Crafts: Old was truly gold

M. Gopalan and his son Gopinath intent on their craft

(I wrote this article in 2000, when mass-produced, branded jewellery first began to take a toll on traditional Indian goldsmiths)


Theirs is a livelihood as precious as the fine metal in their hands. With every moulded shape in gold, with every delicate tap of the chisel, with every twist of the tweezer, with every curve of a link in a chain, a story of skilled generations unfolds o ff Avenue Road in the crowded, pulsating heart of Bangalore.

Bangalore, they say, is the jewellery capital of India. In its tiny bylanes live goldsmiths who form an Indian microcosm of the craft and trade. Malayalees, Bengalis, Marwaris, Telugus, Kannadigas -- they practise their profession with pride in the tiny shops that overlook the road front.

Peeping into the workshops, we see goldsmiths hunched over bangles, chains and rings, their brows furrowed with concentration, their tweezers placing twists of gold onto the curve of a bangle or smoothing the edge of a ring or placing a stone into a sett ing. They work unmindful of the buzz on the road, or the shrieks of children at play nearby.

The Avenue Road area, which consisted of predominantly single-storeyed houses even about 25 years ago, now looks suitably urbanised. As families grew by the generation and land prices shot skywards, the houses expanded vertically in this prime location.

Meet one of its oldest inhabitants, M. Gopalan, whose father Kelu Achary came to Bangalore from Meppayil in Kerala about 75 years ago. He speaks quietly of his family and his craft, trusting in a gracious God and the hand-hewn skills of generations. At 7 0, Gopalan is no longer able to craft the hand-cut gold bangles he was renowned for because arthritis prevents him from sitting cross-legged on the floor. But his 39-year-old son, G. Gopinath, is the family's torchbearer now.

``Ours is the oldest Malayalee family here (in the trade),'' Gopinath says with pride. His grandfather migrated to Bangalore from Kerala along with his brother and brother-in-law because they did not have enough work in the towns of their ancestors -- Me ppayil, in Kannur, Vadagara. Today, Gopalan's brother Govindan is no longer a goldsmith. The latter's sons too have opted out of the profession -- one works for the Reserve Bank of India, while the other is a screenprinter.

How do the family members feel about their livelihood? ``We survive because of our traditional customers. Many of them are the wives of employees at Bharat Electronics Ltd. (BEL), where there is a large Malayalee community,'' Gopalan says with a smile. ` `But they don't want traditional designs any longer. These days, they bring us pictures of film stars and magazines with new creations from big chains in Kerala like Alapatt or Alukkas, which lack the finesse of traditional jewellery.''

Gopalan winds the clock back to when Kelu Achary came to Bangalore. That was when a sovereign (8 gm) of gold cost Rs. 13, he laughs. And by the time Gopalan took to the business -- after the introduction of the Gold Control Order by Morarji Desai in 1963 a sovereign had soared to Rs. 65! But a gold biscuit of 10 tolas (116 gm) cost a mere Rs. 1,450 then, he recalls, and now it is worth Rs. 53,000!

When Kelu Achary began his trade in Bangalore, he and his family would take orders from big jewellers such as the Telugu-owned Vajramull at the Raja Market Circle -- the hub of the trade -- who gave them both the gold and the designs. When they returned the finished exquisite jewellery, they were paid in cash at once. It was possible for a goldsmith to live with dignity then, Gopalan sighs.

But the lives of the 10,000 to 15,000 goldsmiths who work in this area have gone into a decline since the V.P. Singh government removed the Gold Control Act. There is no assurance of gold quality any more, Gopinath moans, and just anyone can open a gold shop -- even unscrupulous jewellers on OPH Road, who pass off ``8 carat gold as 22 carat to make a fast buck''!

Former Finance Minister Manmohan Singh's liberalisation has snapped the goldsmith's integrity and his will to live, Gopinath asserts, as he delicately contours the edges of a gold bangle in his showroom. ``Do you know,'' he asks, with sadness in his eyes , ``that in the past year 15 or 20 goldsmiths in this area have committed suicide?''

