On a humid Sept afternoon, the lanes of Kumartuli, the idol-makers' enclave in north Kolkata, are busy with preparations for
. In its narrow passageways, artisans shape clay into idols, while helpers carry straw and frames through the crowded alleys.
Known as Kolkata's traditional hub of idol-makers, Kumartuli supplies thousands of Durga idols each year, blending art with daily struggle.
Kumartuli traces its origins back to the 18th century when artisans were settled on the banks of the Hooghly by wealthy landlords who wanted skilled idol-makers for Durga Puja and other festivals. Over time, the neighbourhood evolved into a dedicated potters' quarter, with rows of workshops hanging cheek by jowl near the river.
The river plays a crucial role, as the sacred clay for idols is taken from its ghats, which is believed to carry spiritual strength.
"The river plays a crucial part in our lives," says Mala Pal, whose forefathers were involved in idol-making at Kumartuli. "Every year, we take the soil, mix it with straw and love, and bring the goddess to life. Without the Hooghly, there is no Kumartuli."
The lanes of Kumartuli are narrow, chaotic, yet full of colour.
Stacks of bamboo poles and clay figures line the narrow passages, while potters work under tarpaulin-covered sheds. In the evenings, a faint smell of wood polish mixes with the aroma of frying fritters from a corner stall. Just a short walk away, hundreds congregate to watch the sunset by the river. Kumartuli is not just for idol-makers and puja committees anymore.
It has become an attraction for tourists, photographers, and heritage enthusiasts.
Arindam Dutta, a heritage walk conductor who takes groups from across the world through Kolkata's historic neighbourhoods, insists that Kumartuli is a must-visit on his itinerary. Foreign visitors crowd the lanes in the weeks before Durga Puja, cameras clicking, while artisans pause just long enough to smile before returning to their work. "Kumartuli is a must-stop," says Dutta. "Even if I didn't put it in my schedule, guests ask for it.
They want to see how the gods are created, to take photos and videos. Some are surprised that these fragile figures, some of which are over 20 feet tall, are shipped abroad."
The paradox of Kumartuli is striking: its idols travel across the globe — from Norway to New Jersey — yet its artisans often live in cramped rooms without secure incomes. Durga Puja brings a rush of work and a brief economic windfall, but for many families, the rest of the year is lean.
"Our idols go abroad but look at where we stay," says Bikash Pal, another artisan, gesturing to his one-room workshop. His two-room home, where his family stays, is just behind the workshop.
"The world applauds our art, but at the end of the day, our quality of life remains the same."
Puja organisers are quick to point out how rising costs and competition amongst them are pushing up the prices, but the idol has to be sourced from Kumartuli.
"Budgets are rising, everything is more expensive—clay, straw, paints," says Sambaran Das, who helms a puja committee in Bagbazar. "But we cannot compromise on Kumartuli idols. They are the heart of our puja."
Despite hardships, Kumartuli is far from stagnant. In recent years, artisans have started taking orders for themed pujas, experimenting with fibreglass, thermocol, and even recycled materials. Some create bespoke idols for NRIs, shipping them across continents.
"We have to evolve," says Kartik Pal, secretary of the potters' association in Kumartuli, carefully painting the goddess's eyes. "Earlier, it was only Durga.
Now we make Saraswati for schools, Lakshmi for business houses, even Christmas cribs for churches. If we don't adapt, we won't survive."
Beyond gods, Kumartuli's clay hands shape the likenesses of national icons — Netaji Subhas Chandra Bose, Rabindranath Tagore, Swami Vivekananda.
These busts often find their way into institutions, cultural centres, and private collections. In this way, the potters are archivists too, preserving Bengal's pantheon of history alongside its gods.
Walk a little deeper into Kumartuli and you might stumble upon an amusing sight: a tiny shop cluttered with radio parts, where an old man bends over a half-open transistor. This is Amit Ranjan Karmakar, who has repaired radios here for decades, stubbornly holding onto a dying craft in a neighbourhood of idol makers.
"People laugh, they say radios are dead," he smiles, adjusting his spectacles. "But sometimes someone brings me a set their grandfather loved, and they want it to play again.
I tell them, like Kumartuli, old things have their place. We refuse to drift into oblivion."
Kumartuli is not just another neighbourhood — it is a metaphor. It represents Kolkata's contradictions: gods born amidst deprivation, heritage living beside modernity, art flourishing amid hardship. On the eve of Durga Puja, when idols emerge in dazzling splendour, the contrast feels most poignant. As Dutta, the heritage guide, sums it up: "When my foreign guests ask, ‘How do they make something so divine in such small, difficult conditions?' I tell them — that is Kolkata.