Where have all the palm leaves gone

Jhunu is happily munching on palm leaves. It’s not a part of this domesticated goat’s diet, but it’s a tasty treat from time to time.

The young domesticated animal’s casual eating is slightly worrying for Kalyani Patra who is fashioning a hat out of the long fronds. The veteran artisan pats her goat Jhunu lightly on the head, trying to dissuade it from eating up her scarce raw material.

With good reason: the palmyra palm [Borassus flabellifer] is a tall tree – about 30 metres in height. “The main obstacle is getting the palm leaf. It is one of the tallest trees in Bengal. There are lots of trees, but the skill of climbing them is gone,” says the 50-year-old Kalyani.

Her neighbour Chaya Pramanik, another veteran at the craft agrees saying, “earlier, men of the house would fetch the leaves. But now young boys don’t know how to climb the palm tree.” Then Pramanik throws in the philosophical and practical point: “And who has the time to climb trees now?”

Kalyani and Chaya belong to the Akhudi Dom community who have been working with this leaf for generations. “Our neighbourhood is known for its palm leaf and bamboo work,” says Kalyani as her hands continue to move. “Earlier when there was a wedding in our community, expertise with the bamboo was considered a strong virtue for both a man and woman.” She adds that now it is mostly the women of the Dom community (listed as Schedule Caste in the state) who practise the craft. They make hats, hand fans and other objects from palm leaves and bamboo.

Men who can still make the tough climb up the tree – like Bapi Dhara – spell some hope for the craftspeople. Bapi has been climbing palm trees since the age of 10, learning under the tutelage of his kaka (paternal uncle). In his forties, Bapi says he no longer does this work for money, but more as a service to his community members.

“A chhaan [cord], made either of taal er bet [palm leaf] or plastic, is tied around the feet, and the hands are also clasped into a lock. This helps us to pull ourselves up,” explains Bapi. He adds that coming down is equally tough.

Once he reaches the top, Bapi must decide which leaves are suitable for cutting based on their size and suppleness. He warns that not all leaves should be chopped off at once or the tree is harmed, a maximum of 20-24 leaves at one time is ideal.

Once he comes down, he trims the leaves and gets rid of the stalk – a process that takes up to two hours.

When Bapi is not available, the leaves have to be bought from sellers in the markets of Raghunathpur, Kharui and Majuria in Birbhum, says Sandhya Majhi, another veteran palm leaf artisan from the cluster. Each branch costs about 10 rupees and makes two hats.

Unlike palm, bamboo is more readily available. “The dabla baans [bamboo] is about 12 feet long and can be bought at the nearest crossroad, a five minutes walking distance,” says Kalyani. They are sold by bamboo hawkers who come everyday from the nearby village of Moyrapur and prices range from Rs. 60 to 120 a stem, based on season and demand.

But bamboo is a tougher raw material and requires slicing and splitting of the hard bamboo stems. The artisans deftly create thin strips of about three millimetre width and half a millimetre of thickness with which they work. It’s the women of the community who do the weaving. Kalyani often works late into the evening when it is already dark outside. In Birbhum’s sweltering summer heat, she sits outside her doorway, the tubelight from inside the room guiding her. “It is possible to make a hat within an hour if all the materials are ready and cut to size. But with all the household chores we have to do, we cannot give undivided time to the craft,” she says. Kalyani has also been a trainer of bamboo craft for local NGOs in Bolpur.

The hats are made in three sizes: small, medium and large, for which the artisans depend on their hand to measure the inner core of the bamboo, says veteran Sandhya Majhi. She is one of the oldest artisans of the community. “We learnt it [the craft] so long back from our parents, it almost feels like we learnt it in the womb,” the 65-year-old says laughing.

Chaya Pramanik explains the process saying, “first, an open-weave helmet structure called chalni is made by interweaving fine bamboo strips. Then, the palm leaf strips are laid out one-by-one with slight overlaps on top of the bamboo shell, forming the chhaoni. These are held in place by stitching using a thick needle and thread drawn from the sheath of the palm leaves. Finally, palm leaf strips are fanned out like a roundel at the topmost part of the hat to cover the exposed tip.”

The bamboo has to be split and spliced into thin strips for the hat wireframe. “The splicing has to be fine enough so as to not hurt or feel heavy on the head. We have learnt this through years of practice,” she adds.

When harvested, the fan-shaped palm leaves are dried in the sun for a full day before being put to use. This is done to season the raw material for longevity and adaptability in sun and rain. Then, they are sliced into strips along the leaflets using a chhuri [knife]. These strips are cut to a stipulated length to make them ready for use.

