#lostprofession

Although I do not subscribe to the notion of change as the ultimate state of being, I acknowledge the profound truth in Heraclitus's observation of its constant and pervasive nature. This inherent dynamism is readily observable in the ongoing evolution of human societies, encompassing cultural shifts, civilizational advancements, and the continual transformation of professional landscapes.

Within the vibrant and culturally diverse region of West Bengal, India, the majestic Howrah Bridge serves not merely as a structural marvel but also as a potent symbol of interconnectedness, embodying the region's unique cultural identity. This iconic structure physically links two major urban centers, while simultaneously reflecting the rich historical tapestry of the region, including its legacy of colonial rule.

I wish to direct your attention to a scholarly work that examines the intriguing phenomenon of "Lost Professions and Lost Tales." This work investigates the intriguing question of whether these once-thriving professions have completely vanished, their existence now shrouded in the veil of obscurity, or whether they have simply receded into the realm of historical memory, their significance now reduced to mere mythical narratives.

Fortunately, the significant contribution of Kinnar Roy, a renowned scholar and author, has shed considerable light on this fascinating subject. His seminal work, "Luptajibika, Luptakatha," transcends mere anecdotal accounts, offering a more rigorous and insightful analysis of these lost vocations."

Not all livelihoods, perhaps, were sources of joy or honour, but they existed nonetheless. Alongside them were countless small things that once filled our daily lives, seemingly insignificant yet omnipresent. Before we could even realise, they vanished, slipping away unnoticed, lost amidst the shifting sands of societal change and crushed under the relentless wheels of the corporate world, taking with them an entire era.

This anthology is a commemorative collection of memories of a bygone time—of pond divers, washermen, street entertainers, water-fetchers, compounders, wet nurses, or the quaint relics of postcards, ink, and pen, mustard chutney, medicinal powders, traditional herbs, or the soothing touch of chilled rock sugar water. These were once essential parts of everyday life, now relegated to obscurity.

This compilation brings together two long-forgotten yet widely discussed books published by Pratikhon years ago, which captured these fading fragments of life and culture—treasured artefacts of a time now almost erased from collective memory .

This discussion delves into professions lost to the currents of time.

With the inexorable march of history, societal norms, cultural practices, and socio-economic frameworks have undergone profound transformations. Naturally, the sphere of occupations has not remained untouched by these shifts. New professions have emerged in response to evolving circumstances, captivating individuals with their novelty, while traditional vocations have either been adapted, marginalised, or rendered obsolete altogether. This is the inexorable law of change.

One such example is the erstwhile sight of bhisti—water carriers—traversing the streets of Kolkata, bearing leather bags filled with water. However, Kolkata was not their sole domain; these bhistis were ubiquitous across northern India, in cities like Delhi, Uttar Pradesh, and Gujarat. The leather bags they carried, known as mashaks, were typically crafted from goat hide.

The term bhisti is etymologically derived from the Persian word behisht or bihisht, signifying "paradise." It is believed that the name commemorates the martyrdom of Hazrat Muhammad's grandson, Hussain (RA), who, while carrying water amidst the Battle of Karbala, succumbed to his injuries, attaining paradise. This historic association bestowed a spiritual and cultural resonance upon the vocation, with the bhistis traditionally bearing the surname Sheikh Abbasi.

During the British colonial era, bhistis were a familiar presence on Kolkata’s streets. Employed under the aegis of the Calcutta Municipal Corporation, they were entrusted with tasks such as cleaning roads and supplying water, earning regular monthly wages. Notably, they served key areas like the Anglo-Indian and Chinese colonies of Park Circus, where their dedication and efficiency garnered societal respect. Literary references further immortalised them—Rudyard Kipling’s poem Gunga Din and Sukumar Ray’s verse Nera Beltolay Jay Koybar both mention these water carriers, with Kipling’s work conferring a sort of literary immortality upon the bhistis.

However, their indispensability gradually waned with the advent of technological advancements. The introduction of roadside taps, hand pumps, municipal water pipelines, and water tankers rendered their services redundant. Today, the presence of bhistis is confined to just two areas of Kolkata—Bow Barracks and Bowbazar. Among these, their services are more prominent in Bow Barracks, particularly within the Anglo-Indian, Chinese, and Muslim quarters. Yet even here, their relevance is diminishing, as manual labour succumbs to the efficiency of mechanisation amidst rising urban demands.