What drove them to it? ``It's these huge jewellery `factories' in Mumbai, Ahmedabad and Chennai,'' Gopinath stresses. ``They employ thousands of skilled goldsmiths, whom they fingerprint and photograph, as if they were slaves! They are paid just Rs. 30 t o Rs. 50 per day, or Rs. 4 per gram of gold... These factories sell their ornaments to large jewellery outlets in return for just a guarantee. Nobody values our craft any longer...''

Gopalan recalls that in 1962, every goldsmith's shop required a licence from the Central Government. That no longer holds. So, both the quality of gold and the craftsmanship are undervalued now.

His son Gopinath vividly relives his professional initiation by fire. The lighting of the flame. The shaping of gold into rounds or ovals. The tempering, melting and welding of the metal. And the detailed ornamentation of the kanni or ring or bangle that followed.

There is pride in Gopinath's voice as he narrates the sequence of his craft. ``But today, customers bring in any pattern they want and ask you to execute it -- whether it is from Coorg or Kerala or Bengal or Mysore. Or even a hybrid pattern,'' he adds.

It is a far cry from Gundappan and his family, who have always made the simha kadaga (or lion-mouthed bangle) for the Mysore royal family, Gopinath points out. Their dies and trade secrets are well guarded, for each kadaga takes 45 days to craft. Traditi on is still treasured in Mysore, he asserts.

What of tradition and Gopalan's family? Gopinath has four sisters, three of whom are married to engineers. His nephews and nieces dream of jobs in multinational companies -- and a cushy life in its wake. His youngest sibling, Prabhavati, is a contemporar y artist, who cares deeply about traditional crafts. ``When I was six or seven,'' she remembers, her eyes lighting up, ``my sisters and I would try to help Achchan (father) at work. We'd hold the bangle on the revolving stand with both hands and gently t ap it with the die tool. I fear we often hurt Achchan's hands....''

Today, Prabhavati's cousins still hand-cut bangles to order. But does the market appreciate their talent? No, all it demands is kitschy readymade patterns that machines turn out by the thousands. Even the pretty names for patterns, lyrical as flowing riv ers or a garland of jasmines, have been lost in the maze of the market. Instead, jewellery is named after films, Gopinath emphasizes, like the Rangeela bangles!

Gopinath's two bright-eyed young sons -- Abhishek, 8, and Akshay, 3 -- return from an evening walk down the street with their mother and grandmother. Can he visualise them as goldsmiths? He signals a negative with a shake of his head, vehemently wishing them a brighter future, away from the golden cage he finds himself in.

Gopalan's family lives in his four-storeyed house off Kilari Road. Life has come a long way since Gopalan first built a single-storeyed building on a 10x15 corner plot, bought for only Rs. 8,000 just 35 years ago. Today, the building, reconstructed in 19 89-90, has four floors which provide well-used living space. And a ground floor showroom facing the road.

If the 1970s and 1980s were a boom time for the goldsmiths here, the 1990s ushered in a grave decline. But even now, theirs is a seasonal cycle of income, in common with their fellow craftsmen all over India -- the wedding season in South India, from January to April or May, brings in a regular supply of orders, which turn into a dribble later in the year.

As the scales hang in a delicate balance, we wonder which way they will tilt for the descendants of Kelu Achary.

Will the lives of Gopalan and his kin take a turn for the better? As the dying rays of the sun glint off the exquisite leaves patterned on the bangle in his hand, we wish this family a future of gold, not gilt.

(The Hindu Business Line 2000)

 

Cities: Bangalore 2000 ~ Colonial traditions, cyber dreams

When IT giants Hewlett-Packard,  Infosys and Wipro set up shop in Bangalore,  they paved the way for an influx of engineering graduates,  mushrooming computer schools and a dollar-driven lifestyle. A natural corollary was the dotcom boom, now on the verge of a bust. While traditionally, parents in Bangalore dreamt of an independent bungalow on retirement, their cyber-competitive children have been catapulted into jet-setting lifestyles - monthly salaries of over a Rs 100,000, fast foods to fuel a global image and a luxury flat within five years.
With its laid-back lifestyle and colonial culture under threat, its pensioners overtaken by the yuppie IT set, and 'IT Boom City' replacing its 'Garden City' nomenclature, Bangalore is a city in transition, in search of itself.


