In one my earlier posts I mentioned that I had gone for a pottery class. Held ten days before the festival, this was going to be a Diya-making workshop, where you could make Diyas (lamps) from clay and then take them back home after they had been baked to use on Diwali. I was excited and couldn’t wait to go to the workshop. I even dressed right for the occasion wearing a shirt, I wouldn’t mind getting soiled and an old watch, I wouldn’t mind giving-up if I had ruin one in the process.
The guy who taught us to make those Diyas and associated stuff, set expectations right at the start by telling us that we shouldn’t hope to “learn” pottery with this workshop. And because we haven’t been learning/practicing this since the time we were 3, we should banish all hope of ever learning it. I remained hopeful and was sure I would be the exception to the rule and show so much promise and brilliance that he would be forced to concede that it is possible for people to learn pottery even after crossing the long-over-30 mark.
Class began and while we cheered on and gave direction to the other participants while they took a shot at it, we realized how tough it was only when we lay hands on it.
It was far from easy and we could consider ourselves good, if we could manage to keep our hands on it for half the process and still managed to have something decent at the end of it.
I displayed none of the brilliance I imagined I would and realized soon enough that our teacher, who had been practicing pottery for over 40 years now was right.
I did manage to finally come away with some decent ones (with a lot of help from the teacher). I didn’t really get to paint them and use them for Diwali (as I got them late), but I did put them out in my veranda with the rest of the lit Diyas to show-off.
They are far from perfect, but I love then anyway.