Forging music for the fields

As he prepares a sheet of iron by striking it with a long hammer, Raghuveer Vishwakarma strikes up a rhythm: ‘Thud thud thud thud.’ The ‘tap tap tap’ of a smaller hammer follows, as the artisan switches to finer detailing, ensuring there are no bumps on the metal that he’s about to fashion into a bell.

“This is the jewellery of cattle,” Raghuveer says, a quiet pride in his voice. “Just like goldsmiths make jewellery for people, we make jewellery for cattle.”

The 76-year-old is one of the oldest craftspersons making cattle bells in Ramghad Tola, in Baranw village of Jharkhand’s Palamu district. The tola (a settlement in the village, in this case of blacksmiths) is like one large factory, says Raghuveer – everyone is a bell maker here.

“Hamra baap dada sab yahi kar raha tha. Ham to nipadh admi hai, thepadhari hai, vishwas nahi kariyega [My father and grandfather all did this work. I am uneducated, a thepadhari—one who can’t sign and uses a thumbprint instead – you wouldn’t believe it],” says the fifth-generation artisan.

This cold winter morning, Raghuveer sits outside his mud house, perched lightly on his haunches on a jute sack. With his left hand, he grips the metal sheet, and with his right, he swings the hammer.

Cattle bells have long been considered ornaments for livestock. World over, rural communities have found the bell to be more than an accessory – its gentle clank has a practical purpose, helping farmers locate their cattle in dense forests.

Once a symbol of a prosperous rural life, with the advent of machines, the once-familiar sound of these bells has faded.

Indigenous cattle used as draught animals have reduced in numbers, Raghuveer said. “Maweshi ab hai kahan? Yahin dekhiye, kisi ke pas ek go kisi ke pass du go hai, to kahan se bikega? [Where are the indigenous cattle now? Look around here – some people have only one, some have two. How would cattle bells be in demand?]” he says.

Talking about a time when cattle-rearing was vital reminds Raghuveer of his youth, when the nearby forest was alive with adventure.

“Yahan isi jagah par bagh bol raha tha, ham chote go the. Apna hosh me, abhi to takat nahi hai...lekin ek samay tha jab ham bagh ko lathi se mare hai, [There was a time when tigers roamed here. I was a young boy then. I saw it with my own eyes. I no longer have the strength, but there was a time when we chased tigers away with sticks],” says Raghuveer, highlighting how dense the forests in Palamu once were, and why cattle bells were in demand.

Raghuveer and his wife, Gangajali Devi, have six daughters and one son, all married and living separately. The elderly couple is at the end of a week-long period of crafting bells of various sizes before the furnace is fired up, and a final batch of bells is to be readied.

Raghuveer learned the craft as a young boy from his father. “I was about this tall,” he says, gesturing towards his shoulder while seated. “I once carried a sack on my head and walked all the way to the Garhwa bazaar,” he says proudly. “When I was around 10 or 12 years old, I used to walk to Daltonganj, which is 3.5 kos [about 12 kilometre] from here. Garhwa was even farther, six kos [around 19 km]. This was back in 1966.”

Making cattle bells is a long, intricate process. It begins with heating sheets of iron that are then cut into different shapes.

“This here is called a pharma. It’s our measuring tool,” Raghuveer explains, showing a traditional template passed down through generations.

The template is a set of metal sheets of different sizes, hanging on a wall like a large keychain. Each sheet represents the precise measurements for a specific component of a bell, such as the outer shell, or the cap. Raghuveer has 10 sets of the pharma, one each for a bell of a particular size.

Once the sheets are cut, artisans hammer them into shape and rivet the edges together. Next, they prepare the bell’s top and attach a clip to hang from a rope or chain.

The final step involves placing the bells in a mould of mud mixed with rice husk. Inside each mould, they place a small piece of brass and suhaga (borax). The brass gives the bell its clear, ringing timbre, while the borax provides a protective coating over the molten metal, also removing impurities and lowering its melting point.

The moulds will dry in the sun for a day or two before being forge-welded in the charcoal-fired furnace.

It is the women of the household who usually make the moulds. “It is hard work. We have to fetch mud from the hillside,” says Gangajali, who used to carry mud on her head from nearly a kilometre away. Her health declining, Raghuveer now brings the mud by bicycle.

“Ekra me etna mehanat ba rauka ki mat puchun [This work requires so much effort, you can’t imagine],” says Gangajali, describing the labour-intensive process. “When the furnace is lit, everyone has to work together day and night to get everything done.”

Their craft unable to provide an adequate income, the couple also cultivates their two bighas of land (around 1.6 acres), growing paddy and maize during the kharif season, and a small amount of wheat for the rabi crop.

This year marks their return to farming after a gap of two years – everybody else was doing it, reasons Gangajali. Raghuveer is not optimistic. Farming no longer provides sustenance, he explains.

In the 1970s, Baranw village had thriving crops, he remembers. One landlord had 16 ploughs working at once. “They switched out the bulls that got tired, but the ploughs never stopped,” says Raghuveer. Those days are a distant memory.

