In Virudhachalam: art from the earth

When I think of clay dolls, I am taken back to my childhood – to the days we wandered near the banks of the river, caught fish in the pond, and scooped clay from the water’s edge to make our own dolls. Most were bulls or tractors, figures from the farm world around us. That’s how my bond with clay began.

Later, it deepened when I began travelling with Ezhil anna (elder brother). He would make countless clay dolls and masks, and when he taught children, he created all sorts of figures. Watching him, I’d wonder – can clay really become all this?

That wonder grew when a group of us formed Kaliman Viralgal (clay fingers in Tamil), a collective dedicated to clay. Wherever we went to conduct workshops for children, we’d use the local clay from that village. That’s when my real search began – for clay, and for the stories that lived within it.

A few years ago, Ezhil anna told me about meeting Suguna akka (elder sister) during a ceramics workshop in Virudhachalam where a group of women were running a ceramics factory together. Hearing their story, I decided I must visit them, see their dolls, and photograph their world.

After joining the People’s Archive of Rural India (PARI), I knew this was a story to tell. When I went to conduct a workshop at the Anitha Library in Ariyalur named after the student Anitha who died by suicide after NEET – I finally met Suguna. We met several more times, and eventually I travelled to her village to document her work.

The place is known for ceramics. Earlier, people worked with government support, but that has long gone. As I entered, I saw rows of houses displaying and selling ceramic dolls. Since the industry has declined, earthen lamps are now everywhere – freshly moulded, laid out to dry. In Virudhachalam and its surrounding villages, ceramic sculptures and lamps fill almost every street.

The whole village seemed alive – goods being carried, loaded onto lorries, and sent off to other towns. Traders from faraway places came to buy dolls in bulk. That was the sight that greeted me when I entered.

In a small shed, Suguna akka and her husband were working on their dolls. She is a lively, talkative woman — her stories spill over, beginning in one place and ending in another. But as you sit with her, you realise how rich her life is, how full her stories are.

Suguna’s story

Vanakkam! My name is Suguna. I’ve been doing this work since 2008. I lost both my parents when I was very young.

After my father passed away, my mother began working in a nearby doll-making factory. She would bring dolls home, and that’s when I first became fascinated by them. From the time I was four, I was more drawn to dolls than to school. I used to wonder: how do they make these? What are they made of?

When my mother died, my grandmother said, “you can’t go to school anymore. I can’t look after you.” She sent me to work with my sister at the same factory. I was 10 years old.

At first, I was allowed only to mix and sieve the clay – not to touch the dolls. Two years later, I began pouring clay into moulds. Slowly, I learned casting too. But after a while, I wanted to do better. That’s when I decided to learn art.

It took me four years to learn. I started when I was 14, earning 75 rupees a day. Artists earned a 100 rupees, and when I asked for the same, they said, “you’re still young.” So I left.

Later, I began taking up contract work – around 10 companies gave me their art orders. That’s when I realised: if we keep improving our skills, our work will lift us up.

Slowly, people began to respect me. In those days, only artists sat at tables; others sat on the floor. But the same people who once dismissed me started calling me back. My finishing – the eyes, lips, the tiny details – made my work stand out.

But some places were unbearable. The way they looked at women, the way they mocked us – I refused to go back, no matter what the pay.

I met my husband in one such factory. He wanted to go abroad, but I told him, “if we marry, you’ll have to stay and run this company with me.” That was my only condition.

Why do I love this work so much? Maybe because it’s clay – I give it shape, bring it to life, and people admire it. That joy keeps me going.

In this region, only two or three women work with clay; I’m the only one who does full art. The first woman clay artist here. My dream is to build a brand of my own – dolls with a distinct style.

Once, a well-known male artist told me, “this isn’t work for a woman. What if your vehicle breaks down? Who will push it?” So I bought my own vehicle, travelled alone, took orders, and delivered work myself – I must have been just 16 or 17 then.

People mocked me: “you’re a girl, can you really do this forever?”
That only made me stronger. I started making bigger figures – the kind people said a woman couldn’t.

They called me arrogant, said I had attitude. But that very image protected me. No one dared speak badly after that.

When we began, we believed this craft would last for generations. Today, it’s hard to survive. In places like Gujarat and Karaikal, machines now make dolls. Small makers like us can’t compete.

Even locally, there’s little support. People say, “who’ll buy dolls made by these potter folk, these Kuravars?” Slowly, they’ve turned away from their own craft.

Now, only ordinary clay work sells – quick moulds, dried and painted cheaply. But true ceramic work is different – it needs time, care, and skill. After all that effort, it’s still hard to find buyers.

Poor-quality work by some has spoiled the name of the craft. Sometimes I wonder whether this art will vanish altogether.

The good clay – panruti clay – rarely reaches us now. The best quality is exported; we get the leftovers. A ton costs 3,000–4,000 rupees; the kind we need for mixing costs 10,000 rupees. From 5,000 rupees earned on 200 dolls, our actual income is barely a 1,000 after costs.

