One of my vivid childhood memories is of a roaring jeep and someone calling my father’s Jha…oye…. welder Jhaaaa!
The jeep came at odd times, late in the nights. My father would get his khaki pants on and walk out holding his shirt. “Breakdown. I must go.”
He was a welder in a nearby factory, and senior officials came with the jeep only when they needed his skills urgently. Otherwise, he was ignored because of his hotheadedness and labor politics. He was never promoted in his thirty-five years of service. He made peace with it, and put his mind and soul to things he learned to make. This helped him control his anger and pass downtime in the factory.
He started with mortar and pestles, as they were easy to make: blackish brown iron sheets cut in pieces and welded into a circular form, then welded to another thin iron sheet for the base. The pestle was basically a bunch of thin iron rods welded together. They were ugly and heavy, but useful for pounding dried chili, coriander, cumin and other spices—especially to make pickles. My mother also pounded rice in them to make a bread called Peetha.
Gradually my father learned to refine the mortar and pestle aesthetically and used steel plates. The later versions had more circular girth and base had four or five layers of thin plates joined together. He had learned to shine them on the machine so that they had a steel-gray feel. It was a contrast to see his first creation in comparison to the new ones. With age, his pestles became much more sophisticated. They felt more like a smaller, longer version of a dumbbell. He would make the base of the pestle thick and top a bit thin so that it could easily gripped.
He refined the sizes as well and made petite lightweight ones with carvings to pound ginger, garlic and onion. He would use these on days when he cooked mutton. My mother would lend them to neighbors proudly saying, “Sushil’s father made it by hand.”
At one point, he could make anything with iron. Smoking pipes, chillum, walking sticks, knives, iron balls, and incense-stands. But his specialty was the mortar and pestle. As I grew up and went away for university and later to corporate jobs, a chasm occurred between us—a class gap, I would say.
After I got married, my wife was the one who would talk to my father. She is an artist and was interested in the things my father made.
The last time we saw him, he was sick and bedridden. My wife told him that she recently held an exhibition in the U.S. Father listened to her intently. When we were leaving, he gave her a box. We forgot the box as father’s health deteriorated. He died two months later.
We opened the box after my father’s death. A bright, shiny mortar and pestle with intricate carvings was staring out at us.
Illustrated by Lara Schaberg
