The Basket Weaver of Bittan Market

On the way from Shahpura to Bittan market, you may notice bamboo weavers at work on the pavement by the fencing wall of Paryavaran Parisar and the Regional Museum of Natural History. Migrant artisans, they have lived here for decades, making and selling bamboo baskets—once essential, now eclipsed by cheaper plastic products. They craft kites for Makar Sankranti, lightweight coir-and-bamboo slings for painters scaling tall buildings, and Ravana effigies for Dussehra—their annual week of brisk sales. The effigies vary in size to suit every budget. Affluent Dussehra Samitis of Bhopal commission towering Ravanas fabricated by artisans brought in from Jaipur and elsewhere, costing several lakhs. The humble bamboo weavers of Bittan market are never invited to such grand projects.

Among them, one figure stood apart. If you have lived in Bhopal for a few years, you might have seen her—a frail, diminutive, old weaver at work. Wrinkled, ebony-black skin; thick, curly, snow-white hair, unkempt for months, perhaps years, clipped now and then by her son or grandson.

Years ago, she sat with her family beside the boundary wall. Later, she was seen under the shade of a tree across the road, working alone. Did she choose solitude, or was she moved there because of the indignity of age and frailty?

By then, she was possibly in her eighties. Her back bent, her eyesight failing, yet her fingers remained sure. Every day she wove baskets—only baskets. Her family worked across the road and brought her food at mealtimes.

(ChatGPT read my piece, and upon my request created an image, and edited it further basis my prompts.)

She spent her days weaving, her nights inside a small, tattered tarpaulin tent beneath the tree. No one spoke to her. She spoke to none. Her work was a silent meditation.

Given bamboo strips, she wove them into baskets. Her family sold them. At what price? She had no idea.

Was she happy? Was she lonely? Difficult to say. The wrinkles on her face revealed nothing. Her eyes never strayed from her work. The world rushed past, unnoticed. The basket in her hands was taking shape. All was well with the world.

After the Covid lockdown, she was no longer seen. Her little tarpaulin hut had vanished.

On my way from Bittan market to Baghmugalia, past SBI, Shahpura, and Arera Colony, I often wished to stop, to speak with her, perhaps take a photograph. But I didn’t. Why intrude on her privacy, disturb her peace? Her family might have resented it. And the busy roundabout near Paryavaran Parisar offered no place to park.

I wish I had.

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#Bhopal #BasketWeaving #StreetArtisans #IndianCrafts