Every number shaped from terracotta carries the touch of genealogical wisdom, echoing India’s enduring reverence for handmade elegance and cultural memory.
Normally plastered in a gorgeous coat of red dust by sundown, I am Siddiq, twenty-five. My town rests on the brink of Bankura, West Bengal, a region recognized for its challenging, red terracotta equines. Nevertheless, for us, they are a daily occurrence; visitors buy them as keepsakes.
I started this job when I might walk and saw clay travel from the riverbed to the marketplace. It was not a book; it was simply raw, sticky ground, a whirling wheel, and tales spun over chai.
My First Memory of Clay
I still remember the monsoon mid-day I first reached right into moist clay with my hand. Maa had bought me to obtain Baba, who was producing Diyas for Diwali orders. Moving on the slippery courtyard, I dropped on a fresh swelling of ground. Baba responded, “The clay picked you,” laughed, and dabbed at my tears. That day, I uncovered something standard: clay just forms under regular hands; it does not evaluate age.
Historical Origins