A truly humbling experience this was...
As I sat along side the rubble and watched them chisel away... The patriarch- at it from dawn, the son- having followed pace, the daughter-in-law- settled to her chipping after having ensured everyone had dropped something into their naturally small stomachs... and the two lil kids- happily entertaining themselves with the interestingly shaped gray chips that kept flying all over...
They may not be master chippers carving temple arches, they may not be famed sculptors chiseling a statue that would adorn the city square, each knock of the hammer on the chisel may not fetch them something bright n' tinkling, their rudimentary tools and makeshift studios may not measure up, their crude tobacco stained, paan spewing selves may not garner a second look in a market place choc-a-bloc with products of all kinds and colours... yet to me, the grinding stones they fashion are nothing short of being simply elegant and graceful, where each piece has a poignant story to tell...
These stone cutters go about chipping away in right earnest from dawn to dusk, every single day, right in the middle of a bustling market place with it's myriad sights and sounds and are yet far from it all, lost in a world of their own, where each chip get them closer to their next meal...
It is agonizing to see a customer bargain ever so casually for a few rupees over a grinding stone on which these calloused hands have worked themselves to the bone... What's more heart-rending is when a middle man strikes a fabulous (For him) deal and the stone cutter accepts it with a smile to see a dozen or so of their pieces being picked up at one go... the lady has a smile- for she knows this would mean an allowance of a few extra grains of lentils in the next day's daal... The kids jump in glee- for to them it means a possibility of a sticky sweet from the nearby sweet vendor, the grand old man of the family has a blackened wry smile- for he knows he can wrangle a few extra beedis from his son...
As I quietly slip my camera into the bag, pick myself from the rubble and walk through the busy market back to where Mahaboob bhaiyya has parked his auto, the steady chipping sound and the clear laughter of those two kids follow me... I know these sounds are not gonna leave me so soon...
As I sat along side the rubble and watched them chisel away... The patriarch- at it from dawn, the son- having followed pace, the daughter-in-law- settled to her chipping after having ensured everyone had dropped something into their naturally small stomachs... and the two lil kids- happily entertaining themselves with the interestingly shaped gray chips that kept flying all over...
They may not be master chippers carving temple arches, they may not be famed sculptors chiseling a statue that would adorn the city square, each knock of the hammer on the chisel may not fetch them something bright n' tinkling, their rudimentary tools and makeshift studios may not measure up, their crude tobacco stained, paan spewing selves may not garner a second look in a market place choc-a-bloc with products of all kinds and colours... yet to me, the grinding stones they fashion are nothing short of being simply elegant and graceful, where each piece has a poignant story to tell...
These stone cutters go about chipping away in right earnest from dawn to dusk, every single day, right in the middle of a bustling market place with it's myriad sights and sounds and are yet far from it all, lost in a world of their own, where each chip get them closer to their next meal...
It is agonizing to see a customer bargain ever so casually for a few rupees over a grinding stone on which these calloused hands have worked themselves to the bone... What's more heart-rending is when a middle man strikes a fabulous (For him) deal and the stone cutter accepts it with a smile to see a dozen or so of their pieces being picked up at one go... the lady has a smile- for she knows this would mean an allowance of a few extra grains of lentils in the next day's daal... The kids jump in glee- for to them it means a possibility of a sticky sweet from the nearby sweet vendor, the grand old man of the family has a blackened wry smile- for he knows he can wrangle a few extra beedis from his son...
As I quietly slip my camera into the bag, pick myself from the rubble and walk through the busy market back to where Mahaboob bhaiyya has parked his auto, the steady chipping sound and the clear laughter of those two kids follow me... I know these sounds are not gonna leave me so soon...
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