A story from an unruly margin. By Sritama Halder. Pictures by Arnab Ghosal.
We discovered his masks in Sriniketan Magh mela, a fair like Poush mela only way smaller and cozier than the latter that attracts tourists from all over the world. From his makeshift stall, faces stared at us – faces of bears, monkeys, lions and tigers; faces of Kali, Ganesha, mustachioed asuras with dark scowls and thick eyebrows. A line of white human skulls grinned at us baring white teeth accentuated by red and blue lines. They were hand-painted masks made of paper. They were something that we, who were used to seeing carefully done up pretty pieces for the urban buyer, had never seen. We struck up a conversation and, as is often the norm with the dwindling tribe of artists who are edged out as marginal artisans and yet stay magnanimous because they know no other way to interact with the larger society, we were instantly invited to come to his house to see how they work.
Looking for a man who makes paper masks for a living is not necessarily meant to be an adventure. But all we knew was that the man lived in Moldanga and the name of his small unit was Baby Product. Unforgivably, we forgot his name. Looking for his contact number proved futile. So one morning we set out to find the house. It had been raining for two days. The wheels of our bike were devoured by rivers of mud, we were directed to wrong houses and the family itself had shifted twice since the fair.
We finally reached the small house. His was a joint family of more than 10 people. The brother who invited us was absent then. The rest of the family acted as if it was completely natural for two strangers to turn up during lunchtime requesting an interview. The room where we were seated had stacks of finished masks on the table and the corners of the bed.
Bapi Bagdi, the eldest of five brothers, practically runs the business. Sitting on the double-bed he describes how these masks are made. They make the clay moulds themselves. Over a specific shape, sheets of simple brown paper are pasted with water. The layers of paper create a certain thickness. After the paper structure — an indigenous papier mâché — is taken off the mould, it is dried in the sun. The primary base is coloured with chalk. For detailing, colour powders mixed with gum and other ingredients are used. A final coating of varnish gives the finished product its glaze and makes it water and pest resistant.
Then, the surface becomes human! The eyes get holes for irises, enabling the wearer to see. Artificial hair and other details are added, if necessary. While painting the eyes, mouth, the folds of the skin of an angry or smiling face, the painter must steady his brush, wrist and elbow as the lines drawn on the varnished surface cannot be rubbed off or changed. We must remember that this absolute faith in one’s ability to draw the perfectly sinuous line in the first attempt is something that is characteristic of indigenous art forms. We have seen it in the Kalighat patas some 200 years ago. We see them now in the patas, saras and in the perfect eyes of the Goddess Durga. In this way, however new the art of mask-making is in comparison, the Bagdis bear the legacy of a larger and older artistic tradition.
The masks are usually static. But the lion mask – the biggest and the most intricate one — can actually open its mouth in a roar. The mechanism is fairly simple. On the reverse of the mask, the jaw is attached to the upper part of the mouth with thick wire, while a spring connects the nose and the lower part of the jaw. All the wearer needs is to do is to open his/her mouth, and the lion will roar.
Another interesting sample is the Ganesha mask. It mostly resembles faces of the clay Ganeshas worshiped in Bengal. Even the decorative line on the trunk echoes the motifs of Bengal’s alpana. The unique addition is the third eye. In the hallowed iconography of practice and print, Ganesha does not have a third eye. Usually we see either a red dot or three horizontal lines or the head of a trishula (trident) on Ganesha’s forehead. One example of Ganesha with third eye is the Shubha Drishti Ganesha or simply Drishti Ganesha that, in some cultures, is placed at the entrance of homes to ward off the evil eye. But it is highly unlikely that indigenous artists such as the Bagdis would know about scriptural details of iconography of a less popular form of Ganesha. They depend on the localized knowledge of iconography. And this possibly explains why their Ganesha mask has the third eye. The idols of Gods and Goddesses intimately known to us have it. So the Ganesha mask must have it.
Bapi works with two of the five brothers to make the masks. The rest of the family assists them. Two more brothers run a small idol making enterprise in Kumartuli. In fact this paper craft began in that part of Kolkata where the Bagdis’ father Umapada Bagdi used to assist clay idol-maker Rakhal Pal. When he shifted to Birbhum and became the first artist there to make paper masks, some agents were instantly interested in selling the wares. Now the Bagdis supply masks to 27 wholesale agencies across West Bengal. These wholesalers in turn sell the masks to the retailers. Apparently these masks are in demand for TV serials, jatras, and local theatres.
Bapi proudly tells us that even the youngest child can make a mask’s basic structure. Only the children are not trusted with the actual painting, for it needs a sure hand. Their profession of mask making spills into their personal space. There is an image of the Goddess Kali painted by one of the brothers on the wall of their puja room. The oldest grandchild tells that us they used to worship a Kali mask along with other deities. As we drink sweet tea Bapi tells us anecdotes of his 16-year-long career. How some boy demanded a Krrish mask after that film became a huge hit. How he fought with a person, who after claiming to be a “police DIG”, forbade him from selling another Mother Teresa mask after buying one himself. Now Bapi does not sell his craft in Poush mela or Kenduli. Too much dust handling ruin them. Moreover, it requires a larger workforce which is expensive. He is proud of his unique craft. If people tell him that they have also made paper pulp objects and give him a lecture on what the masks should cost, Bapi simply snubs them. He asks them if they have made such masks already then why come to him. Also he is very much aware of the fact that his family is the only one in Birbhum practicing this craft. He asks us if we want to see his ‘catalogue’. Rummaging through the old tin trunk he takes out a photograph of a tableau. Against the painted set of the photography studio, a hairy creature wearing a bear mask stands and another person poses beside him acting scared. The latter is holding a human skull under his arm. Of course it is a paper mask. I recognize this as a grand opportunity to have a discussion on pop art in this context. But this photograph does not belong to our time. Let us leave it at that.
However, one question keeps on plaguing us. The masks, according to Bapi, are in demand with television serials and public performances. Even we forget the fact that not very many professional productions would want such obviously artificial looking props we might wonder how many mythological palas/theatres/serials we see these days and whom do they target. Limited within a certain cultural sphere these masks are divorced from our everyday mythological/social narratives. The masks used in the dance forms such as Chhau and Gambhira are tied to both our familiar puranic culture (Chhau) and social discourses (Gambhira). Also they have found their way into the urban buyers’ sense of aesthetics as a reminder of an unattainable idyllic space against an all invading homogeneity of the contemporary global culture. More specifically, these masks significantly constitute our apparently innocent Other. The ones made by the Bagdis are possibly too compartmentalized to obtain such a cultural position. As we know, sometimes even margin defines a location. But the masks by the Bagdis, lacking certain narrativity, do not occupy a recognized location. They, belonging to a limbo, are marginal even in terms of the margin. We suspect that their art would not risk dying out because it has never actually lived.
During our return, we have to borrow some wooden planks as a makeshift bridge over a freshly dug ditch for our bike. But that is another story.
