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.
Those wooden wonders weren’t just playthings; they were magic spinning tops that danced at a mere flick of the fingers, rattles that jingled with the laughter of innocence. But now? They rested behind glass, admired but untouched, relics of a world that had moved on.
Yet, as I watched the woman disappear into the crowd, a truth settled within me. Some things do not fade. The touch of that wood, the scent of fresh lacquer, the joy those toys once brought, they linger, tucked in the corners of the heart, waiting to be remembered.
My mother, too, had her own stories of Etikoppaka. She stored her vermilion in delicate wooden boxes, their lacquered surfaces holding not just sindoor but memories. But what she treasured most were the Lakkapidathalu — the miniature wooden kitchen sets. Even now, when she spoke of them, her eyes gleamed with the same childhood joy. Afternoons spent in makebelieve kitchens, friendships woven over toy stoves and tiny ladles, those moments were etched in her heart just as they were in mine.
Her childhood was rooted in Lakkavaram in Anakapalle district. A village named after lac, the very resin that gives Etikoppaka toys their signature sheen.
The same lacquer that once played a role in the Mahabharata’s Lakshagraha, a house meant for destruction, now lives on in Etikoppaka toys, transformed into vessels of artistry and tradition. It is strange how something once tied to betrayal has found its place in creation, in the hands of artisans who shape not just wood, but stories meant to endure.
And the colours! Etikoppaka toys were poetry, no rigid lines, no boundaries, just a seamless blend of hues, free and untamed, much like the childhoods they belonged to.
But beyond the colours, it was the magic in those toys that mattered, the way their polished surfaces shimmered under the light, mirroring the sparkle in a child’s eyes. The way they invited hands to hold them, to play, to dream.
This was more than craftsmanship; it was devotion — a quiet defiance against time itself. These artisans did not merely shape wood; they shaped nostalgia, crafting echoes of a past that refused to be forgotten.
As the train finally heaved forward, I carried with me more than just the anticipation of a journey’s end. I carried the scent of lacquer, the whisper of spinning tops, the laughter of a childhood wrapped in wooden wonders.
Etikoppaka toys are not just meant to be admired; they are meant to be played, withheld, and cherished.
Perhaps, even now, they wait. Not in glass cases, but in the hands of children yet to discover their magic.
Published – May 04, 2025 03:55 am IST