'Bowl'ed over by stoneware

Tidying up and arranging things are a therapeutic pastime for me. While doing this in my kitchen a few days ago, I saw the black bowl on one of the shelves. It reminded me of the day I bought it and the story behind it.

It all began at a Dastkar mela at the Karnataka Chitrakala Parishath. I find such exhibitions fascinating. The stalls representing the different states afford us a glimpse into diverse areas, and the visceral delight of looking at the culture of ethnic arts and crafts.

Browsing around, I arrived at one of the stalls of the Northeast. I was enchanted by the pottery, earthenware and terracotta on display. Searching for something both visually appealing and utilitarian, I came across this black bowl with handles and a lid: it was just the right thing. The young woman behind the counter told me that the piece I liked was “stoneware” and that she had made it herself! Her family had been making these for several generations, she added.

They lived in a remote village, very far from any town. There was no means of transport and they had perforce to trudge to the nearest town carrying their ware. It was a long, arduous trek through forests and rough terrain. I was full of sympathy for her and wanted to help her. I asked her how much the bowl cost. The price she quoted seemed very high, and unrealistic. “You know, madam, this is stoneware and the effort involved in reaching it to this place is tremendous,” she said with passionate emphasis. The smart saleswoman got her price and I brought the bowl home.   

The very first time that I took it out to use, the bowl slipped from the hands of my domestic help while she was washing it, and one handle broke. I was upset. I could now not use it. I was loath to throw it away, though. It sat behind a few things on a shelf for quite a while. But all along I kept thinking what I could do with it.

One day “Mr G” came by to see me. A resourceful person, he helps out when things need to be done around the house: fixing, repairing, polishing, etc. He also deals in antiques. I told him about my bowl. He said he would see what he could do. We spoke about the possibilities. He would have to first removing the remaining handle. “Could you drill holes on top of the bowl without damaging it?” I asked. “I must check,” he replied. “A brass band around the rim with handles,” I suggested. He liked the idea. “It depends entirely on your luck,” he said, taking it along.

It seemed like ages before Mr G called me. “Bibi,” he said one afternoon, “I’ve been able to make the holes, and to remove the handle without damaging the piece. Now, I will see about the brass rim.” I was so excited I could hardly wait to see it. Again, it was a long time before Mr G called to say he was on his way to my place with the bowl. He came in, and slowly started unwrapping the layers and layers of newspaper covering it.

Finally, I saw my bowl. It looked good! I thanked him profusely. He was proud of his achievement. “You know how many obstacles I had to overcome? That apart, it cost a lot of money.” The sum he proceeded to quote did seem like rather a lot. (The most expensive dish in my collection, I thought.) “I must say, Bibi, that your bowl looks unique, quite like an antique,” Mr G pronounced.

However, all those I told about this repair job expressed astonishment: “So much trouble and expense for a matti ka katara!” Be that as it may, I feel chuffed every time I use my black bowl – a piece my friends always comment on. And I remember the persuasive skill and business acumen of the girl I bought it from.