The daily grind of Lalbabu Mahato

“Shil kata-a-o-o!”

Lalbabu Mahato’s loud, shrill voice rings out in Garia, a neighbourhood near North Sonarpur. It’s half past noon, and other than his voice, the only sound is some idle chatter in the nearby market here in Kolkata.

“Shil kata-a-o-o!” he calls again, walking briskly down the lane, hoping for a customer who wants to get their shil nora carved. In Bengal, shil katao is the traditional work of carving designs on a granite grinding stone – shil – and a hand-held grinding tool – nora. Shil-Nora, a variant of the sil batta or the Tamil ammi kallu, is used to reduce whole spices into a wet fragrant paste or powder – central to Indian cooking. Indian cooks believe that only when the steady pressure of the nora lands on the hard shil, do herbs and spices reveal their true flavor profile.

“Its main job is to make the masala more fine. No fancy mixer will give you the same quality,” is Lalbabu’s final word on this important kitchen tool.

“There are hardly any new people practising shil katao as a profession. We are the final generation,” Lalbabu, a migrant from Bihar’s Siwan district, says, “even about 10 years ago when I first arrived here, there were 250 of us in Kidderpore alone. Now, most have grown old, and retired, unfit for such tiring work.”

Kidderpore is where Lalbabu, who belongs to the Kurmi community (listed as Other Backward Classes both in Bihar and West Bengal), lives in a rented room with three others plying the same trade. “We walk all over the city [Kolkata] for work. I mostly cover the southern part, visiting a different area each day. Today, I am here at Garia, tomorrow I’ll go to Ballygunge, the next day to Santoshpur,” says Lalbabu, who is in his forties. Commuting across the city on public transport costs him around Rs. 30 a day.

In Garia, after an hour-long bus journey, and considerable walking around, he lands his first customer of the day.

He settles down on the pavement and starts chipping away with a haaturi (hammer) and a chheni (blade) that have emerged from the grey bag he carries with him. A cloud of dust and particles rise from the stone, settling on his hands and feet.

Thuk-thuk-thuk-thuk.

The sound of Lalbabu’s work is rhythmic and continuous, creating a pattern of broken lines on the shil. “Some [artisans] design fish, lotuses or elephants at the top. But I do not know how to engrave them. They require specific training,” he says, as his hands continue to work, moving on to the nora. Lalbabu explains that the designs have a certain sharpness, essential to the crushing of spice.

The efficiency of a shil-nora is dependent on friction. “They are usually made of polished stone with a smooth surface. But when we carve on a shil nora, we cut into this smoothness,” Lalbabu says. He explains that from time to time, this friction, being worn by use, must be restored. That’s where the likes of Lalbabu step in to do their work. But once carved, a shil nora can last up to a year.

In Bengal, besides spices, shil-nora is also used to mash flat beans, pumpkin leaves or posto (poppy seeds), into a smooth paste or baata.

Beyond the kitchen, the tool is used in Hindu rituals such as sital sasthhi (the union of Shiva and Parvati) in Odisha and ranna pujo in West Bengal.

To work on one shil, Lalbabu takes less than 10 minutes and charges Rs. 100. But finding work is not guaranteed and he is also employed part-time at a flour mill in Sonarpur.

Lalbabu started learning this work when he was 15 years old. “We used to have a shil at home, but it wasn’t used much. So, I would try my engravings on it, and I would also join babu [father] in our village when he would go out for this work,” he recalls.

“When I was learning from my father it took me at least 15 minutes to finish a shil,” he says, laughing. “If I messed up, the stone chippings would land with great force on my hands. Sometimes, I would mishandle the tools, and that would be especially bad if they were rusty,” he recalls. He also adds that when he began working in the city, he would take around Rs. 50 for this work.

As he grew older, Lalbabu also worked on their family’s land. “We have been growing gom [wheat], dhaan [paddy], gota [brinjal] on our 20 katha [about 0.7 acres] land. A bit of family income also comes from selling them. But that is not enough,” he rues.

And so Lalbabu left home. One of the steady stream of migrants from Bihar, which ranks second-highest in the nation in terms of out-migration for work (Census 2011).

“In our village, there is no system to ensure year-round irrigation; fertiliser prices have also gone up,” Lalbabu says. The city offers Lalbabu a guarantee. “Here, we can find some work, even if it’s not much,” he adds. At the time of his migration, he was the only earning member in his family with a wife and son to support.

Back home by evening, on some days Lalbabu makes himself a cup of tea or goes out again to buy vegetables for dinner, which the four of them make together – usually a staple roti sabzi. In this room, where a fraying marigold garland hangs from the door, Lalbabu and his companions fall back into their own language – “a mix of Hindi and Maithili,” Lalbabu says.

More than a century ago, the shil-nora was sold with a set of traditional jaanta-chakti (grindstone) for crushing wheat. The hawkers of 19th century Bengal would call out, “Katao-shil-chakti-jnata,” elongating the vowels just as Lalbabu does today. With the rise of commercial wheat-grinding machines at flour mills, especially in the early 20th century, the jnata and chakti were no longer sold in this manner.

Lalbabu usually receives a call from the mill if there is work – maybe twice every few weeks and earns a daily wage of Rs. 200.

“There, a shil is connected to a larger machine for fine grinding of wheat. I carve this shil, and also help out with the machine,” he says, “but sometimes, they don’t call me for months,” as he wraps up his first job of the day.

The shil Lalbabu has finished carving belongs to 53-year-old Paramita Sengupta, who says, “We have had this shil for 30 years, and he is taking great care of it.”