‘No one can craft a jutti like I do’

Hans Raj tightens his grip on the coarse cotton thread. Using a sharp steel needle to guide it, the veteran shoemaker pierces the tough leather, skillfully moving the needle in and out roughly 400 times to hand-stitch a pair of Punjabi juttis (closed shoes). As he does so, his heavy sighs followed by ‘hmms’ punctuate the silence.

In the village of Rupana in Sri Muktsar Sahib district of Punjab, Hans Raj is the only artisan who makes these juttis the traditional way.

“Most people are unaware how a Punjabi jutti is made and who crafts it. There is a common misconception that machines make it. But from preparation to stitching, everything is done by hand,” says the 63-year-old artisan who has been crafting juttis for nearly half a century now.  “Wherever you go, Muktsar, Malout, Gidderbaha or Patiala, no one can meticulously craft a jutti like I do,” Hans Raj says matter-of-factly.

Every day, starting at 7 a.m., he sits on a cotton mattress on the floor near the entrance of his rented workshop, part of the walls covered with a collection of Punjabi juttis for both men and women. A pair is priced between Rs. 400 to Rs. 1,600, and he says he can earn about Rs. 10,000 a month from this livelihood.

Leaning against the weathered wall, he spends the next 12 hours crafting handmade shoes. The place where he leans his tired back on the wall is patchy – the cement has worn off exposing the bricks underneath. “The body aches, especially the legs,” Hans Raj says, massaging his knee joints. In summer, he says, “We get dane je [boils] on the back from all the sweating that causes pain.”

Hans Raj learnt the craft when he was around 15, and he was tutored by his father.  “I was more interested in exploring the outdoors. Some days I would sit down to learn, some days I would not.” But as he grew up and the pressure to work increased, so did the hours of being seated.

Speaking in a mix of Punjabi and Hindi he says, “this work needs bariki [precision].”  Hans Raj has been working without glasses for years, “but I have started noticing changes to my eyesight now. If I work for many hours, my eyes feel the strain. I see two of everything.”

During a regular work day, he drinks tea and listens to the news, songs and cricket commentary on his radio. His favourite programme is the “ pharmaishi programme,” where listeners’ request of old Hindi and Punjabi songs are played. He himself has never called up the radio station to request any song saying, “I don’t understand numbers and can’t dial.”

Hans Raj has never been to school, but finds great joy in exploring new places beyond his village, especially with his friend, a holy man in the neighbouring village: “Every year we take a trip. He has his own car, and he often invites me to join him on travels. Together, with one or two more people, we’ve visited places in Haryana and Alwar and Bikaner in Rajasthan.”

It is well past 4 p.m, and Rupana village is bathed in the warm glow of a lingering mid-November sun. One of Hans Raj's loyal customers has arrived with a friend to pick up a pair of Punjabi juttis . “Could you also make a jutti for him by tomorrow?” he asks Hans Raj. The friend has come from far away – Tohana in Haryana – 175 kilometres from here.

Hans Raj smiles, responding to the customer’s request with a friendly, “ yaar , it is not possible by tomorrow.” The customer, however, is persistent: “Muktsar is renowned for Punjabi juttis .” The customer then turns to us saying, “there are thousands of jutti shops in the city. But here in Rupana, it is only he who crafts them by hand. We are familiar with his work.”

The customer tells us that till Diwali, the entire shop was filled with juttis . A month later in November, only 14 pairs remain. What makes Hans Raj’s juttis so special? “The ones he makes are flatter in the middle,” the customer says, pointing to the juttis hanging on the wall, “The difference lies in the hands [of the craftsperson].

Hans Raj doesn’t work alone – he gets some of the juttis stitched by Sant Ram, a skilled shoemaker in his native village, Khunan Khurd, 12 kms away. During Diwali or the paddy season, when the demand is high, he outsources his work, paying Rs. 80 for stitching a pair.

The master shoemaker tells us the difference between a craftsman and a workman: “I always start by stitching the panna [upper portion] of the jutti from the tip of the sole. This is the most challenging phase of crafting juttis . The person who manages to do this right is a mistiri [craftsman], others are not.”

It wasn’t a skill he learnt easily. “Initially, I was not good at stitching shoes with thread,” Hans Raj recalls. “But when I committed to learning it, I mastered it in two months.  The rest of the skill I picked up over time, first by asking my father, and later by observing him,” he adds.

Over the years, he has innovated, incorporating a technique of stitching small strips of leather on both sides of the jutti , seamlessly connecting all the joints. “These small strips add strength to the jutti . The shoes become more resistant to breakage,” he explains.

Hans Raj and his family of four, including his wife, Veerpal Kaur, and two sons and a daughter – now married and parents themselves – relocated from Khunan Khurd to Rupana some 18 years ago. At that time, their eldest son, who is 36 now, began working at the paper mill in the village here.

“It was mostly [Dalit] families who made juttis in Khunan Khurd, working from their homes. As time passed, the new generation didn’t learn the craft. And those who knew, passed away,” says Hans Raj.

Today, in his old village, only three craftsmen, all from his community of Ramdasi Chamars (listed as Scheduled Caste in the state), are still engaged in the art of handcrafting Punjabi juttis while Hans Raj is the only one in Rupana.

