The block printer of Bagru

I've always wondered why folk arts and craftspeople often receive step-motherly treatment, not only from the government, but also from the public at large. While the works of mainstream artists repose in galleries and museums, their rural counterparts toil facelessly and silently, getting few rewards for their talent. That's why while in Jaipur, when I got the chance to meet one of the most talented block printers in the area, I jumped at it.

I reached Bagru, the mecca for block printers near Jaipur, one dusty and hot morning. There, at Bagru Fabrics, a unit known for the fineness of its block printing, I saw Shyam Lal, painfully scrawny and impossibly gnarled, bent over a long table spread with a beige cloth. "When I was in my teens, I learnt block printing from my father. It's something I've done for the last 30 years," Lal said.
 

He took me through the laborious process of printing, which began with soaking the cotton in harad, an ayurvedic herb that "fixes" vegetable dyes (iron shavings for black; crushed madder for red; indigo for blue/green; and turmeric for yellow). "The next time you buy block-printed fabric, know that if its base is pure white, it's been printed with chemical dyes. Vegetable-dyed cloth is always soaked in harad, which imparts a beautiful golden glow to the cloth," he said.

Lal's workshop was packed to the rafters with printing blocks. "If a motif requires six colours, we have to make six different blocks for it!" he explained. Each colour had to be printed on the cloth exactly on the pattern. A millimetre here or there could smudge the motif, so the eventual beauty of the fabric lay in the precision of Lal's hands.

"The sharper the final design, the better the printing. If people try to sell you fabrics with smudged prints, saying that there are bound to be imperfections in hand-printed materials, remember me. As you can see from my print work, precise printing is possible," he said. He also taught me to estimate the size of the block from the printed pattern. "The smaller the block, the more intricate the print. But it also means that the printer has to work that much harder, so do not grudge the extra price that the seller is bound to ask from you!" he said.

Finally, he showed me how he used his blocks to create magic on cloth. He dipped the block in dye, after which he pressed it on to the cloth, hitting it twice with the side of his palm to ensure the dye spread evenly. Exactly where his palm hit the block were two of the largest gnarls I had seen. "Both these calluses are because of the basic action of block printing," he said. "I can't even remember a time when I had smooth hands!"

He continued to work, oblivious to the heat, until he'd finished printing one block. Then he drew out the next colour, printing it precisely over the previous block. The pattern began to develop and the sheer intricacy of the process took my breath away. For work this skilled, the returns were relatively meagre. "I earn about Rs 200-250 a day," he said.

Perhaps that was why Shyam Lal had a distressingly low opinion of his craft. "Me an artist?" he laughed. "I'm just doing my job! I tell my children who are both studying: 'If you do well for yourselves, you'll get good jobs in cities. If not, you too will live in Bagru like your humble father, block-printing cloth for the rest of your life!'" I left wondering when we as a society would learn to value our craftspeople - which, in turn, would go a long way in helping them value themselves.