Sanket Jain

Shaoni Sarkar

Editor

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Three decades ago, no one wanted to teach a young Sanjay Kamble how to work with
bamboo. Today, when he wants to teach everyone his dying craft, no one wants to
learn. “It’s ironic how times have changed,” the 50-year-old says. 

With
the bamboo that grows in his one-acre field, Kamble mainly crafts irlas – a kind of raincoat used by paddy
farmers in this region in western Maharashtra. “Around twenty years ago, every
farmer used an irla while
working in the fields because it rained a lot in our Shahuwadi taluka,” this resident of Kerle village
says. He would wear one himself when he worked on his farm. The bamboo raincoat
lasts at least seven years, and “even after that, it can easily be repaired,”
he adds. 



But
things have changed. 



Government
<a href="https://maharain.maharashtra.gov.in/">data</a> shows that rainfall between July and September in Kolhapur
district has decreased over the last 20 years – from 1,308 mm (2003) to 973
(2023). 



“Who
knew rainfall here would decline so much someday that it would kill my art?”
Sanjay Kamble, the irla-maker asks. 



“We farm only from June to
September every year as agriculture here is dependent on rainfall,” Kamble
says. Over the years, the vagaries of rain have forced most villagers to
migrate to cities such as Mumbai and Pune where they work in restaurants, as
conductors in private bus companies, masons, daily wage labourers, and street
vendors, or toil in fields across Maharashtra.

With
the declining rainfall, those who have remained have shifted from cultivating
paddy to sugarcane. Kamble says. “Farmers with borewells are rapidly shifting
to cultivating sugarcane, which is much easier to grow.” The shift started
about seven years ago.   



If
it rains sufficiently, Kamble can sell around 10 irlas during the monsoon, but in all of 2023, he got orders for
only three. “It rained very little this year. So who would buy an irla?” His customers come from nearby
villages of Amba, Masnoli, Talavade, and Chandoli. 



The
move to sugarcane has also created another problem. “Irlas are ideally worn in fields with crops that are of shorter
height. You can’t walk in an irla in
a sugarcane field because the bulky structure will hit the stems of the crops,”
explains Sanjay, who is a Dalit Buddhist. The size of an irla depends on the height of the farmer
who wears it. “It’s like a mini house,” he adds.



Cheap plastic raincoats,
now sold in the village, have almost laid the irla to rest. Twenty years ago, Kamble would sell an irla for Rs. 200–300, which he has now
raised to Rs. 600 as the cost of living has also gone up.

Kamble’s
father, the late Chandrappa, was a farmer and factory worker. It was his
grandfather, the late Jyotiba, who passed before Sanjay was born, who crafted irlas – a common occupation in their
village at the time.  



Even 30 years ago, the item
was in such demand that Kamble thought learning bamboo-work would help him
boost his income from farming. “I had no other option,” he says. “I had to make
money to support my family.”

When he decided to
learn the craft, Kamble went to a veteran irla-maker
in Kerle’s Kamblewadi vasat (locality).
“I pleaded with him to teach me, but he was too busy and never even looked at
me,” Kamble recalls. However, not one to give up, he would observe the artist
every morning and eventually taught himself the craft. 



Kamble’s
first experiment with bamboo involved making small round toplis (baskets), the basics of
which he had managed to learn within a week. He would play around with the
bamboo all day, weaving the sand-brown strips until he got it exactly right. 



“There
are around 1,000 bamboo plants in my field now,” Kamble says. “They are used
for craft items and supplied to vineyards [where they support the
grapevines].”  If he were to buy chiva (the local variety of
bamboo) from the market, Sanjay would have to shell out at least Rs. 50
per piece.



Making
an irla is a laborious task and it
took Sanjay about a year to learn. 



It starts with finding the
perfect bamboo plant. The villagers prefer to use chiva because it is sturdy and durable. Kamble carefully inspects
the plants in his field and picks out a 21-foot bamboo. In the next five
minutes, he cuts it just above the second node and hauls it over his shoulder.

He
walks back to his chira (laterite)
house which has a room and a kitchen and sets the bamboo down in the courtyard
where he works. He uses a parli (a
type of sickle) to cut the two ends of the bamboo, not uniform in shape. Next,
he divides the bamboo into two equal parts and swiftly pierces his parli vertically through each
piece, sharply dividing it into two more pieces. 



The
greenish outer layer of the bamboo is peeled off using the parli to make thinner strips. He spends at least three hours
making several such strips, which are then woven to make an irla. 



“The
number of strips depends on the size of the irla,” he explains. Roughly, each irla
requires three pieces of bamboo, measuring 20 feet each.