The waxy cuticle on the palm leaf makes it heat resistant, the same reason why a haat pakha made with palm leaves is cooler than the ones made of bamboo, the artisans explain to PARI. When not making the hats, they are involved in making other bamboo and palm leaf products including mora (stool), chair, kulo (winnowing tray), chalo (tray), jhuri (basket), dustbin and haat pakha (hand fan).

A temple of Manasa (Hindu snake goddess) lies in the centre of the neighbourhood of shilpi palli which spreads out into alleyways, just wide enough for two adults to walk side by side, the brick houses almost rubbing shoulders with one another. “The space allocated to the hamlet is limited, and family sizes have increased, that is why there is a space crunch. The artisans make use of the alleys around their house to sit and weave mora [stools] and tupi [hats],” says Bolpur municipal committee member Ava Lohar Bagdi.

To the locals, the neighbourhood is known as ‘Dom para’ (neighbourhood of the Doms) and lies in Birbhum, a district in the western part of West Bengal. The name got an upgrade during the local elections in 1995 and was renamed ‘shilpi palli’ (artisan village), but the people here, particularly the women who work with palm leaves, have not seen an improvement in their condition.

In fact, as Kalyani says, it has worsened. “Our income is shrinking, while the price of things is going up every day. We are able to eat daily, that is only enough.” Kalyani feels uncertain about the future of her craft too. “Manusher jibone jerom janma aar shesh, tai eta o…Aar joto din bachar ache bachbe [Just as we are born and we die…it is the same with this craft, it will live as long as it can],” she says.

On Sunday evenings, the hamlet comes alive with the sound of music. “The music really brings cheer to the community,” says Hirananda Patra, Kalyani’s husband, as he brings out the harmonium. Others soon join with their own instruments. A chatai (grass mat) is laid out in one of the wider alleys for the soiree to begin.

“Gaan-bajna [singing and playing music] is also one of our traditional occupations,” Hirananda says. The community is listed as Bajania Dom in the Census (2011). “The men in the family perform at weddings and other functions.” They usually play the nahabat – an assortment of instruments including the harmonium, shehnai (clarinet), dugi tabla (double-headed drum) and penjuni (wooden block with cymbals).

The younger generation are moving away from the community's traditional occupations. Putul, Kalyani’s daughter is a domestic worker and her husband works as a decorator cum pandal (temporary canopy) maker; Kalyani’s son Gopinath and grandson Somnath are auto rickshaw drivers.

“I am probably the only young person from my community who knows how to make these hats,” says seventeen-year-old Somnath. “I learnt it from my grandmother. When I was younger, I used to help her by carrying the products on my head as we went from door-to-door selling them. But now, I feel embarrassed to do that.”

Kalyani travels to villages within a 10-kilometre radius to sell her handmade goods. Another avenue for selling the items is the Saturday haat [market] at Sonajhuri in Santiniketan, at a distance of five kilometres from their neighbourhood. But in recent years, the artisans say that they are not able to secure a spot at the venue. “In the last 10 years or so, a lobby decides who gets a spot, and small artisans like us are losing out to big traders,” says Chaya who would once travel with her husband to Sonajhuri to sell. Pleas to the District Industries Commission office for reallocation of space have had no effect, she adds.

When dealing with customers directly, the artisans usually sell the hats for Rs. 60, going up to Rs. 100 for the bigger ones. But at the stalls near Bhubhandanga, some 1.5 kms from shilpi palli, shop owners such as Rick Roy are selling them for Rs.150–200. “The hats come to us via middlemen,” he says, “so they cost more.” Kalyani and other artisans are aware of the difference and have somewhat resigned to the system. “Let them sell for whatever price they want,” says Kalyani, “I get the money I need.”

But the artisans can no longer rely solely on incomes from this craft as a variety of cloth and synthetic alternatives have flooded the markets. “Our monthly income from hat making can range from 4,000 rupees during peak season [April to June] to just 1,000 rupees during the winters,” says Kalyani.

But when milkmen, postmen, pheriwalas (door-to-door hawkers) and agricultural labourers arrive at their doorstep asking for only these palm and bamboo hats, the tribe of Kalyani and other craftsmen get a moral and monetary boost. “Amra etai pori [This is the only hat we wear],” says one of the milkmen who has come to replace his old hat with a new one. “It is fit for all seasons.”

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