Guest Blog and Photos by Alex Miller
“Namashkar,” I say to a stout old man who could easily play for a college rugby team. I’ve come to learn pottery from a man who looks like God himself made him on a potter’s wheel. Mr. Motiramji is a traditional Indian potter who has been throwing pottery on his wheel for some 50 years. Coming from a long line of potters, Ramji spins the clay like he was learning for the first time like me, but has the steady hands like those of a master.
“Sit, sit, please,” he says excitedly. I reluctantly perch on one of his classic plastic chairs, eagerly awaiting his instruction on how smooth the gray clay as it spins on the wheel. He first gives me an introductory lesson about how he got involved in pottery and how important it is in his life. With the aid of an interpreter, he speaks in Maharati, a form of Hindi.
I learn that potters are some of the most respected artisans in the village. Before the advent of steel and plastic, clay pottery was used for containing valuables, liquids, and food items for everyday living. The potter was the man farmers would ask to make containers to haul their vegetables, working women to carry the morning’s water, and newlywed couples to fulfill the tradition of “breaking the pot” for good luck. From holding the first pure water used to wash a newborn to providing the last home for the ashes of a deceased loved one, clay continues to play an important part in rural Indian life.
“You have to have steady hands,” Ramji says with an entertained smirk while I rattle my hands up and down, making the clay blob lopsided until it eventually slides of the wheel.
“Once your hands remain still, the clay with do whatever you tell it to,” he reiterates for the 100th time, repeating a saying his father and his father before him preached years before I ever considered taking a pottery lesson.
As my first lesson continues, the clay crumples up as I glide my finger tighter and tighter up to the top to form a cone. I dip my hand in some water to make this form come out smoother, as well as to give the clay texture a shine. I end up with a bowl that a golden retriever would be happy to eat out of, but I am reluctant to call myself a natural. Mr. Motiramji smiles at my excitement rather then talent, and we both agree I’ll come back tomorrow to match my passion with my skill. For the following two months I will continue to visit his house after a day at work, using his passion for pottery as a medium for our language barrier.
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