Most bhistis have now abandoned their ancestral profession, resorting to daily wage labour for sustenance. A similar fate has befallen their counterparts in Old Delhi, where the plight of this community has grown dire. According to a report by The Indian Express, only one family in the Shah Dargah area near Meena Bazaar continues to uphold this tradition. However, even they now supply water to restaurants, hotels, and roadside eateries, earning a paltry sum of 15–20 rupees for 30 litres of water. It is evident from such accounts that the extinction of this age-old vocation is but a matter of time.

Much like the bhistis, the numbers of certain other traditional professions are dwindling within the urban landscape. While their condition is not quite as dire, their presence is increasingly restricted to specific areas in northern, central, and southern Kolkata. Nevertheless, these individuals remain an enduring symbol of Kolkata—after the iconic Howrah Bridge and the Victoria Memorial, they are perhaps the next most recognisable feature of the city’s identity. Clad in sweat-soaked vests, knee-high lungis, and gripping the vehicle they cherish, these men sometimes rest under its shade on scorching afternoons.

Hand-pulled rickshaws are a beloved subject of street photographers, offering a nostalgic glimpse of the past. These rickshaws were introduced to India in 1880, first appearing in Simla, the British summer capital. Inspired by Japanese designs, the rickshaw concept spread globally, and India was no exception. Kolkata witnessed the advent of hand-pulled rickshaws in the early 20th century, which challenged the exclusivity of the palki (palanquin) and became a practical mode of transport for the Bengali middle-class workforce. The wheels of these rickshaws were robustly crafted from durable wood, yet the physical labour required to operate them was immense. By the 1930s, three-wheeled cycle rickshaws began to emerge on Kolkata’s streets, followed by auto-rickshaws, pedicabs, totos, and even modern velotaxis.

Today, apart from Kolkata, hand-pulled rickshaws are found in only one other location in India—Matheran, a small, pollution-free hill station near Mumbai where motorised vehicles are prohibited. This unique setting ensures the survival of hand-pulled rickshaws for the time being, but their eventual consignment to the pages of history seems inevitable.

The decline of professions extends far beyond rickshaw pullers. Many vocations that once populated Bengali literature are now either obsolete or facing extinction. For instance, one such vanishing profession is that of the bahurupi—traditional performers who brought various characters to life through their artistry. These performers, often entire families, would roam villages and towns, enacting roles drawn from mythology or folklore. Some relied on elaborate masks, while others showcased their skills solely through makeup. In urban areas, they were colloquially referred to as song.

The bahurupi have been immortalised in literature—most notably in Sarat Chandra Chattopadhyay’s Srikanta, where the amusing tale of the performer Srinath captivates readers, as well as in the works of Abanindranath Tagore's grandson, Mohanlal Gangopadhyay. However, as new forms of entertainment gained prominence, such as fixed-stage jatra, group theatre, and ultimately cinema, the bahurupi faded into obscurity. Although a handful of performers can still be found in rural areas like Birbhum, their numbers are dwindling. For instance, in the village of Bishaypur, the Chowdhury family continues to preserve this ancestral craft, with members of all ages dedicated to their vocation. Their performances, primarily based on mythological narratives, are their only source of livelihood, as they lack agricultural land. Yet many former bahurupi performers have abandoned their craft under the pressures of modernisation.

Similar to the bahurupi, another profession fading into oblivion is that of the compounder. Once the indispensable assistants to physicians, compounders prepared medicinal mixtures, applied bandages, and provided basic medical care. In smaller towns, suburbs, and villages, they were often the go-to individuals for primary healthcare when doctors were unavailable. Locals would address them with deference as "Compounder Babu." However, with the advent of pharmacy degrees and specialised training programmes, the role of compounders has been replaced by professional pharmacists, relegating this once-essential vocation to the annals of history.

Among women, too, several traditional professions have vanished. Historically, lower-class women engaged in specific occupations, often within the confines of affluent households. One such profession was that of the napitani—wives of barbers who specialised in applying alta (a red dye) to the feet of aristocratic women. In joint families, young girls and married women alike would adorn their feet with intricate designs of alta, applied with care by the napitani. Over time, as societal norms evolved and middle-class values took precedence, such practices became obsolete, relegated to the occasional wedding or religious festival. The profession of the napitani has long since disappeared.

