After Ganesh Chaturthi, he would withdraw into a quiet corner, where, with a gentle and practiced hand, he would begin crafting a small mitti ka diya, signaling the official start of his preparations for the Deepavali exhibition. The first few pieces were always delicate, almost ethereal in their beauty, as if his fingers were reacquainting themselves with the clay, warming up for the intense days that lay ahead. I would often find myself drawn to his side, engaging in small tasks. His voice, soft yet commanding, would break the serene silence with familiar instructions: “Shanky, chal, aaj mitti chaan lete hain,” or “Shanky, thodi mitti pichak de,” and “Shanky, kuch diye utar de—unhe acche se dhak kar rakh dena.” These were his rhythmic cues, guiding me as we worked in quiet harmony. Those years were akin to a gurukul, where, as he frequently observed, “Learning isn’t achieved by simply sitting beside the guru; it’s through working alongside him, fully engaging in the craft.”
The year 2003 saw the conclusion of a year-long bamboo workshop at Ashram, leaving behind an uncanny stillness in place of the once-vibrant activity. In this quiet, he decided to host an exhibition of diyas. Over the following two to three months, we worked with staunch dedication, creating a remarkable collection of clay lamps, each one a small masterpiece or as Harpal uncle would observe “A unique Sculpture in itself”.
For two months, his work flowed with a soothing cadence. However, as Deepavali approached, this tranquility gave way to the purposeful bustle of preparing the kiln for the diyas. He chose a remote location, away from the workshop’s usual clamor, to begin the intricate process of kiln preparation. First, we meticulously cleaned the bricks, then selected the finest clay, and proceeded to construct a kiln with scrupulous attention to detail. I gathered broken shards of old earthenware and placed them near to the kiln, setting the stage for the transformation that would soon unfold.
The most delicate task was transporting the diyas to the kiln, a process that demanded the utmost precision. Each diya had to be handled with extraordinary care. If I were to approach this task with even a hint of recklessness, Guruji would admonish me, “Handle them with more caution; they’ll break if you’re not careful.” He would then demonstrate the proper technique with a patience. Whenever I attempted to carry two diyas at once, he would swiftly intervene, saying, “One at a time, or you risk dropping them!”
After four to five hours of painstaking effort, all the diyas would be meticulously gathered in one place. Guruji, with his own hands, would then place each diya into the kiln, attending to every detail with untiring focus—considering how the flames would envelop each piece, identifying the more fragile ones, and noting which had sturdier joints. He managed them with a reverence that underscored their significance, while I hastily covered them with shards of broken earthenware, ensuring they were well-protected as the kiln’s transformation began.
Dev, Daanav aur Maanav.
Before embarking on the work for Deepawali exhibiton, Guruji would always remind me, “Don’t forget to bring the coconut and other essentials for the puja. Today, we’ll begin working with the clay.” With these words, a quiet anticipation would fill the air. My mother, my sister Gudiya, and I would gather everything needed with reverent care, knowing the importance of this moment. Once Guruji arrived, the four of us would come together in a small, intimate puja to the potter’s wheel, the sacred equipment of the craft.
After the ritual, with a deliberate and practiced touch, Guruji would gently shape two or three diyas on the wheel. Each movement was imbued with a sense of ceremony, as if these first creations were not just simple lamps but the very soul of our work, setting the tone for everything that would follow.
Finally, after months of creative work, when all the diyas were carefully placed in the kiln and the wood arranged for firing, Guruji would perform a solemn puja for the kiln, offering a coconut as prasad. There was something almost mystical about this ritual, a practice that I often found curious.
One day, as we were engrossed in our work, an elderly man approached Guruji and asked, “Why do you go through all this? Can’t you make these diyas without rituals? Will they spoil if you don’t?” Guruji paused, his hands resting on the kiln, as if drawing strength from the very earth beneath him. Then, with a calm yet distinct clarity, he replied, “Listen, many years ago, someone asked me this same question—why, in this modern world, these rituals are still necessary. The answer I gave them then is the same one I will give you now.”
The air seemed to grow still as we all waited for his words, sensing that what he was about to say carried the weight of something timeless, something that went beyond the mere making of diyas.
