Thus far I have focused on giving the reader a sense of the industry as a whole. The initial section ‘Journeys In’ has presented an image of the way in which supply chains and historical vectors factor in the forming of the city and its labour force. In the previous chapter I have aimed to situate female woodworkers within this dynamic and to account for the gendered nature of production. Throughout the remaining chapters, however, I move away from contextualising the industry as a whole and the variety of localities therein. Instead, I shift the focus to one particular locality, Kamil Wali Gully, where the majority of the fieldwork was spent and where I served my apprenticeship. With women being distinctly absent from these highly public spaces of labour, this inevitably involves an emphasis on male workers. In particular, the remainder of this thesis revolves around those individuals introduced in the prologue. Whilst embedded in a single gully, it was from here that workers such as Sajid, Mustaqim146, and others, began migrations further afield. Understanding the complexity of this particular locality, then, is critical to understanding the ways in which migrant connections are created. In
146 See Prologue for family details etc.
order to introduce the scene I begin with a description of my own experience of learning to craft. This is then broadened out in the following chapter to a focus on the experience of others, who, unlike myself, were not ‘outsiders’, and on the ways in which apprenticeship is changing to meet the demands of global production.
Work on apprenticeship in craft settings has shown that it is not just about learning craft skills but also about the “acquisition of social knowledge, worldviews and moral principles that denote membership and status in the trade” (Marchand, 2008; p.246). Acquiring ‘social knowledge’ through work participation is, I argue, critical to accessing the types of social relations that are embodied in everyday work. It also provides the fieldworker with a sense of physical and mental rigours of labour (Prentice, 2008). Serving an apprenticeship affords a way of building links within the community, creating space for fermenting friendships and to be seen, to some degree, as a part of the fabric of work and life. Being a part of this fabric was a highly emotive experience. It led to the creation of bonds which, I hope, will be lifelong. Picking up from where the prologue left off, I begin with a description of learning brass overlay work in the shop of Mohammad Arshad. This allows for a contextualisation of embodied learning as a method and creates a description of the forming of a friendship in the field.
‘Mullah Ji’ trains a Shagrid
Arshad became not just an informant and friend but also my ustad. I could see pleasure, and slight amusement, in his eyes each time I addressed him as such. Although brass overlay work had been deskilled (following the introduction of pre-cut brass) and looked to be a modest undertaking, I soon realised I had much to learn. Initially I was allowed only to carry out simple tasks. Arshad drilled holes in the brass shapes, cut tacks from brass wire, laid out the design and hammered a tack lightly into each hole, just enough to grip the wood underneath. Gripping them with tweezers, I then nailed the tacks into the wood with a small hammer. Even this humble job proved difficult. The thin wire tacks were fragile. I bent many and had to pull them out and start again. Often the tacks required a small head. This was achieved by adjusting the hammer angle from side-to-side whilst tapping, hence spreading and flattening the top of the tack.
Initially I struggled and Arshad showed me items that had come back ruined from the buffer’s shop. A lack of a head had led to the buffing machine ripping off the brass designs, meaning they had to be scrapped and started again. None was wasted, however. Bent tacks were returned to the pre-cut brass manufacturer where they could be traded for a discount off Arshad’s next purchase. The size of the tack head was affected by the condition of the wood. If dry, the head could be small, giving a smoother finish to the design, as the tack griped naturally to the grain. Damp wood required a broader head as moisture lubricated the material allowing the tack to become extricated during buffing. Initially, I had to ask Arshad “kya yah lakri gila ya suukh hai”? (Is this wood wet or dry?). Slowly, however, I started to get a feel for the material, to understand the subtle differences in texture and appearance, depending on moisture level.
It was not just technique that I struggled with. My body did not adapt well to long hours of sitting and working. The shop was small and we sat opposite each other on the stone floor covered only with a thin hemp sack. We removed our shoes and used our toes and feet to steady more awkward pieces of wood. I found I often shifted position and by the end of the day my lower back was screaming. I was reminded of a story told by an old friend, a tailor from Mussoorie147. As a boy his father started to teach him the work. For weeks he sat in the shop only watching what his father did. His mother complained that this was a waste of time and that, if he was not working, he should do something else. However, his father explained that he was learning the most important skill… to sit. I told this story to Arshad and explained that, as a boy, I never learnt ‘to sit’. He chuckled and reminded me, each time I stood up groaning, that it would have been a good thing to learn this.
