The fading notes of the sitarmakers of Miraj

Ahemados could have gone to Paris, but his father didn’t allow him. “If you see the outside world, you won’t return,” he had said. Recalling those words now, 99-year-old Ahemados’s face breaks into a smile.

When he was in his late 30s, two women from Paris had come to his hometown to learn the craft of making sitars. “After asking around, they came to me for help and I started teaching them,” Ahemados tells us, seated on the ground floor of their two-storey house and workshop in Sitarmaker Gali in Miraj, a town in Sangli district of Maharashtra, where several generations of his family have lived and worked.

“At the time, we didn’t have a toilet in our house,” continues Ahemados, “we got it made in a day because we couldn’t ask them (the foreign visitors) to go to the fields like we did.”

As he speaks, there is a faint sound of a sitar being tuned. His son Ghaus is at work. The two young Parisiennes stayed with Ahemados’s family for nine months, but their visa expired before they could learn the final stages. A few months later, they invited him to go to Paris. But heeding his father’s words, Ahemados stayed home and continued as an artisan in Sangli, a place renowned for the craft.

Ahemados’s family have been engaged in this trade for more than 150 years, running into seven generations. Bhoplas or pumpkins hang from the ceilings in Ahemados’s house-cum-workshop, as they do in almost every house in this neighbourhood. Sitarmakers use bhopla to make the tumba or base of the sitar.

The vegetable is grown in the Pandharpur region, about 130 km from Miraj. The bitterness of these pumpkins makes them unsuitable for consumption; farmers cultivate them for the sole purpose of selling them to the sitarmakers.

The artisans pre-book the crop in summer to avoid paying more when it is harvested in winter. The pumpkins are hung from the ceiling to prevent them from getting damp. If left on the floor, the pumpkins develop fungus which hampers the vibrations and life expectancy of the instruments. “Earlier, we paid Rs 200–300 per piece, but now it can go up to Rs 1,000 or even 1,500,” says Imtiyaz, who cleans and cuts the pumpkin to get the desired shape and size. Rising transportation costs have also contributed to the price rise.

Another problem, says Imtiyaz, is that farmers are cultivating less of the pumpkin because of the shrinking demand for handmade instruments — making it more expensive to purchase.

Once the tumba is ready, a wooden handle is fitted to complete the structure. Artisans then begin working on the design, which can take up to a week to complete. Using hand drills and plastic stencils, master designers like Irfan carve the wood. “Long hours of work in a hunched position leads to back aches and other issues.” says the 48-year-old. “The job takes a toll on the body over the years,” adds his wife Shaheen.

“I have nothing against the art or tradition,” says Shaheen, “I feel proud of the identity which my husband has earned through hard work.” A homemaker and a mother of two, Shaheen also believes that the income from the craft does not justify the physical toll it takes. “We eat based on the daily earnings of my husband. I am happy with life, but we also cannot ignore our necessities,” she says, standing in her kitchen.

Their two sons are learning to play the sitar from their grandfather’s brother. “They play well,” Shaheen says, “in future, they will both make a good name for themselves.”

Some of the sitarmakers perform only one step in the process, like cutting the pumpkin or creating the design, and are paid daily for their work. Designers and painters earn something between Rs 350 and 500 depending on the amount and nature of the work. However, there are others who build the sitar from scratch — from washing the bhopla to applying the final coat of polish and tuning the instrument. A handmade sitar costs around Rs 30,000–35,000.

The women in the family are generally excluded from the craft. “I assure you, if they start today, my daughters can pick it up in a few days. I am proud that they both have done well in life academically,” says Ghaus, father to two young women.

The 55-year-old has been polishing and fitting sitars since his childhood. “Girls will eventually get married. Often, they marry into a non-sitar making family where the skill is useless,” he adds. Occasionally, women polish the pegs or perform some other minor step in the process. But women doing manual work generally attributed to men is frowned upon by the community and they worry it will not be accepted by the groom’s family.

The sitarmakers made a name for themselves in the 19th century, during the reign of Shrimant Balasaheb Patwardhan II, the king of Miraj. A patron of music, he invited musicians from other regions such as Agra and Banaras to perform at his court. But on the way, many of the instruments would get damaged and the king had to find repairmen who could solve this problem.

“His search eventually led him to two brothers, Moinuddin and Farid, from the Shikalgar community,” says Ibrahim, a sixth-generation sitar maker. The Shikalgars, listed as Other Backward Classes (OBCs) in the state of Maharashtra, were metalsmiths who made weapons and other tools.

“Upon the king’s request,” continues Ibrahim, “they tried their hand at repairing musical instruments; over time, this became their main occupation, and even their name changed from Shikalgar to sitarmaker.” Today, their descendants in Miraj often use both titles as their last names.

However, more than a historical legacy is needed for the new generation to continue in this trade. Like Shaheen and Irfan’s sons, other children have also started playing the sitar rather than learning how to make them.

As software capable of producing the sounds of various instruments have advanced, musicians have largely turned away from using handmade sitars and tanpuras, which has impacted the business. Machine-made sitars which are priced much lower than the handmade ones have also created problems for the sitar makers.

To stay afloat, sitarmakers now make miniature sitars that they sell to tourists. Priced between Rs 3,000 and 5,000, these brightly coloured pieces are made with fibre instead of pumpkin.

Government recognition and aid has been slow to come. Though there are multiple schemes for artists and performers, the people making the instruments are yet to be recognised. “If the government recognises us and our efforts, we can produce even better instruments. It will also help the artists financially and give them a sense that they are respected for their efforts,” says Ibrahim.

Veterans like Ahemados say they have no regrets. “Even today, if you ask me if I want any aid or monetary assistance… I would say no. Never.”

Article courtesy: People’s Archive of Rural India (PARI)