Tracing Narratives

The owner looked at us as we stare intensively at the locked gate above the narrow staircase. This was it, our answer to all the relentless observations of the Gold-Dust Sweepers. We had spent over a week following these Mumbaikars sweeping and scouring dirt in the old district of Kalbadevi. We took a deep breath and proceeded, taking care to avoid its collection of rotting food, decolourised packaging & peeling beige paint which once protected the rusting metal staircase. Its original colour, we weren’t too sure. This could not be the way to the Goldsmiths workshops. I quickly grabbed onto my partners arm to swallow my scream as a rat scurried across a beam above us. The others remain unstirred but paused, understanding but not breaking the silence between us.
A middle aged man greeted us on the other side of the bars. His faced seemed confused and alert but also curious. Why were we here? He wasn’t expecting visitors. He was hesitant until the owner gestured him to open up, speaking mostly in Hindi. In a condensed line we clambered through carefully as our eyes scan the space ahead. I wait until our last companion enter and realise the gate keeper securing the lock and chains back on the gate. For my first time, I felt so conscious of entering a space. There was no difference in the character or features on the other side, yet the air seemed to become much denser as I struggled to draw each breath.
Greeted by the smoke of burnt sulphur and waves of intense heat it wasn’t long until we notice the clinking of metal and the dozens of eyes staring at us. Emerging was a small rectangular room hastily draped in rugged weaves of Indian carpets and small mahogany tables, each accompanied by a goldsmith. Strangely enough, these simple objects accumulated in this confined space gave such a feel of chaos and order.
I sat down quietly close to one of the goldsmiths as he continued working on his piece – a necklace drawn to scale on a piece of paper next to him. In one hand he held a blow torch, the other a tool similar to tweezers as he teased the gold gently into a black rubber mould. My face flushes to the torches heat and I wonder if he feels the same. Little space was left between each craftsman with only a modest window suggested a possible openness. This wasn’t a workshop – we had entered an ‘Artisans Cage’. The only thing escaping was the Gold-Dust.