Two other female-dominated professions tied to the domestic sphere were those of the dhai-ma (midwife) and dudh-ma (wet nurse). The term dhai originates from the Sanskrit word dhatri, meaning "nurturer." In earlier times, childbirth occurred at home, with the dhai-ma supervising deliveries in designated birth chambers (aatur ghar). Equipped with sterilised knives or bamboo slivers for cutting the umbilical cord, these midwives also tended to the newborn for several days post-delivery. In royal households, dhai-mas were entrusted with the long-term upbringing of children, but this practice was rare in ordinary Indian families. Notably, male newborns often fetched higher tips for dhai-mas than female infants—a stark reminder of the patriarchal biases of the time.

In contemporary society, home births have been replaced by institutionalised medical care, and childcare responsibilities are often outsourced to nannies or governesses. While the term dhai-ma endures in some regions, its scope has narrowed significantly, with its primary function now subsumed by modern healthcare systems.

The Dastangoiya

Dastangars, or storytellers, were once the harbingers of oral narratives, captivating audiences in bustling marketplaces with tales of kings, emperors, and folklore. With a mastery of eloquent storytelling, they transported listeners to mythical realms through their vibrant narrations. This profession, akin to street theatre, faded with the advent of cinema and digital media. A parallel can be drawn to the advent of the bioscope, where visual storytelling combined static imagery to enthral the audience. However, it is crucial to distinguish Dastangars from pothi-pathaks (script reciters), who would gather communities at night to read sacred manuscripts. Unlike the Dastangars, pothi-pathaks performed without monetary recompense, serving instead as cultural custodians of their times.

The Palki Bearers

The palanquin, a quintessentially traditional mode of transport in Bengal, was reserved for the affluent and aristocratic classes. Palki bearers, who carried these ornate carriages, were once integral to the cultural fabric, facilitating ceremonial processions, including weddings. However, the advent of modern vehicles has rendered this once-revered mode of transport obsolete.

The Pankha Pullers

The pankha-pullers, professionals tasked with manually operating large hand fans known as aranis or smaller ones called arbakis, have long disappeared. Their services were a symbol of luxury in the courts of kings and feudal lords, signifying opulence and servitude. Modern mechanised fans and air-conditioning systems have reduced this occupation to a relic of the past.

The Snake Charmers

Snake charmers, or sapures, played a dual role in the urban and rural landscapes of Bengal during the Mughal and British periods. While they were primarily employed to remove venomous serpents from human habitations, they also doubled as entertainers, showcasing their art in public spaces. Today, this profession has diminished, largely replaced by pest control services, and its practitioners, often referred to as Bedes, are now known for different trades that deviate from their traditional roots.

The Cotton Carders (Dhunaris)

The craft of cotton carding, an age-old profession, was integral to the making of mattresses, quilts, and cushions. The dhunaris would travel door-to-door, armed with their tools to fluff raw cotton. Over time, this skilled occupation declined as industrialised production of bedding took precedence. Today, descendants of the dhunaris work as labourers in large-scale mattress manufacturing units, far removed from their artisanal past.

The Hookah Makers (Naichaband) and Stick Makers (Tikiawala)

During the heyday of the hookah, Dhaka was renowned as a hub for the finest hookah craftsmanship in the Indian subcontinent. Naichabands, who specialised in making hookah pipes, were predominantly Sylheti craftsmen who fashioned pipes from a variety of woods such as shishu, jam, and jarul. Similarly, the tikiawalas of Dhaka’s Tikatuli area elevated the craft of producing lightweight, high-quality hookah sticks to an art form. The shift in societal habits and the decline in hookah culture have all but erased these trades, leaving behind a legacy of intricate craftsmanship.

The Couriers (Runners)

The profession of the runner, immortalised in Sukanta Bhattacharya's iconic poem Runner, epitomises a bygone era of communication. Originating during the Mughal period, runners were entrusted with delivering messages, letters, and even money across vast distances. They relied solely on their physical endurance and impeccable integrity. The advent of telegraphs, telephones, and eventually email systems rendered this profession redundant, consigning it to history as a testament to human resilience and adaptability.