“In our tradition, we discern three fundamental entities, or rather, archetypes: the Devta, the Daanav, and the Maanav. The Devta is one who exists purely to give, never desiring anything in return. Even among humans, those who exemplify such selflessness are venerated as Devtas. In contrast, the Daanav embodies the essence of taking without ever offering anything in recompense. The Maanav, however, stands as a figure who both receives and reciprocates, embodying the delicate balance between giving and taking.”
“These tools—the wheel, the kiln—are akin to Devtas in our tradition. They demand nothing from us, yet they bestow so much in return. Artisans hold their tools in profound reverence, perceiving them not merely as instruments but as sacred entities that give endlessly without a word of protest. This isn’t merely a ritualistic practice; it’s a deeply ingrained belief. Even if I were to forgo these rituals, the work would still be accomplished. However, the act of venerating these tools advances a connection within me—a sense of communion that is essential to the craft. That is why I perform these rites.”
The other act that has glued itself distinctly in my memory is his handling of the lathi. Whether during an early morning walk or a quiet evening stroll, he would occasionally pick up a lathi with a casual grace and demonstrate a few techniques, as if it were an effortless form of exercise. In these moments, he’d nonchalantly share snippets of knowledge: “Yeh dekh, isko Bagli bolte hai. Isme lathi bagal se nikalna hota hai.” (Look, this is called Bagli. You have to draw the lathi from your side.) Those words, simple as they were, and those fleeting lessons left a lasting impression on me.
One morning, when I was about eleven or twelve, I mustered the courage to officially ask him to teach me the art of the lathi. His response was a long, contemplative “Hmmmm,” as he walked beside me, hands clasped behind his back, in his signature thoughtful posture.
At that time, the Oojas were staying at the ashram, and the air, both morning and evening, would often resonate with the harmonious recitation of Kabir, Rahim, and Tulsi’s couplets, eventually culminating in the sacred prarthana. That particular evening, however, brought with it an unexpected surprise. After the prarthana, I noticed a lathi—perfectly striped with black threads—placed with care. As everyone gathered, he officially announced in front of all, “Aaj se isko lathi sikhna hai.” (From today, he is to learn the lathi.)
He called me forward, “Chal re, aa idhar,” and I was instructed to perform a small ceremony. The lathi was placed on a peeta, and I was told to offer pooja and break a coconut. Then, I was asked to bow to the lathi, and after that, to touch his feet. With that ritual, I was initiated into the art. He then gave me my first lesson—just the basics, which he called “Isko Lathi Pranam bolte hai” (This is called Lathi Pranam)—but that small ceremony left an indelible impact on me.
It instilled in me not only a sense of responsibility toward my commitment but also a deep reverence for the lathi and for him. I often wonder if a solitary moment, devoid of that ritual and the witnessing eyes of others, would have had the same indelible effect on my memory. It was the collective acknowledgment of the moment, the sanctity of the ritual, and his quiet wisdom that forever sealed it in my mind.
Guruji’s ritual was never merely a formality; it was a way to infuse the work with a sense of reverence and purpose. Whether it was crafting or any other task, he began and ended with these small acts of devotion, setting a tone that lingered long after the work was done. Even today, as we start any new endeavor, we follow this same tradition, allowing that sacred rhythm to guide us, just as Guruji did.
As the sun began to set, the kiln was ignited, and we carefully fed the flames with wood, ensuring the fire didn’t blaze too intensely. When the top of the kiln started to glow with a soft, reddish hue, Guruji would quietly remark, “Shanky, it’s ready. The ‘aam’ has arrived,” using the local term for the glowing embers. Those words signaled a moment of relief, and I would go wash up, utterly spent. I would collapse onto the cot, drifting into a deep sleep, too exhausted even to think of food.
On one occasion, in my absence, Kunal took over the entire process. By the end of it, he was just as thoroughly exhausted as I would have been. Observing his fatigue, Guruji couldn’t help but smile, playfully remarking, “Kya Phossad ho rey tum log, zara majboot bano—How fragile you all are; you must learn to be stronger.”
The following morning, I would wake to find the diyas carefully removed from the kiln. Guruji would assess the results of the firing, meticulously inspecting each piece. Those that had cracked would be set aside, where he would later work to restore them, mending the broken diyas back to their original form.
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