customers want Ghatams, so we have started outsourcing them from my uncle who lives in a village near Thanjavur." She refused to budge. We paid them, realizing that while the art of making Ghatams died out, a few families like this one had established a monopoly, naming any price they wanted to normal customers and music showrooms.
We left, thinking about this uncle in Thanjavur and how old he could be (The lady was herself past fifty). What about after he...? Who would sell Madras Ghatams in Madras then?
To cut down on the cyphers at the end of the price tag, we headed to the very source, the 'factory' in Mylapore, where apparently existed a street with a dead-end. Every family on this street had once depended on the different shades of brown and the vastly diverse shapes clay could inhabit. As time wore on, the art was still passed from one generation to the next, but the money in it declined, and they were forced to seek better paying jobs. A few vestiges of the profession remained, and only one family made Ghatams in that street.
Small, freshly molded dark green toy pots laid out for drying by the hundreds, pots and strange looking vases immaculately being carved by swift and nimble hands which guided the clay as it took shape and of course, Ghatams of every size, thickness and Shruti, pitch were present.
What stuck me as very strange was the whole 'architecture' of the buildings, built with absolutely no gaps in between. This particular dead-end street was slightly cut off from the usual Mylapore (For that matter, what is usual Mylapore? Stupid Area). Disproportionate buildings which ran high up were no more than four arm-stretches wide. We were led into a 'house' which wasn't very wide but was three floors high and ran as far as the eye could see! I later realized that they were actually many homes which were simply built with common walls like a slum, but very unlike one, as cement and bricks instead of tin and tarpaulin and plasma TVs instead of soot from burning wood adorned the walls! They were well-to-do families. The street was an economy on its own.
As the husband was out working, the lady of the house displayed a few Ghatams on the floor as I sheepishly tested a few of them, having completely no idea how to select one. Picking two which sounded good and of appropriate size, we were astounded when the lady charged us almost thrice the amount we paid the last time. "We don't make them anymore. Only a handful of customers want Ghatams, so we have started outsourcing them from my uncle who lives in a village near Thanjavur." She refused to budge. We paid them, realizing that while the art of making Ghatams died out, a few families like this one had established a monopoly, naming any price they wanted to normal customers and music showrooms.
We left, thinking about this uncle in Thanjavur and how old he could be (The lady was herself past fifty). What about after he...? Who would sell Madras Ghatams in Madras then?