Kamble
arranges 20 strips horizontally, leaving a gap of six centimetres between them.
He then places a few more strips vertically over them and starts weaving by
interlacing them, similar to how a chatai (mat)
is woven. 



The master craftsman does
not need a scale or measuring tape to make these strips, using only his palms
for reference. “The measurements are so perfect that no extra part of the strip
is left out,” he says, beaming.

“After
making this structure, you have to bend the edges from the sides, which
requires a lot of strength,” he continues. Once the structure is ready, he
spends around an hour bending the strips, giving each a pointed tapering end on
the top. The entire process takes about eight hours, he says. 



Once
the structure is completed, the irla
is covered with a large blue tarpaulin sheet that acts as a water repellant. It
is fastened to the wearer’s body using a plastic rope extending from the irla’s tapering end. Multiple knots are
made at different ends to hold it in place. Kamble buys the tarpaulin sheets
for Rs. 50 a piece from the nearby towns of Amba and Malkapur.

Alongside
making irlas, Kamble also cultivates
paddy on his land. Most of the harvest is used by his family.  His wife, Malabai, in her mid-40s, also works
in their own farm and others’, removing weeds, helping sow rice and plant
sugarcane, or harvesting the crops.



“Since we don’t get enough
orders for irlas and can’t survive
only on paddy cultivation, I choose to [do labour] work in the fields,” she
says. Their daughters, Karuna, Kanchan, and Shubhangi, all in their late 20s,
are married and homemakers. Their son, Swapnil, is studying in Mumbai and never
learned how to make an irla. “He
moved to the city as there is no livelihood here,” says Sanjay.

To
increase his income, Kamble has also mastered the skill of making khuruds (enclosures for
hens) and karandas (enclosures for fish) by hand, among
other bamboo items. They are made on order, and customers come to his home to
pick them up. About a decade ago, he also made toplas or kangis –
containers traditionally used to store rice. But with the easy availability of patracha dabbas (tin boxes), the orders
have stopped coming in. Now he makes them only for their own household
use.  



“Who would want to learn
this skill?” asks Kamble, scrolling through his phone to show us photos of his
wares, “it has no demand and doesn’t even pay enough. In a few years, it will
disappear.” This story is part of a series on rural artisans by Sanket Jain, and is supported by the Mrinalini Mukherjee Foundation.

‘Who knew the lack of rain could kill my art?’

’کسے معلوم تھا بارش کی کمی میرے ہنر کو ختم کر دے گی‘

‘వర్షపాతం తగ్గిపోవడం నా కళను చంపేయగలదని ఎవరనుకున్నారు?’

‘மழையின்றி என் கலை அழியுமென நினைக்கவில்லை’

‘ਕੌਣ ਜਾਣਦਾ ਸੀ ਕਿ ਮੀਂਹ ਦੀ ਘਾਟ ਮੇਰੀ ਕਲਾ ਨੂੰ ਮਾਰ ਮੁਕਾਏਗੀ?’

‘ବର୍ଷା ବିନା ମୋ କଳା ହଜିଯିବ ବୋଲି କିଏ ଜାଣିଥିଲା?’

'മഴയുടെ കുറവ് എന്റെ കലയെ നശിപ്പിക്കുമെന്ന് ആരറിഞ്ഞു?'

ʼಮಳೆಯ ಕೊರತೆ ನನ್ನ ಕಲೆಯನ್ನು ಕೊಲ್ಲಬಹುದು ಎಂದುಕೊಂಡಿರಲಿಲ್ಲʼ

‘किसे पता था बारिश की कमी से मेरी कला भी मर जाएगी?’

‘કોણ જાણતું હતું કે વરસાદના અભાવે મારી કળા મરી પરવારશે?’

इरला: ‘कुछेक बछर मं नंदा जाही ये हुनर’

‘के जानत रहे पानी कम पड़े से हमार कला मुए लागी?’

‘কে জানত, বৃষ্টির অভাব আমার শিল্পটাকেই মেরে ফেলবে?’

কোনে জানিছিল যে অনাবৃষ্টিয়ে মোৰ কলাক নিঃশেষ কৰিব?

‘पावसाबरोबर माझी कलाही गायब होईल, कुणाला माहित होतं?’

Kerle

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‘Who knew the lack of rain could kill my art?’

Sanjay Kamble, a farmer and craftsman from Kerle village in western Maharashtra, makes intricate irlas (bamboo raincoats) by hand. Decreasing rainfall over the last decade and the availability of plastic raincoats have made it difficult for him to pursue his craft

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