Linkages and Networks: from a wood turner in a small back street workshop to the Expo Mart near Delhi
In early 2012 I journeyed to Greater Noida, an isolated outlier of Delhi. Travelling on the metro to the end of the line I took a rickshaw for the remaining 25km, through sprawling low-level developments, to the expansive Expo Mart centre which was hosting the Indian Handicrafts and Gifts Fair. Having come directly from the woodworking gullies, the centre was a scene change. Smartly dressed Arabs, Asians and Westerners assembled to obtain samples and place orders for multinational companies and smaller businesses. Having been unable to reach my contact, Aslam Saleem, I arrived without a pass. At the first entrance I was confronted and turned away. At the second I walked alongside a group of European buyers and passed unchallenged. It took time wandering around sections of the large tented exhibition hall which was erected outside the main building, before I came upon Aslam’s stand. I had first met Aslam in the courtyard of his factory, set among villages around Saharanpur, two months previously. Now he was busy meeting buyers but motioned me to sit in the corner of his stand while he discussed orders with two women representing a French firm.
The Expo Mart in Greater Noida, which provides an intersection for craft industries and international buyers, is the starting point for this chapter. I explore the supply chain’s layers of ‘putting out’, subcontracting and the connections therein. Beginning with exporters, wholesalers and large-scale factories, the chapter descends through smaller workshops to individual craftspeople and homeworkers. Throughout, two sets of connections are given attention: Connections between people and connections constituted around money. Many of these areas are expanded on in later chapters. However, the purpose here is to provide a snapshot of both the supply chain and the lives, subjectivities and bonds therein. Here I follow Tsing (2009) in arguing that supply chains allow anthropologists to scrutinise, not just global integration, which she terms ‘thinking big’, but also ‘diverse niches’, non-homogeneity and the lack of singularity within global capitalism. This is not a supply chain filled with easily identifiable actors who embody either oppressive regimes or oppositional resistance. Instead, actors inhabit liminal spaces fraught with contradictions and tensions. Manufacturers and exporters occupy positions of power but also, as Muslims, experience marginalisation (Galonnier, 2012) and play out obligations to the community (Osella & Osella, 2009);
thēkēdārs99 sit in an uneasy locality between workers and owners, their connections to labour overlapping with friendship, kin and other affiliations; artisans and workers may double as thēkēdārs, playing out a duality of roles; petty manufacturers emerge precariously from the labour force only to fall back again as tenuous ventures fold under a burden of credit. It is to these ‘frictions’ (Tsing, 2005) that this chapter gives particular attention, with the aim of recognising that:
“…supply chains […] team with politically ambiguous, liminal figures, caught within the contradictions between varied forms of hierarchy and exclusion. [It is appropriate therefore] to pay attention to these figures, rather than rejecting them as flawed protagonists. They can help us imagine forms of globally interconnected diversity: a capitalism that is big yet unpredictably heterogeneous”
(Tsing, 2009; p.154)
The Local Tip of the Supply Chain: Karkanadars, Exporters & Wholesalers
Aslam Saleem, whose family history I have discussed in the previous chapter, was one of the few factory owners with whom I was able to build an informal relationship. I ate at his house, obtained a degree of access to his factory and accompanied him on business to Delhi. Prior to meeting him I had met his brother at his factory in central Saharanpur. Aslam, however, chose not to set up business in the city, instead taking a gamble on establishing a complex near an outlying village:
“When I came here first, there were big problems and the city exporters laughed at me and said: ‘Why is he going out of the city? It will be very difficult’. I arranged a few good workers here. There were very poor workers near here in the villages. I talked with them and said: ‘I will teach you and give you salary and payment’. Some workers were not happy but some came. Each day I taught the workers even the basic thing like what is a hammer and nail. For one year I just taught and then we started. After one year of working I had one expert worker for every ten helpers. Now it is better and every person is learning”.
Aslam exported all over the world. Lorries, often parked outside the factory, were loaded with shipping containers ready to be filled. The factory itself was arranged on a production line basis with raw wood entering at one end and each item being manufactured stage by stage. The size was impressive with the sprawling site employing some 600 staff and having a large degree of mechanisation, although craft stages remained handwork-based. Aslam retained most work on site and did little ‘putting out’, although he used contractors, explaining that:
“My items are very specific and technical. If some outside person comes and I give him the items to make then he cannot make easily according to the requirement of my buyer. I keep permanent contractors as sometimes I teach them. The buyer teaches me all the aspects of design, colour and packing. I explain this every time to the worker. If I give the work to a new contractor then he cannot do it easily”.