We buy raw clay, mix it ourselves with bentonite, soda silicate, and silica. That improves strength and shine. Plain clay alone won’t hold.

I lost my parents early. My grandmother raised me, and this work gave me shelter and shade – better than hard labour under the sun, she said.

I married nearby so I could start my own company. It’s been three years now. My father died when I was three, my mother when I was six. My sisters moved away, but I stayed – because I love ceramics. It made me who I am.

But times have changed. Raw materials are expensive, profits small. Only the rich can buy good clay in bulk. Women here are still expected to stay home. If my designs do well, it’s all in her stars, they would say. If they don’t, they will blame it on my bad luck. So now I keep my models to myself.

All 40 models we make are my designs. Outside, they’d cost 5,000 rupees. Here, we sell for less, but still people think, “if it’s local, it must be inferior.”

Among all the dolls, I love making murugar idols most – the ornaments, the crown, the arch – I love doing them.

The government kiln nearby isn’t open, so we use private ones that charge 20–25 rupees a kilo. Government rates are 17–18 rupees. If we all united and approached the officials together, maybe things would change. But here, people don’t cooperate. In Thanjavur, it’s different – there’s unity and government support.

Our materials — white bentonite, fire clay — come from other states. A ton of good clay costs 15,000 rupees, but our dolls sell for 30 rupeeseach. How can we afford it? Even colours cost Rs. 200–300 for a100 grams.

We started an association five years ago, but no real support has come. If the government subsidised raw materials or offered low-cost machinery, this craft could survive. For now, only the big industries profit; small workers just keep the cycle going.

Even after all these years, people still ask, “what has she achieved?” That hurts.

When we began, traders came from Andhra and Gujarat to buy our dolls. Now, sales happen only during Ayudha Pooja and Navaratri Kolu festivals. The rest of the year is dry. Only agal vilakkus – earthen lamps – sell steadily. We sell them for a rupee each, mostly exported to north India for temples and festivals.

We hand our products to godowns because we can’t afford to store them. The middlemen profit; we barely manage. If we had capital, we could hold our stock till the festive season and sell directly.

Within a hundred metres, there are at least 10 workshops here. Most make dolls of different varieties, the rest lamps. Many artists have shifted to agal work – it’s steady and safe, unlike dolls, where a single mistake means total loss. Even we are planning to shift over next year.

Sumathi’s story

My name is Sumathi. I’ve been running a small ceramic doll company for 15 years. Sometimes dolls sell, sometimes they don’t. During the rains, nothing dries; the work halts. I’ve often wondered whether I should move on.

I was married in Mumbai and lived in Surat for a while. My husband was a heavy drinker; I left and returned home in 2005. I started learning ceramics, and soon set up a small workshop. I raised my son through this work – he’s in college now.

We sell dolls for Rs. 25; buyers resell them for Rs.100. After paying rent, colours, and wages, there’s barely anything left. Still, I can’t leave this work – it’s all I know.

There’s no one to teach us. Whatever I’ve learned, I learned by watching others and experimenting alone.

I used to walk three kilometres to work when even two rupees for the bus was unaffordable. At first, I made one doll a day. Now, I can finish that in an hour. I’ve come a long way – from walking to work with empty hands to standing on my own feet.

Life is better now, though business is slow. Prices have gone up, but buyers still bargain. If business is good one day, we eat well. If not, I spend the night worrying about the next day’s clay or electricity bill. My child keeps me going.

Sometimes I ask myself – why did I marry, why did I have a child? When he asks why I didn’t send him to a better school, I feel the pain. But still, we survive – because of this work.

I’ve been here for 17 years now. I know every stage – from collecting clay to moulding. I feel proud when people say, “You’ve done so well, for a woman.” I’ve walked a long path to reach here, and even though business is uncertain, there’s dignity in this work.

K. Gunasekaran
I’ve been in this field for 25 years. Business went well until COVID — after that, everything stopped. I once ran a company with eight workers; now I work alone.

Material costs are high, profits thin. For 300 dolls, I spend about 9,000 rupees and earn barely 1,000 to 1,500 profit if all goes well. If the clay or colour fails, it’s a total loss.

Even the market has changed – no one buys decorative dolls anymore. With LED TVs and fewer showcases, people call them old-fashioned.

I lost my wife recently to a lung infection — they say it’s because of the dust from this work. I have two sons. I can’t afford private schooling anymore. I’m struggling to keep the business and family afloat.

Dust allergy and lung issues are common among us. If the government promoted ceramic dolls the way they once promoted agal lamps – asking people to “buy clay dolls made in Virudhachalam,” maybe things would revive.

We’ve applied for government schemes and bank loans, but without property or surety, no one helps us. We just keep working with our hands – holding on to what little remains of this craft.

For these women and men, clay is more than craft; it is survival, memory, and defiance. The work no longer brings steady income, nor the recognition it deserves, yet the makers persist. As industries turn to machines and markets move on, these hands continue to shape what endures: the dignity of work and the stubborn beauty of art born from earth.

This story was originally written in Tamil.