Bhar: Visiting the makers of Kolkata’s eco-friendly disposable clay cups

We duck into an alley between narrow structures. The one on the left, painted a fading blue, is our landmark, pointed out by a friendly man with boozy breath we asked for directions at the last cross road. Just over our heads, wooden planks reach from one rooftop to the other, with rows of drying clay cups perched atop. When we turn around the next corner, we find ourselves tiptoeing between slippery pits of grey mud. We’ve come to the right place.

We’ve not come at an ideal time. It’s siesta time which means most people we see are resting. Only a young woman at the end of the yard signals us to come closer. Her uncle is still finishing up a few cups before they’ll be fired, she explains in immaculate English when we tell her why we’ve come, and points towards a man squatting at a whirring potter’s wheel on the mud-floor. He grins a sideways hello and his agile hands have started and finished another fragile cup before I can count the ones already neatly lined up next to him. One of his hands is malformed. It’s only visible when he pauses for a moment.

The family produces around 2.200 of the small cups per day, the potter’s niece Neha explains, and then we are promptly ushered in and offered biscuits and soda. Suddenly shy, I take off my shoes and step into the brick shanty that functions both as home, workshop and kiln.

We’ve come to document the sustainable, ancient tradition of clay cups in Kolkata: bhar.

We’ve come to document the sustainable, ancient tradition of clay cups in Kolkata: bhar. While plastic disposables are continuing their worldwide victory parade all over India, Bengal’s environmentally friendly cups are still being used in the streets of Kolkata – mostly for chai, the traditional sweet, milky tea. Handmade from river silt since ancient times, they add an unrivaled earthy taste to your tea, Calcuttans say, before they more or less ceremoniously smash the delicate vessel on the ground.

The clay cups are fired but unglazed and meant to be disposed after use, thrown on the ground or against a wall, crushed under the foot. Everywhere on the sidewalks of the city’s busy streets shine pale orange splinters of bhar, waiting to be swept up by garbage collectors, or for the next big rain which will melt them slowly back into the mud they came from. Dug up from the river Hooghly, which branches off the Ganges and has shaped Kolkata’s outlines many times over the centuries, the moldable mud is ferried to the potters, kneaded into its characteristic, smooth grey texture, and sculpted into vessels.

They add an unrivaled earthy taste to your tea, Calcuttans say, before they more or less ceremoniously smash the delicate vessel on the ground.

Neha Prajapati’s family have been potters for generations. Hailing from Uttar Pradesh, they migrated to Kolkata in search of work two generations ago – similar to many other blue-collar workers who are powering the service sector. Not many other places, however, still value the craft of pottery as much as West Bengal. And even this has changed.

Up until a few years ago, vessels of all sizes were customarily made from clay.

Up until a few years ago, vessels of all sizes were customarily made from clay. Mugs for yoghurt drinks or bowls for desserts and savory dishes used to be a common sight. They have become rare these days, though are still more widespread in West Bengal than in other parts of India. Pots, pitchers, and even huge jars to store drinking water in can still be found here and there even though most of the bigger containers have been replaced by plastic. Apart from the ubiquitous traditional sweets, mishtis, that are often delivered in clay pots, mostly chai wallahs have been faithful to the ancient tradition of serving their hot deliciousness in bhar.

To sip India’s informal national beverage from cups made off the land they live on is a different experience – and not only for the palate.

Thousands of clay vessels are delivered every morning to the tea and food stalls that line Kolkata’s streets. Around 50 of the tiny chai cups are sold for around 100 Rupees – less than $1,50. Are they afraid to go out of business? Neha’s father shakes his head. “The demand is actually rising,” he says, and goes on to explain that people buy and consume more in general, and that on the other hand there is more awareness about the ancient tradition of bhar and its superiority over plastic disposals. “Even the government tries to reduce single-use plastic,” he exclaims. And then, there’s the incontestable Bengali pride of cultural heritage and traditions. To sip India’s informal national beverage from cups made off the land they live on is a different experience – and not only for the palate.

The media has picked up on the ancient, environmentally friendly tradition as well and a few groups have come to ask questions and take pictures, Neha explains. “I have international friends,” she says with modest pride, and writes down her email address. Meanwhile, a woman at the end of the workshop has prepared the kiln. She disappears underground to light the fire in a pit and for some time only her silhouette, illuminated by reddish flames, is visible through the dense smoke. Atop the kiln, the sundried, light grey vessels are spiraled out on hay. They will turn to their characteristic pale orange when fired.

But who in the family will continue the tradition? Pottery is hard work and many potters don’t want their children to take over the wheel. Even though potters are more commonly male, there are also female crafters. But Neha has just finished college, works in an office, and is continuing her education. “In theory I know how to make all these,” she says and waves at the delicate vessels that line the walls of her home from floor to ceiling, “but I’m not good at it.” Her career will not be that of a potter and her siblings seem to have other plans as well.

“Arre,” her uncle inquires as we bid our goodbyes, “what’s the price for a passport?” Over the course of our visit he has asked about visas and flights to Europe and the US. He’d love to travel, he says, while his hands keep sculpting the silky grey clay with the unerring ease of a lifetime’s practice.

Neha has slipped into a small wooden structure attached to the outside wall to get ready for her tuition. When she comes out, she wears pants, a dash of red on her lips, and the expression of a successful professional. “I’m not sure who will take over our business,” she says as we walk with her towards the road. “But it’s still in the future. It will happen then.”