On our road trip into the heart of Odisha to rediscover the rich heritage of handicrafts and textiles, we observed that many of the handicraft clusters had slowly disappeared.
Our search for the last betel nut toy makers led us to a dead end, their legacy lost to the pandemic. Dejected, we stumbled upon a village bus stop pinned with a poster – a splash of color amidst the monochrome. Masks, fierce and fantastical, stared back at us, whispering promises of a hidden world. We got down from our dusty car and asked the vegetable seller who had set up his stall in front of the poster if he knew anything about it. He kept saying “temple builders,” which we realized was partially true (more about that later), and we followed his animated directions. Ignoring Google’s exasperated shrieks, we followed a winding road, each turn a leap of faith. As the roads got narrower and narrower, I kept thinking, will I be able to steer my car out of here? Finally, we reached a small clearing with a temple in the middle of the road (a common sight in villages of Odisha) and further on, what I can best describe as container-like houses sharing walls. I asked Indrani to find someone and ask if we were in the right place. After an animated discussion with a few villagers who were enjoying the sun, she came back excited, saying that a lady was asking her to follow her. We parked and set out on foot. Soon we reached her house and were led through a dimly lit room up a staircase straight to the roof. As soon as our eyes adjusted to the bright light of the midday sun, we gasped. Everywhere, masks lay in various stages of creation. Tigers, elephants, deer, gods with watchful eyes, and half-done molds. We hopped around from one place to another, mesmerized by what we saw in front of us. As our excitement finally died down, we asked the lady how long she had been doing this work. “Our village has been renowned for its unique mask-making tradition. I have learned this from my father,” she said.
Originally, the masks were not just mere decorations; they had a deeper cultural significance and were used in traditional dance performances like pashu nritya and danda yatra. Crafted from eco-friendly materials like cow dung, wood dust, and waste paper, these masks depict deities, mythical creatures, and animals with stunning realism and intricate details. As times changed, with the decline in demand for masks, many men shifted to other occupations like temple work. But the women of this village stepped forward, determined to keep this art form alive. From about fifteen houses that were involved in this art, we could only spot three with masks on their roofs. Although their dedication has ensured that the masks continue to captivate audiences and tell stories of the village’s rich heritage, we worry that their story will also die a slow death like the betel nut toy makers.
As artisans weigh the option of fully transitioning to toy-making or diverting to more popular art forms like patachitra, the village stands at a crossroads, its 400-year-old tradition holding on, sustained by the quiet determination and creative spirit of its women.
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