Demons are cast here

Rajeev Dutta has an intense scowl on his face. Behind his two-room house in Charida village (Purulia district, West Bengal), the ancient Ayodhya hills rest in knobbly shapes. One hill looks like a scraggly vulture’s face, another like a bent old man. Dutta seems immune to the astounding beauty of his surroundings. He is painting a mask depicting the “demon god” Mahisasur, who, according to Hindu mythology, was slain by goddess Durga, regarded as a symbol of shakti. Even when it comes to demon gods, there is a strict hierarchy.

“Mahisasur is of primary importance. Then come the others like Raktasur,” says the 38-year-old Dutta, who has been making Chhau masks since he was 11. These masks are essential to the indigenous dance form. The Chhau dance, characterised by vigorous movements and acrobatics, depict dramatic moments from various Puranic tales. The recent controversy stoked by Human Resource Development minister Smriti Irani, who questioned the deification of Mahisasur by certain communities, has not affected Dutta in any way. “For us mask makers, demons and gods are the same,” he says while rushing to finish work on a consignment of 20 masks for delivery to Kolkata. “It will be presented to dignitaries who visit the state during the election season,” he says.

The election month has proved to be an unusual boom time for this village, which is home to about 300 artisans involved in either making masks or assembling decorations for the headgears. “Until around February, we were making about three to four smalls masks a day, but from March we have been making about 10 each day. Various political parties have approached us for small, compact masks to present to visiting political leaders,” says Dutta, who has two helpers to run his unit. Last month, he earned ₹5,000 more from catering to orders from political parties. “From BJP to Trinamool, everybody comes to us,” he says. On average, he makes about ₹300 a day, and pays his helpers ₹50 each.

There are more than 200 Chhau groups in Purulia town and all of them source their masks from Charida, about 55 km away. For long, these dance troupes were the only source of income for the mask makers. However, of late, the masks are being recognised as objects of art in their own right. “Each mask takes about three days to be completed. First we use clay to shape the mask, then we dry it, and finally we paint on it. Next we attach the headgear,” Dutta explains. The elaborate headgear, a characteristic feature of the Chhau masks, take a few days to be made. Beads, sequins, and silver and golden foils are collated into intricate shapes. “The women of the household help us make the headgear,” explains Dutta.

A few minutes’ walk from his hut, down a winding, dusty path is Jagdish Sutradhar’s house. It’s bigger but doesn’t have the modern features (read concrete walls and a television) that Dutta’s dwelling has. Sutradhar, 55, has been a Chhau mask-maker for most of his life. “We have been making these masks for about three generations; before that we were idol-makers,” he says.

Like his surname suggests — a sutradhar is a storyteller — he loves telling stories. “Traditionally, we are the sub-caste that was exclusively supposed to make masks. Nowadays, everybody makes them,” he says. His two sons are also into mask-making.

Over four decades dedicated to this craft, Sutradhar has seen many up and downs. “During my grandfather’s time, people wouldn’t even give us money. They would give us just grains, vegetables and saris. That would suffice,” he says. Today, he is grateful that city dwellers have “great whims and fancies”. “The other day, some BJP workers bought some masks from me and told me that my mask will adorn the house of some major BJP leader. For me all parties are the same. I only need ₹150 for my mask,” he laughs.

Back in Dutta’s house, things are in emergency mode now. All members of the family, including wife Phulmoni (33) and daughter Drishti (7) have joined Dutta and his helpers in their race against time.

It’s 3 pm, and four masks remain to be finished.

“My daughter is deft at making headgear,” says Dutta, pointing to the child busily making a garland of yellow beads. “I plan to teach her this art, but I would rather she becomes a doctor or an engineer,” says the father.

(Debapriya Nandi is a freelance journalist based in Kolkata)

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