Gracias

Hair tied in a pony with his characteristic jeans and kurta he looks every inch a rock star. We are in his studio hut.

The early morning sun is seeping into the hut making patterns on the floor. Amidst the patterns he sits on the floor kneading the clay with his large squarish hands. I am intrigued by the largeness of his hands. It kind of doesn't belong to him. He is aware of my presence I think, but does not say a word or look at me. I am supposed to be correcting my answer scripts and working on my lessons for the day, but fascinated I watch him.

He goes through the kneading process almost meditatively. I wonder what he is thinking. Or just not thinking anything at all. His clay is prepared. He gets up with an agility that surprises me. He takes the lump of clay to the wheel. I am surprised at the smallness of his feet in comparison to his hands.

He places the lump of clay on the steel plate of the gleaming yellow motorised wheel, wipes the sweat on his brow with the sleeves of his kurta and daintily switches on the motor without letting the mud blotch the motor.

He sits on the little platform giving me a half smile as if to let me know that he knows that I am watching. I acknowledge. I feel connected in a small way.

Then the magic happens. His deft hands work magically on the soft clay transforming, shaping it into a beautiful form.

He dabs water once in a while as his form takes shape. I wonder what he is making. Does he have the form figured in his mind or that he shapes that moment of calling from inside.

After ten minutes of silent movements later the form emerges as he created it. He takes a thread and skillfully draws it across the metal plate at the bottom of the pot.

He lifts his new creation with the gentleness of a father lifting a new born baby. He places his creation very tenderly on the table as if any jerky movement could hurt his creation. He looks at me squarely in the eye and gives me a full smile. I think I can see a soul-stirring deep intensity in the smile.

Much later he is talking to someone and I happen to overhear his words.

My work connect to me only as long as I don't put my creations into the kiln. They sit there on the table talking to me telling me if I could have shaped them this way or that way. I watch the flaws in them or admire if they have turned out to be as I want them to be.

Once I fire them I don't take a second look at them. They aren't even mine any more, he says detachedly.

What a fine lesson I have learnt today my friend.

Gracias mon amigo.