It was a couple of months before I was allowed to do anything more complicated. I was pleased when Arshad presented me with a board of wood, upon which brass shapes were laid out, and a hand drill. Here, too, my touch proved heavy. I often made the holes too big, meaning that the tacks would not hold. Frequently, the bit stuck during
147 A hill town about four hours’ drive away.
drilling, rotating the brass. Patiently, Arshad showed me how to approach this with a combination of speed, to avoid sticking, and delicacy, to avoid oversized holes. It was longer still, before I was introduced to the most difficult stage of brass overlay work. Designs were composed of floral or abstract shapes. These ended in curved brass leaves with an engraved stem pattern. This comprised of three scores starting together at the base and opening out towards the tip. We undertook this with a fine tipped chisel. The brass leaves were delicate and my fear of damaging them resulted in the grooves being barely visible. Arshad encouraged me to apply force. Often I punctured through the brass but slowly I started to get the weighting of each blow. The grooves had slightly rough edges and I compulsively attempted to brush the stray shards with my finger. Arshad quickly stayed my hand, explaining that the shards could become embedded in the skin and that they would disappear during the buffing.
As our friendship grew we spent more time together away from work. I often went to Arshad’s home and was introduced to his parents, brothers, wife and three children. His father, who made sweet wrappers, smoked beedies (cheap cigarettes) and talked through missing teeth, making understanding him hard. Arshad’s mother was highly visible in the home space. She greeted me warmly each time, placing her hand on my head by way of blessing. The other women remained mostly in the sehan (courtyard) where food was prepared and household chores completed. Arshad and I usually sat together in a rear bedroom. The younger women averted their gaze as I passed through the communal space. On one occasion I was sat alone while Arshad was at namaaz. His mother entered and requested that I help repair a music player. I followed her to the next room where the women were. They giggled and asked me questions while I fiddled haphazardly with the machine. I got the feeling that the broken machine was being used as an opportunity for them to get a look at me. I felt uncertain if I was supposed to be in the space and averted my gaze before exiting. I did not mention it to Arshad but a few days later he asked if I thought the machine could be fixed. The more I got to know the family the more some of the curtains fell as relations became increasingly informal.
Although familiarity allowed a degree of informality, Arshad was diligent in his religious practice. He always made time for namaaz and sometimes I joined him. As well as
completing namaaz, Arshad wore the kurta (light cotton clothing) and did not shave his beard. As our friendship grew, Arshad occasionally expressed his concern regarding my lack of religion. He never did so out of a desire to convert me, or for his own satisfaction, but through a genuine concern that his close friend may not join him in the afterlife:
“The Quran is the word of god but you are my best friend. I do not give you any pressure but you should investigate. Let’s go in jamaat and there some foreigners can explain to you. They came because they believe in Allah. Many people convert to Islam as they get an idea about Allah’s power. I am very much worried about you that you will burn in fire if you have no faith. Tom, you are my best friend and I do not want to see you in the fire. […] I never want to convert you but I am telling you this as you are my best friend”.
Arshad was also keen to school me in other aspects of Islamic and cultural practice and became a cultural as well as a craft ustad. I discussed the possibility of my joining him for namaaz. Arshad instructed me on the correct procedure for vazu148 and when we
attended he prayed next to me ensuring that I followed his movements. Whilst some of his tuition was orientated toward formal occasions there were also numerous smaller adaptions that he encouraged me to make. This could be simply correcting my cultural stumbling but were amplified by his position as a member of the Tabligh Jamaat. He also made suggestions as to those individuals I should associate with. In some workshops, however, social life revolved around hanging out, drinking alcohol and, at times, frequenting prostitutes. Here, the lessons I would have learned would have been very different. As I became closer to Arshad, Mustaqim, Sajid and others I became conscious of my reputation within the group. As such, when an opportunity arose to go drinking with guys from a neighbouring workshop, I found myself declining. Although the building of friendships had opened some doors it also led to the closing of others.
Intense friendships were something that I experienced increasingly through my time in the city and still, at a distance, today. This was partly a result of my positionality and being a ‘guest’ laid certain obligations on my hosts. However, the notions explored here are relevant to understanding social relations in the gullies and friendships amongst
others were also intense. As I prepared to leave, Mustaqim was keen to confirm that his family had treated me ‘with the same love’ as they did their sons and that we would remain friends. These events took place as I was leaving the field but the friendships built during my time in Saharanpur persist as we continue to converse by telephone. This represents something of a shift in the contemporary experience of undertaking fieldwork, particularly, when method is based on forming close relationships. Such on- going relations would have been impossible only a decade ago. But in a world of global communication, they can be maintained. This opens up new considerations as we strive to achieve a degree of critical reflection, a process that is already difficult given the time spent internalising the worldviews of others (Prentice, 2008). It also blurs the line between home and field. Waiting for a flight to Dubai I had a last phone conversation with Arshad. As I said goodbye he responded in English with ‘I love you149.
149 In the context of these relationships the meaning is translated by Arshad from Hindi/Urdu and should not be
misinterpreted.