“We saw no future for our children in Khunan Khurd, so we sold our property there and bought one here,” Veerpal Kaur says, her voice a mix of determination and hope. She speaks fluent Hindi, a result of the diversity in the neighbourhood which is populated by migrants from Uttar Pradesh and Bihar, many of whom work in the paper mill and live in rented rooms in the vicinity.

This is not the first time Hans Raj’s family has migrated. “My father came to Punjab from Narnaul [in Haryana] and started making juttis ,” says Hans Raj.

A 2017 study by the Guru Nanak College of Girls in Sri Muktsar Sahib district shows that thousands of jutti -makers families migrated from Rajasthan to Punjab in the 1950s. Hans Raj’s ancestral village Narnaul is situated on the border of Haryana and Rajasthan.

“When I started, a pair would only cost Rs. 30. Now a full embroidered jutti can cost over Rs 2,500,” Hans Raj recounts.

From the small and large scattered pieces of leather at his workshop, Hans Raj shows us two kinds: cowhide and buffalo hide. “The buffalo hide is used for the sole, and the cowhide is for the upper half of the shoes,” he explains, his hands stroking the raw material that once formed the backbone of the craft.

As he holds up the tanned cowhide he asks if we are comfortable touching the animal skin. When we express our willingness, he goes on to observe not just the tanned leather but the contrast. The buffalo hide feels as thick as 80 paper sheets stacked together. The cowhide, on the other hand, is much thinner, maybe around 10 paper sheets. In terms of texture, the buffalo hide has a smoother and stiffer feel, while the cowhide, though slightly rougher, exhibits greater flexibility and ease of bending.

The growing hike in leather prices – his critical raw material – and the switch to shoes and slippers what he calls, “ boot-chappal ” has led to a fall in the number of people willing to take up this profession.

Hans Raj treats his tools with great care. For shaping the jutti he uses a rambi (cutter) to carve and scrape the leather; a morga (wooden hammer) for beating it until it is stiff and more. The wooden morga belonged to his father as did a deer horn which he uses to shape the tip of the shoes from inside as it is difficult to fix only with his hands.

The shoemaker travels to the shoe market in Jalandhar, 170 kms away from his village, to buy the tanned hides. To reach the mandi (wholesale market), he takes a bus to Moga and another from Moga to Jalandhar. His travel costs add up to over Rs. 200 one way.

His most recent journey took place two months prior to Diwali when he acquired 150 kilograms of tanned leather, valued at Rs. 20,000. Has he ever faced any trouble carrying the leather, we ask him. “The concern is more about transporting untanned leather than the tanned one,” he clarifies.

He visits the mandi to carefully choose the desired quality of leather, and the traders arrange for its transportation to a nearby city, Muktsar where he collects it. “Carrying such heavy material alone on the bus is anyway not possible,” he remarks.

Over the years, the material for making juttis has evolved and younger shoemakers like Raj Kumar and Mahinder Kumar of the Guru Ravidas colony in Malout say that artificial leather such as rexine and micro cellular sheets are now more commonly used. Raj and Mahinder, both in their early forties, belong to the Dalit Jatav community.

“Where a micro sheet cost Rs. 130 per kg, the cowhide now costs ranging from Rs. 160 to over Rs. 200 per kg,” says Mahinder. They say leather has become a rare commodity in the area. “Earlier, the colony was full of tanneries and a stench of untanned leather hung in the air. But as the basti grew, the tanneries were shut down,” says Raj.

Youngsters are no longer keen on joining the profession, they add, and low income is not the only reason. “The stench gets into the clothes,” Mahinder says, “and sometimes their friends won’t shake their hands.”

“In my own family the children don’t make juttis ,” says Hans Raj, “my sons never entered the shop to understand the craft, how could they have learned it? Ours is the last generation now to know the skill. I may also be able to do it for another five years, after me who else will do it?” he asks.

As she chops vegetables for dinner, Veerpal Kaur says, “It isn’t possible to build homes by just making juttis . Almost two years ago, the family completed the construction of a pucca house, facilitated by their eldest son's employee loan from the paper mill.

“I had also asked her to learn embroidery, but she didn’t learn it all,” Hans Raj says, teasing his wife . The two have been married for 38 years. “I wasn’t interested,” Veerpal chimes back. Based on what she learnt from her mother-in-law, she can embroider a pair in an hour at home with zari thread.

Their home, shared with their eldest son's family of three, comprises two rooms, a kitchen, and a drawing room, with an outdoor toilet. Adorning the rooms and hall are photos of B.R. Ambedkar and Sant Ravidas. A similar image of the saint graces Hans Raj’s workshop.

“It is in the last 10-15 years that people have started wearing juttis again,” Veerpal says,“before that, many had also stopped asking for the shoemakers.”

During that time, Hans Raj worked as a farm labourer and occasionally crafted juttis within a day or two when a customer came by.

“Now, more college going boys and girls are interested in wearing these juttis ,” Veerpal says.

Customers have also carried juttis to various places, including Ludhiana, Rajasthan, Gujarat, and Uttar Pradesh. Hans Raj fondly recalls crafting eight pairs of Punjabi juttis for a mill worker during his last big order. The mill worker purchased them for his relatives in Uttar Pradesh.

Since there’s a consistent demand for his craftsmanship in his current location, “Every day feels like Diwali for me,” a joyous Hans Raj says.

In November 2023, a few weeks after this story was reported, Hans Raj suffered a partial stroke. He is now recovering.

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