Manufacturers use systems of putting out to varying degrees, with some outsourcing all work. It is not uncommon for factory owners, wholesalers and exporters to complain about a shortage of labour in the city with many utilising advance payments to attract and retain labour. As a manufacturer in Purana Mandi explains:
“It is difficult to get, keep and find labour. Workers leave and don't come back even if they have an advance they just go away and don’t repay. They think about themselves and not the owner’s loss. There are plenty of orders but I cannot fill them because of lack of labour. This is made worse because of new manufacturers coming in who just do whatever to get orders and sell at low prices. This is driving down rates. Also competition from China has forced a cut. Because of this we cannot increase wages for workers and so they go elsewhere. They go all over India but also outside to Saudi. The problem is always there but the worst time is after Eid. There is a saying in Saharanpur "Eid doesn't finish as long as I have money in my pocket". Workers take the advance given for Eid and whatever they have saved and don't come back until it is gone. I have 3 workers who left for Eid and have not come back. They have not gone far but just sit here in Saharanpur and do not return to the workshop. They just do nothing”.
Aslam, however, is keen to emphasise that this is not a problem for him, contextualising this in moral and religious terms:
“…for me it is not difficult [to obtain labour] as Allah has given me this gift. Allah is always happy and according to my factory need labour comes. This is because I give the facilities and do not give any bad words. Every worker gets full respect and the jobs are not hard. Every time we give a pay rise according to the cost and inflation. Working in my factory is the same as home”.
Aslam’s notion of factory work being just like home work is not coincidental. There are many aspects of the craft or ‘cottage industry’ sector that factories attempt to internalise (see also: Breman, 1999) in order to recruit, maintain and control labour. As later examples in this chapter show, this may involve paying piece rate or advances, using thēkēdārs and other forms of flexibility. This is not just about retaining labour but also creates a flexible workforce that can be adjusted according to demand.
As with many factories in Saharanpur, Aslam’s workforce is fragmented on religious lines. Administrative roles are mostly occupied by Hindus. Lower castes (mostly
Chamars) provide unskilled labour, but craft-based production is almost entirely
Muslim. Aslam Saleem gave his view on why this is the case:
“…Hindus like to make a lot of money. Muslims are satisfied with small money, with the whole family working in the home. For them this is enough.
But for Hindus after qualifying they want more, Muslims have lower qualifications. This means that the Hindu wants a good job, like an official or management job. Due to this it is mostly Muslims going in the carving line. In India this is the problem that the Muslim is in the poor family but the handicraft work is easy for them to start. They can learn in 3-4 years and then they start”.
There is, however, a degree of protection of certain trades. Muslim craftsmen, for example, rarely train Hindu apprentices. Aside from some Hindu machine operators the only areas of the production line where Muslim and Hindus work together is finishing work, such as sanding and varnishing, and general labour, such as loading and packing. Finishing work is often, although not entirely, undertaken by women. Both Muslim and Chamar women are engaged, sharing common workspace100. Although workers travel from surrounding villages little labour comes from far away, making this an industry embedded in a specific place101.
Whilst Aslam puts out only a small amount of work, others primarily sub-contract. This is common in the old wood market of Purana Mandi where the entrance is dominated by numerous wholesalers who often have no in-house production. A short distance away, in the neighbourhood of Ali Ki Chungi, is Naaz Handicrafts, owned by Sabir Ali Khan. As with many exporters, the production is geared towards putting out. I initially met Sabir Ali Khan’s daughter through a friend in nearby Mussoorie, where she worked in an international school. It was some time later that I made my way to his premises. Mr Khan’s factory consisted of a large concrete building, with the company name in raised orange lettering on the frontage. The factory itself adjoined directly to his house. I knocked on the door and was shown through to his office containing a large desk and walls covered with photos of meetings with various dignitaries. There were also membership plaques for the IIA102 and other organisations.
100 I return to this in the next chapter.
101 Less than 1% are migrants, although 16% commute from villages travelling an average distance of 10km (Source:
Fieldwork)
Mr Khan himself was modestly dressed in a simple overcoat. He showed me around. His workshop was large but mostly contained completed stock, and relatively few workers. The staff he employed directly were engaged only in painting and polishing. Even here regular staff were few with more being brought in on contracts. All other stages of production were put out. Mr Khan explains his reasoning for this:
“We are not like the companies, we are the karkhanas103. There is a different system between the company and the karkhana. This is a contract basis system. It has been here from the earliest days of the industry. Mostly workers sit in their houses or their own shops, which they hire. They pick up the goods from us and make the work there. Contract system means piece rate. In the past most items were common items so they fixed the rate according to these items. For some piece the carpenter will, say, get 2rs, the carver 3rs and the inlayer 2rs. Accordingly we calculate weekly payments. They work from Saturday to Thursday as the Fridays are off. We are Muslim so go for prayers in the Masjid on this day. We pay the piece rate calculation on the Thursday. We have some employees but only for packing and polishing.
[In this system] the worker is happy and I am happy. If I employ workers then, due to lack of education, they will work slowly. They will not think that it is their duty to give the full work for 7-8 hours. If I make employment permanent then he will work slowly, this is the reason for the cottage industry. This is also because it is art work. Suppose I say ‘this is one box’. To make it takes 20 minutes. If I say ‘okay you do it on permanent employment’ then it will take minimum 30 minutes. On the contract basis both are happy. Rates are fixed mutually. If I make some new item then I call the worker and ask him how much he wants. He will calculate it saying ‘if it is on time then I will take 2 days and it will be 500rs’. I say ‘no this is costly’ and request less. After all the bargaining then he will say okay 350rs is fine. So suppose there are 100 pieces then I give him 35,000rs”.
