LACQUERED MEMORIES OF TIMELESS TOYS

Etikoppaka toys were poetry, no rigid lines, no boundaries, just a seamless blend of hues

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The train from Tirupati was running late. Visakhapatnam was close, yet not close enough. It stood still, caught in the silent grip of a stubborn signal.

Outside, life carried on, indifferent to my restless heart. Vendors wove through the crowd, their voices rising in rhythmic calls. One, in particular, caught my attention. An old woman. Bent with age, yet carrying a burden too heavy for her frail frame. A bundle of maybe 30 kg, balanced on her head, filled with little wooden toys. She moved with quiet resilience. Her silver hair peeked from beneath the weight, not just of her craft but of time itself.

Etikoppaka. The name alone unravelled a rush of memories of my summer vacations.

Women sat in courtyards, their fingers moving with instinctive grace. Shaping, carving, breathing life into every toy they made. Their hands carried stories, the weight of centuries pressing into every curve of wood. The men toiled over pigments, extracting colours from nature's own palette of roots, bark, and minerals mixed with lac to create hues that did not just paint just toys but also emotions.