Millennial Bangalore defies categorisation, characterised as it is by in-built contradictions. Should we focus on its predominantly Anglo-Indian, colonial-tinted culture? Or its conservative old-city enclaves? Should we discuss the Information Technology (IT) boom city? Or the pleasures of a former pensioner's paradise? Does the Garden City of evergreen Cubbon Park and Lalbagh merit a look? Or the city's lack of civic infrastructure?

When Kempe Gowda I, dynamic ruler of the Yelahanka Nadu dynasty built a mud fort here in 1537, could he have imagined it as a bustling metropolis? In fact, today's Bangalore is many cities rolled into one.
No matter what the route to the heart of Bangalore's seven million residents, some facts are irrefutable. The fragrance of 'sampige' (jasmine) blooms has given way to exhaust fumes and the pleasures of walking in the park to pub hopping and cyber-chats.

Sprawling bungalows set amidst bloom-rich settings are shadowed by glass-fronted skyscrapers. Rickety public buses hug the kerb as sleek Mercedes Benz and other hot wheels zip by on potholed roads. Even leisurely lunches at Koshy's restaurant, dating back to 1952, or the once whites-only Bangalore Club, are punctuated with cell-phone chatter. As for the Turf Club, a British legacy, it is now deemed less fashionable than bowling alleys and artificial ice-skating rinks.

What's the current flavour of Bangalore, the Karnataka capital that is not as steeped in local culture as, say Mysore? Unlike the Tamil culture that permeates Chennai, Bangalore doesn't flaunt its ethnic roots. As a visitor from Berlin observed in 1994, "This doesn't seem like an Indian city. It's so westernised!" That's apparent in the many tongues that fill the air, whether at the 1812-consecrated St. Mark's Cathedral or at the famous Mavali Tiffin Rooms (MTR) eatery where the dosas (papery rice pancakes) ooze pure ghee (clarified butter).

In 1997, only 38 per cent of Bangaloreans listed Kannada as their mother tongue. This cosmopolitan city accepts Tamil, Telugu, Malayalam and Hindi with equal fluency. But the city's very language has since changed. Cyber lingo peppers the conversation and computer geeks, who access friends on the ether and work round-the-clock, abound. It's the virtual life for real.

Even tradition-bound MTR has launched ice-cream kiosks selling cones for Rs 5 (1 US $ = Rs 47) and ready-to-eat bisibele-bath (a local preparation of rice and lentils) in foil pouches.

Is there a buzz in Bangalore over the Great Digital Revolution that has caused this transformation over the past 15 years or so? Will its dwellers adapt with the typical Bangalorean phrase that trips off every laid-back tongue, "Swalpa adjust madi" (just adjust a little)?

What should its denizens adjust to?

The changing skyline, for one. As Bangalore recently prepared to unveil its first, controversy-dogged flyover at Richmond Circle, English playwright and national literature award-winner Mahesh Dattani, 42, noted, "With this, the aesthetics of the city have gone for a toss. Instead of tile-roofed buildings with ironwork grills, you now have curved concrete lines in your vision. Frankenstein has been created!"

That's true in myriad senses. , When IT giants Hewlett-Packard, Infosys and Wipro set up shop in Bangalore, they paved the way for an influx of graduates from the Indian Institutes of Technology, mushrooming computer schools, and a dollar-driven lifestyle. A natural corollary was the dotcom boom, now on the verge of a bust. While traditionally, parents in Bangalore dreamt of an independent bungalow on retirement, their cyber-competitive children have been catapulted into jet-setting lifestyles - monthly salaries of over a Rs 100,000, fast foods to fuel a global image and a luxury flat within five years.

What's a typical young Bangalorean's dream? Patting his new Ford Ikon, K V Ramnath (name changed on request), 30, who's with chip-making major Intel, explains, "Between 1993 and now, IT has resulted in a wealth creation environment with salaries that are about 25 per cent higher than in other industries. This has artificially given rise to brand consciousness and a whole yuppie culture. IT guys choose Levis jeans, not Newport; a bite at Kentucky Fried Chicken (KFC), not a traditional meal at MTR."

