Hala – City of Crafts

It wasn’t the most ideal time when I finally got my chance to visit Hala. It was night time and the industries were closed. So we returned to Hyderabad, which happens to be 56 km from the city. Sometime later, I got another chance, this time from Bhit Shah, the site of one of the most famous sons of Sindh.

Hala, in terms of crafts that it produces equals Multan Sharif in its quality of the product and the massive output. And once you’ve seen what poor, almost rag-tag, artisans can do with the paper, glass, cotton and wood you get convinced quite easily that art has no limits. But what Hala produces goes much beyond art. The objects created there don’t only look beautiful but are useful and run much longer than our staples from China and other such countries. And the cost is meagre, if one knows where to look.

The first impression of Hala is that of any other mid-level town of Pakistan, with open, often flowing, drainage, a bad network of roads that makes no sense to a visitor; lots of honking scooters, donkey-carts, taxis; and lots of people sitting idle. But when you look closely at the walls, even gates or the chadors and the caps being worn; the trucks and the fancy rickety rickshaws, all give an impression of a city steeped in antiquity and trying to find its feet in the modern world.

You find an assortment of goods which are fantastic — almost timeless — handed down generation to generation, some still kept secret, others not so. The city looks modern but in a very garish, almost vulgar manner. The moment I entered I was hooked. And Adeel, my companion in such travels, was impressed but pained to see the poor people at work. Too many to be counted.

In Hala I met one master who had received a medal from UN Secretary General, Kofi Annan in France, for his brilliant kashi work (blue tiles that don’t loose colour in centuries). There was an old PIA magazine (Humsafar) hanging on the wall precariously. The photo on the cover was of the craft done by him. He was bitterly poor.

I was, however, quite surprised to see almost no affection for myself. I quietly asked my guide, Riaz as to why these artists were so disinterested in me whereas most of the people of Hala are otherwise affectionate towards visitors? He informed sadly, that many rich visitors come to these artists, talk to them, photograph them, and walk out. They never change their destiny. These artists, the last ‘culture-savers’, as I call them, remain poor — as always.

No wonder than that every artist/craftsman I met during my travels in the city and in the nearby Bhit Shah, were poor to the extreme. Some even had no good clothes to wear. Their torn and bitter faces spoke themselves; the food in their homes was either too short or not at all; at times they went un-fed. This leads the newer generation of Sindhis from Hala and Bhit Shah to abandon their generations old crafts and make a new life.

I saw many objects of love being prepared at numerous workshops that litter this part of our country. Usually, the crafts were being either produced in a run-down plot, called the artist place, or it was being practised under open skies, open doors, and no frills. That’s the classic old-style way of doing things. People, passing by, would look — almost gawk — at the visitors, who are rare. In fact, at most places we were the only visitors, and as soon as we would enter the artist’s domain, deep in his craft, he would raise his head, salute, smile and continue with his work. Some more business-like would stop altogether, shake hands and would start detailing the process — if asked — or else the qualities of the craft; where it came from, how long it has been here, who are the pioneers, and why this craft is now vanishing. Every time they would tell me the reason why their craft was vanishing I felt like a party to it all. After all, we, as a nation, spend millions on items bought from abroad; we like to fill our rooms with ‘Made in Europe’ items and loose out on Made in Pakistan. They would then look at me with eyes filled with anticipation, thinking that I might buy one ajrak, one stunning, blue bowl, or place an order for tiles for home; I did none of that and felt ashamed. It was one of those sad days when I had felt a party to a crime.

As one Pakistani scientist, now in Canada, reminded me, that just writing articles won’t help save our heritage much. It will take a lot of genuine effort, lot of Pakistani nationals and a lot of money, I would say, to save them from complete collapse. Already, once a booming industry, now in patch works, ‘ajrak’, the oldest patterned chador in production in this country, is fighting for survival.