Tucked away in the quiet lanes of Majlis Bagh, a small village under the Gazole police station in Malda, West Bengal, lives a community of artisans whose hands speak a language passed down for generations — the soft rustle of bamboo strips being peeled, the rhythmic tapping of fingers weaving, binding, creating. Here, more than sixty out of seventy families breathe life into bamboo every single day, turning nature’s humble gift into utility, beauty, and hope.

At the heart of this community is Murmu, a 46-year-old artisan who has been working with bamboo for nearly three decades. But his story isn’t his alone — it echoes the lives of countless others in Majlis Bagh, where craftsmanship is not a profession, but a lineage. “We have been doing this for generations,” he says, his eyes reflecting both pride and the quiet fatigue of a lifelong commitment. “So long, I don’t even know when it began.”

A Heritage Carved by Hand

In Murmu’s household — and in many like his — the day begins early. Bamboo stalks are stripped with traditional knives known as Kuda, peeled into thin strips called baet, and slowly transformed into baskets, lamps, trays, and countless other articles. These are sold across the country, from Delhi to Mumbai, journeying far from the muddy roads of Majlis Bagh, yet carrying with them the scent of home.

Despite the artistry and hard work, the earnings are modest. “We make around ₹20,000 to ₹25,000 a month,” Murmu admits. It’s enough to survive, maybe enough to build a home, but never enough to forget how fragile the work can be.

COVID-19 was a painful reminder of that fragility. Like many artisan communities across India, Majlis Bagh faced an abrupt collapse in demand. “There were problems,” Murmu shares. “But our Malik (agent) had clients lined up. He supported us through it. If not for him, we might not have had any work at all.”

This balance — between independence and dependency, craft and commerce — defines the lives of bamboo weavers here. Some work under agents; others sell their wares directly. Most do both, walking a tightrope where tradition meets survival.

The Young Hands of Tomorrow

In one corner of the village, Bibita Todo, just 23 years old, sits peeling bamboo with the ease of someone who’s done it for years — ten years, to be exact. Her mother and father taught her. Her siblings do it too. This is their inheritance.

But Bibita’s story is one of duality. She’s not just a craftswoman — she’s a college student pursuing Education Honours. “I want to become a teacher,” she says with a quiet smile. “But I will continue this work even then.” Her statement carries a depth few of her age can match — it’s not resignation, it’s reverence. Craft, for her, is both a cultural anchor and a practical fallback.

Like many young girls and boys in the village, Bibita started working with bamboo around the age of seven or eight. Today, her younger siblings follow the same path — mornings at school or college, evenings spent weaving strips of bamboo under the amber glow of lanterns.

Her 20-year-old brother, too, attends college in Gazole and comes home to help with the family’s bamboo work. For them, education and tradition aren’t mutually exclusive — they coexist, layered like the cross-hatched patterns of a handwoven basket.

Between Hope and Hardship

In many urban minds, the idea of craft is romantic — handmade baskets, woven trays, rustic décor. But behind every finished piece is a family that spent hours, often days, coaxing delicate strips of bamboo into form. Behind the warm texture is the sharp bite of blades, the aching fingers, the constant hum of uncertainty.

Bamboo weaving in Majlis Bagh is not just a livelihood; it’s a living archive of tribal knowledge, a story of resilience etched into each fiber. It reflects the strength of women like Bibita, who study by day and work by night. It reflects the endurance of men like Murmu, who pass on skills as old as memory itself. And it reflects the quiet determination of a community that refuses to fade into oblivion.

Yes, they face challenges — from fluctuating market prices, exploitative middlemen, and the lack of direct market access, to the invisibility that rural artisans often suffer. But in their struggles lies their strength. When the world stopped during COVID-19, they kept weaving. When income slowed, they turned to their art. When modernity threatened to erase them, they adapted.

Why Their Story Matters

In an age where machine-made products flood our homes, choosing handcrafted is not just an aesthetic choice — it’s a moral one. When you buy a bamboo lamp from Malda, you aren’t just purchasing décor. You are giving light to a household that may otherwise be dimmed by financial strain. You are investing in education for a girl who wants to be a teacher. You are sustaining a tradition that could die with the last generation unless valued today.

These artisans do not want charity. They want recognition, respect, and reach. They want access to better tools, wider markets, and fair pricing. They want the dignity of being seen — not as poor villagers, but as culture bearers, craftspeople, and entrepreneurs in their own right.

In Their Hands, A Future

There is a quiet power in the hands of Malda’s bamboo weavers. It lies in the gentle pressure of their fingers as they curve the strips. In the stories they pass down wordlessly. In the eyes of children who grow up watching their parents create something out of nothing.

Their story is not loud. It’s not viral. But it is real, raw, and relevant. And it deserves to be told — again and again — until one day, a little girl from Majlis Bagh becomes a teacher.