While the pseudo confusion of fresh US-returned IT professionals over left and right-hand drive on the road can be amusing, what's less funny is the hole in the heart of Bangalore families whose children have opted for foreign climes. The result? A computer in every well-connected household. That spells grandmothers in Mysore silk saris who are equally adept at steaming dosas and dashing off e-mails.

How does computer-savvy Saraswati Singh, 67, who taught English at the upmarket Mount Carmel College for 20 years, view the changing face of her city since 1954? With a laptop all set to communicate with her two US-based sons, she says, "IT has changed the demographic map of the city. Earlier, women did not go pillion riding in old-fashioned areas like Basavangudi, Jayanagar or Chamrajpet. But with the IT boom, that sleepy 38th Cross in Jayanagar is filled with computer institutes. Net-wise daughters from Jayanagar now go to work. But their full-sleeved salwar-kameezes (loose pyjamas and long shirt), long oily braids and no lipstick sets them apart from the Cantonment crowd - the jean-clad girls with streaked hair who frequent chic Brigade Road pubs. The Jayanagar girls return home at the stroke of 5 p.m. There's no suspicion of free living about them."

Free living. What's that? That's the mantra of the designer label-obsessed IT set with their clothes-strewn chummeries or live-in arrangements, their monetary abandon and non-ethnic lifestyles. They wouldn't be caught dead digging into steaming idlis and sambar off a trolley at Visveswarapuram at midnight, preferring to exercise their taste rights at a Pizza Hut on swank Cunningham Road. If it weren't for their mega-bucks and cooking-free regimen, how would Bangalore's eatery boom --be it Tex-Mex or Lebanese or Thai or Iyengar-- survive?

Primarily residential areas like Kumara Park and Malleswaram encapsulate the city in transition. The squat, brown headquarters of Satyam Infoway towers over the Kumara Park's garden-shaded bungalows, while Malleswaram has a cyber cafe on every street.


How has the government responded? Computers now crowd the corridors of power while swipe-cards govern staff check-ins at the dome-topped Vidhana Soudha (Legislative Assembly) building. Benson Town has been renamed Kadamba Nagar, Richmond Road is now Field Marshal K M Cariappa Road, but civic amenities like water and power continue to be in short supply while the Chief Minister promises a swank international airport by 2004.

Nor has Bangalore a public transport system worth the name. As Maya Jayapal, 60, points out in 'Bangalore: The Story of a City', published in 1997, it then had 1,800 buses, which were rapidly overtaken by the privately owned 100,000 cars, 600,000 two-wheelers and 35,000 three-wheelers. The result? Chronic pollution, a steep rise in asthma rates and soaring accidents on ill-lit roads. In 2000 alone, there were 622 cases of fatal road accidents in Bangalore which took 655 lives.

The cyber-crazy pace has also taken its toll on Bangalore's quality of life. It's visible in IT marriages that are on the rocks within a year, with equally ambitious partners unwilling to compromise, as volunteer counsellors like Jayapal discover. In dreams of entertainment centres containing multiplex cinemas and mega-malls, of food courts and swank resorts which will benefit the top five per cent of its citizens, while sewage clogs the slums on the periphery of the city.

The city's naturally salubrious climate has been ruined by injudicious felling of shady jacaranda and gulmohur trees. Where once homes did not even have ceiling fans, air-cooler companies are now doing brisk business while sweaty Bangaloreans try to stave off heat that they are simply not accustomed to.

In 2000, a citizen's initiative that included corporate super-achievers like Nandan Nilekani of Infosys and Kiran Majumdar-Shaw of Biocon India joined hands with the government to set up the Bangalore Agenda Task Force (BATF). For a while, it made waves and raised hopes of a change for the better. But neither has the bureaucracy been made accountable nor have the overflowing garbage bins been tackled. The BATF is no longer a strident voice, but a whimper.

Perhaps the state of Bangalore's Great Digital Divide is best evoked by Dattani's image: "Bangalore recently had coils of colourful fibre-optic cables on its pavements. Under a blazing sun, I saw a skinny old man with a crowbar digging a trench to lay them out. I realised then that it wasn't going to touch his life at all."


Whose Bangalore is this, anyway?

(Originally in Women's Feature Service, 2000)