Wholesalers and larger factory owners in the woodworking industry, such as Mr Khan, are themselves Muslim (90%)104, with only a few Hindus and Sikhs present. This provides a contrast to other Indian craft industries where control of export and wholesale has often been lost. For example, Muslims in the Zari Zardosi105 trade in Bareilly, who also
103 Hindi word for factory or workshop. Here it is used as differentiated from ‘companies’ due to the putting out of
production.
104 Source: Fieldwork 105 Fine embroidery work.
constitute the vast majority of the labour force, have little presence in wholesale and export (Unni & Scaria, 2009)106. As per the previous chapter, this is partly tied with the city’s history. However, Wilkinson (2006) (citing Kumar, 1988), proposes two reasons for the (re)emergence of Muslim wholesalers and exporters in some craft industries, suggesting:
“[Firstly], because the new Muslim entrepreneurs are themselves skilled craftsmen, they do not have to employ extra staff (as do the Hindu merchants) to deal with their contract craftsmen and perform quality checks on the goods they buy. [Secondly], research conducted by Nita Kumar in Varanasi suggests that it is easier for craftsmen to complain about arbitrary deductions by the wholesaler when they are both of the same religion, which leads to some Muslim craftsmen preferring to work for their co-religionists107”
(p. 29-30) Unlike Kumar’s example, however, Muslim control over export and wholesale has long been the case in Saharanpur. It is perhaps appropriate to look back to the previous chapter and Saharanpur’s experience at partition where, in contrast to other cities, the Muslim population survived relatively intact. This is critical, not just in defining who controls certain areas of the industry, but also in forming an understanding around the constitution of labour relations.
Whilst both Aslam Saleem and Mr Khan are keen to emphasise good relations with workers, even going so far as to express a sense of duty to them, some manufacturers see things differently. I was introduced to Mohammad Alif through a mutual contact. His workshop consisted of a mid-size subcontracting unit employing around 25 staff. He was quick to retort to my initial question asking him to describe his business. His lengthy answer was often expressed in angry tones as he iterated his position as a second level producer with no direct access to export markets:
“There was a worker who was a liar! He told me he was going on leave but he changed factory. […] You will write that they [the workers] are poor and about their misery. You will write that we are rude and exploit workers! We
106 Artisan trades dominated by low caste Hindu labour, such as Jatavs in Agra’s footwear industry (Knorringa, 1999),
experience similar relations with Punjabi wholesalers and exporters. Indeed, it is primarily those of Punjabi origin who control the Zari-Zardosi industry in Bareilly.
107 Wilkinson’s article places such uneven relations and the struggle for control of the profitable export and wholesale
do not exploit workers! I know you’ll write that we are monsters, that we drink the blood of workers. Can you tell me one answer? When we are honest to labour and pay on time but they never fulfil orders, is it the owner’s mistake? Please write that labour are backwards due to this weak point, it is not the owners’ mistake! If workers have money in their pockets they never come in the factory, they only stay home. Only when the money finishes will you see them. If you look in Saharanpur you’ll see that the owner has also become labour, due to the laziness of workers. They never work properly, most disappear without permission. […] 1 ½ years ago I had a carpenter who worked in my factory for years. He took 1 lakh108 rupees in various stages and ran away. He earned lakhs of rupees from my factory, he would say that there was illness and problems and then he took the advances.
Can you tell me where our problem will go? No one can see our problems. We are middlemen, our customers never pay on time but the worker always shouts for money. Can you tell me where I can go to complain, no one wants to hear our problem. Who will think about us? You can see my car and two- wheelers but you will never see my problem. You never think from where I can get the petrol if I have no money or my business is going down. We may get progress if we are united. Then we can find a fine result for both parties. The worker never thinks about the owner’s loss. It may be that their laziness may make my order cancelled but they never think about this. If they want leave then they take some rest in their home. If they have any emergency or accident then they come here asking for money. After all this any man can get tired and because of this the owner becomes rude and never supports his workers”.
Mohammad Alif presents an image of labour relations much more loaded with friction than that narrated by many other manufacturers and exporters whom I met. However, the tensions of negotiating deferred payment are a constant presence for various intermediaries in the city. This is particularly emphasised in Mohammad Alif’s narrative, as being associated with his position as a ‘middleman’. It is a commonly expressed concern for those who run sub-contracting units of various sizes, who themselves occupy a precarious position and often fold under the strain of maintaining both labour and orders. In addition, it is a viewpoint that is very much shared with another ‘middleman’, the thēkēdār. Here, too, the role is one of intermediary between labour
108 100,000rs
and exporter. Unlike Mohammad Alif, however, thēkēdārs do not own a production facility and often have much more informal relationships with their workers.
Thēkēdārs: Villains and/or Heroes of the Supply Chain