Turn of the Wheel
20 November 2020
When Awan wasn’t turning the manual lathe to create the various forms, he watched his father apply the usual three layers of coloured lacquer as the piece spun on the hand lathe. A base of yellow to ‘seal the pores of the timber’, then red or white, depending on the planned scheme of the finished piece, followed by black as top coat. Though colours can vary in line with buyers’ demands, only three layers are applied. Anymore, explains the master, and the surface becomes uneven and susceptible to pitting.
Having started his apprenticeship at age 10, Awan took up the steel stylus or qalm to etch out paisleys borrowed from his father’s design vocabulary. Nothing, he asserts, was maintained on paper. Every form and shape, every bit of tracery came out of the master’s head and was assimilated by the apprentice by observation.
The work entails almost superhuman intensity. The tracery is virtually microscopic calling for not just a very sharp eye but an impossibly steady hand. Pressure on each movement of the stylus determines which of the three different colours of lacquer laid in as many layers is to be revealed: greater pressure will bring out the first layer, that is, yellow that forms the base. Gentler pressure will show either red or white. The tiniest incorrect stroke ruins the creation as the coloured lacquer, applied on the turning wheel, cannot be filled by hand.
Some nine or ten generations ago a certain Ustad Karam Ali was well-known in the court of Mughal Emperor Shah Jehan for his accomplishment as ivory and lacquer craftsman, says Faheem. During the great upheaval of 1857, his descendants, who were until then living in Delhi, fled the chaos to Dera Ismail Khan on the banks of the Indus. In a way they were coming home for as Awans it was from the vicinity of this country that Faheem’s ancestors had first migrated to Delhi at an indeterminate time in the past, bringing their art along.
In Ustad Ashraf’s glory days, Elizabeth II and the Shah of Iran were presented with Dera lacquer creations. There was no count of high ranking diplomats whose homes were adorned with this fine art. And there were ordinary travellers, local and foreign, who made their way to Dera Ismail Khan from across the country to buy pieces. But this side of the watershed of September 11, 2001, business dried up. No longer was Awan invited to the International Clubs of Lahore and Islamabad. No longer did wandering tourists end up at his workshop. Simultaneously, the fancy pirah, a low stool with a back, and charpai frames once essential as bridal gifts in this part of the country went out of fashion.
Of his 11 children, Awan was training only one of his daughters in 2003 as the sons were in other lines of work in order to earn a living. The man knew then that the work had reached its end.
Currently, Awan has three apprentices: his eldest son redeemed from automobile spare parts salesmanship and two daughters. With an outlet in the premises of Lok Virsa Museum at Islamabad manned by another son, sales are fairly brisk. Awan is fortunate to have also caught the attention of the local bureaucracy which laps up a large part of his output.
Labels: A Chorus for Craft, Crafts
posted by Salman Rashid @ 00:00,
1 Comments:
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At 20 November 2020 at 20:24,
Himanshu Vashistha said...
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Thanks a lot Sir ! Most probably a sub mm precision by hand tools ....amazing.
With regards
Himanshu
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