Our key maker started his career at the age of 14 as an apprentice at his grandfather Moti Ram Biswakarma’s now 85-year-old family-run workshop in Naxal. And at an average rate of 5 keys per day, Biswakarma, now 49, has made some 63,875 keys. But perhaps no one was counting. [break]
Equally out of reckoning is the medieval knowledge that Nepali locksmiths have handed down for generations. Today, with mass-produced consumer goods flooding the market and alternative livelihoods on the rise, the days of the locksmith and the art of making handcrafted keys could be numbered.
“I know about seven locksmith workshops, six in Kathmandu, one in Banepa, and the one at Kilagal is as old as our own. But there are lock-making machines these days, and slowly our old craft could disappear,” says Biswakarma.
While knowledge of the craft is preserved by only a handful, Kathmandu has seen the advent of a few commercial key houses that offer a fast and inexpensive service. Biswakarma, too, has had to adapt, and it has been two years since he started using a machine.
“I learnt how to use the machine on my own, and it has surely increased the business volume, plus it saves me a lot of time. What used to take 10 minutes has now been reduced to two minutes,” he says but adds, “Because of load-shedding, however, we once again have to rely on our hands and expertise that has its roots deep in the past.”
The rise of the machines has its downside too. Keys can now be duplicated faster, inviting social malpractices and competition which is apparently fierce among the few surviving locksmiths. Meanwhile, a rich craft is headed towards the sunset.
“Two distinct Nepali locks, the pechwala talcha and the dhungre sancho, are already extinct. There are very few hands remaining that can work on these locks,” says our key maker. “The bhote talcha, too, is hardly in use these days, and I have stopped working on them since it involves working a furnace which I no longer can.”
The situation is made worse by clients hesitant to pay even the nominal fee, and the availability of inexpensive locks prevents people from visiting the locksmith altogether. On average, Biswakarma makes Rs 10,000 to 12,000 per month, which is just enough for him to keep his head above water.
Arpan Shrestha
“Becoming rich through this calling is impossible,” he says with a deep laugh. He adds, “Even in my dreams the keys haunt me. Come to think of it, it is actually a stressful job. There’s a constant worry that a key might jam, or a client might not pay.”
“My interest lay elsewhere, but my father pressured me into joining the family business. For my own son I have a different plan,” says the locksmith, whose son Animesh is currently preparing for the School Leaving Certificate exams.
He adds, “Animesh is not interested at all in locks and keys. He wants to go abroad and I am not teaching him my craft either. I have invested about Rs 40,000 to fulfill his longing for education, and I’m not for forcing him into this dungeon of a workshop which hardly pays in the end.”
So what will become of this traditional craft handed down from father to son over generations?
“I can’t pass this craft on to just anyone,” Biswakarma says. “In the wrong hands it could easily have serious consequences for the security of someone’s property.”
Arpan Shrestha
Breaking with the father-to-son tradition, Biswakarma has initiated two apprentices, his nephews Ganesh, 45, and Kumar, 35, who now run their own workshops. But the day may not be far when their children too could follow in the footsteps of Animesh.
Like most young people, Animesh dreams of going abroad, while his father, who has worked away for 35 years, cites physical limitations including eye disorder and says, “I don’t know if I can continue five years from now.”
Unreported Lives is a weekly column for stories of ordinary people and their daily lives which often go unnoticed. Suggestions and feedback are welcome.
arpan@myrepublica.com
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