“In a good harvest, we had enough food to feed the entire family for two years,” says Raghuveer. Now, even in a good farming season, they buy atta (flour) and chawal (rice) from the market.

Along with quantity, the quality of farm produce has deteriorated too.

Back then, they grew saanwa and kodo (millets) and rice varieties such as pandi and bakhar (types of usna or parboiled rice). “Humlog ek ek kilo chawal me bhat kha ke pachate the...puchiye pariwar baitha hai samne. [I used to eat a whole kilo of rice and digest it easily. Ask my wife],” he says, pointing towards Gangajali.

“We could drink three kilos of buffalo milk in one sitting. Could you digest that today? Back then, we’d also consume 250–300 grams of freshly churned ghee like it was nothing,” he laughs.

“Jis samay bagh ko lathi se mare the, us samay hamara lathi tha taulal 3.5 seer. [When I chased away tigers with my stick, the stick weighed 3.5 seer [about 1.5 kilos],” he adds. The seer is a unit of measurement that varies across regions, about 425 gm in and around Palamu.

After days of preparation, the furnace is fired up at 4 a.m.

The family has two traditional furnaces – the one outdoors that is used frequently, and an indoor furnace for use during the monsoon or at the height of the summer when hot winds blow.

Locally called banthi, the clay furnace has a bellows – a device to fan the fire – made of goatskin. Periodically, Raghuveer lifts the lid of the furnace and tends to the fire. He instructs Gangajali, seated at the opposite end by the bellows, when to move the bamboo stick attached to it, to pump the air in faster or slower.

Even on a cold winter morning, the couple is sweating while working near the fired-up furnace.

About 20 to 25 small bells are fired in one batch, or 10 to 15 medium ones, and only two to three large bells. Raghuveer uses a long iron tong to handle the bells in the furnace. It takes about 30 minutes for one batch to be fired.

Meanwhile, Gangajali fans the furnace continuously to keep the fire going.

Once fired, each bell must be tuned to produce the right sound, using a hammer for fine adjustments to its thickness. With the hammer, Raghuveer carefully folds the edges inward and attaches a clapper of either iron or wood. “The best sound comes from khair [Senegalia catechu] wood,” he says, testing the tone of a just-fired bell.

“Look, we used to make bells this big,” says Raghuveer, showing an old broken bell hanging in one corner of his verandah. “There wasn’t enough clay in this spot, so it got burned,” he adds.

Despite the hard labour, the craft offers low profits. “There is no real gain in this – or in farming either,” he says bitterly. “You are educated, you can do the math yourself.”

For one batch of bells, Raghuveer’s costs total Rs. 3,000- 4,000. Profits are just about the same as expenses. “If I sell the bells for Rs. 8,000, and subtract the costs, what’s left? That’s all we survive on,” he explains.

His earnings rarely outpace daily wages though he sells 200-300 bells every month. According to Raghuveer, he earned only Rs 4,000 the previous month.

He says mahangayi [inflation] has made things much worse. “There was a time when we bought iron sheets for eight annas [50 paise] a kilo. Now those same sheets cost 100 rupees a kilo” he says. “We used to get brass for six rupees a kilo, but now it’s 550.”

Rising prices affect all aspects of his life. “I remember buying teen sher [roughly 1.3 kilo] of maize for a rupee. Now you won’t find maize for less than 20 rupees a kilo. Just think how expensive everything has become.”

Raghuveer has worked for daily wages in the past, breaking stones, building houses, carpentry, and even in factories. “When the railway line doubling project was happening near Rehla, I worked on it for 733 days. I missed getting a permanent job by just three days,” he recalls. That was 1974. His wages were Rs. 105 a month.

Now in his seventies, wage labour is no longer an option. “Nobody will hire me…who would pay me?” he asks.

The only government support he received was funds to build a toilet, besides a state government old-age pension scheme that pays him and Gangajali a monthly Rs. 1,000 each.

Raghuveer and his wife are both in poor health, battling joint pains and requiring regular medication. “Naam dekhiye bhagwan hamko diye Raghuveer Vishwakarma lekin shakti nahi diye [God gave me the name Raghuveer Vishwakarma, but didn’t give me the strength],” he says.

As the day’s work comes to an end, Raghuveer walks two kms to the nearest rural bank to inquire about his pension.

Aadhaar card in hand, he approaches the counter, only to be told to wait. “They’ve taken my number, but there’s a long line,” he says. “They’re saying it’ll take at least two hours. Who knows how much longer it might actually take?”

Returning the next day isn’t an option – he simply doesn’t have the energy for another trip. So, he waits. He hopes to withdraw Rs 1,000, for medicines, the next batch of bells, and groceries.

“If the money doesn’t come through, I’ll just withdraw 200 rupees and head back,” he says. That would be the last of his savings, from the previous month’s pension.

Raghuveer will await his turn on a bench. As he sits down, he rests his stick against the wall, many times lighter than the lathi of his youth.

This story is supported by a fellowship from Mrinalini Mukherjee Foundation (MMF).