A hundred or so kilometres from Delhi – a megalopolis now throbbing with the same frenzy as Tokyo or Shanghai – you enter another world, that of ‘eternal India’, in which cow dung becomes art and gold. In Rajasthan, on the border with Haryana, you can stay in Tijara Fort, renovated with passion by Francis Wacziarg and Aman Nath. Perched on a steep hill, its three palaces look out, through a golden mist, over cultivated fields for as far as the eye can see. From the terrace of the Ladies’ Palace you can see in the distance Hindu and Jain temples, Sufi mausoleums and a few farms sprinkled between sky and earth. It is down there in the plain that we are going, to discover the bitoras, their many manifestations and their strange beauty. Now, at the height of their season in March, they are everywhere in Tijara: in or near farmyards, on open spaces in villages, in the neighbouring woods or side by side along the dirt roads, reshaping the landscape and vernacular architecture.
Bitoras (or bitauras) are traditional constructions made from cow dung. You can also find them in Haryana, in the Punjab and all along the Ganges valley as far as Bengal. Their erection begins on the day after Diwali, the festival of lights in autumn that celebrates the end of the monsoon. On that day, Govardhan – one of the many incarnations of Krishna (god of cowherds and also of unbridled love) – is celebrated, as is the symbolic dung of the sacred cow. This manure, in all its forms, is the raw material for much of the religious and aesthetic expression in India.
Only the women – Hindu or Muslim – work on them, from the beginning to the end of the process. The cowpats are raked up and brought back by men, but it is the women who knead them and mould them into shape to make dung cakes ready for drying in the sun. Later they pile them skilfully on top of one another to create the walls of the bitora, which will often be built in instalments as three successive storeys, depending on the quantity of dung available… and local inspiration.
The patties give the bitora its shape. In return, it stores and protects them when the women, after long and arduous labour, cover the hundreds of neatly ordered and well-dried patties – some fatter than others and some flatter than others, according to need – with a thick layer of dung, strengthened with a little straw. While the dung is still fresh, a woman acknowledged as more artistic than the others will draw geometric or symbolic abstract imprints on the walls of the bitora. What matters is the very act of decoration: it is related to prosperity, longevity and the surrounding natural world. These engraved designs – sometimes abstract, sometimes representing flowers, peacock feathers or stylised trees – are never exactly the same.
When the bitoras are dry, the walls – which are firmly and gently smoothed – look like they are made from fine clay of an ochre, chocolate, golden or copper hue. Customarily, an opening is made in the bitora so that the dung cakes (known as upla) can be taken out as and when they are needed. Then the Indian sun floods the bitora with light and the creation is finished. This is the moment that the bitora becomes a work of art – and all the more so for its being ephemeral and eternally begun again.
But we must not forget the interior of the bitora, which is its reason for existing. The precious dung cakes sheltered inside have many different uses that are essential in these regions. First and foremost, they are an excellent fuel for cooking and heating; they also produce an ideal temperature for the kilns of potters and craftsmen. Astonishingly, 400 million tonnes of cow-dung cakes are burned in India every year. They are bought and sold too: some customers buy entire bitoras for the construction of their houses, cow-dung cakes being cheaper than bricks, which cost five or six times more. They therefore make a significant economic contribution to farms. From this point, they are no longer considered a women’s matter, but rather a subject of negotiation reserved exclusively for the men. The dung cakes can be sold in their tens or hundreds to those who have no cattle and therefore no bitora. Whether you are a Hindu or Muslim farmer, owning even a single cow is a sign of prosperity: milk, clarified butter, yoghurt, urine, dung cakes and fertiliser all come from the divine Cow-Mother, and all can be used in some way.
In Tijara, the Hindu farmers own land and their wives help them by working in the fields. These women build bitoras, of course, but too quickly, without the refined finishes that their Muslim neighbours put into theirs. The Muslim farmers own cows and buffaloes but have no land. They are therefore farm labourers in the fields of their Hindu neighbours. One of the latter told me, in a rather deadpan way, that the Muslim wives (and their very many children) stay at home. ‘They have the time and the inclination to perfect their bitoras – ours don’t!’ he added.
On seeing these decorated constructions, it is impossible not to be reminded of tribal art in Maharashtra and Madhya Pradesh and the designs of the famous Chikan embroidery work of Lucknow in Uttar Pradesh. But also, in another way, of the rock paintings related to the Dreamtime of the Australian Aborigines, or some of Cy Twombly’s work. All have affinities with forms of writing or sign making. On the other hand, the great Indian artist Subodh Gupta shows the direct influence of the bitora too, when he exhibits a yurt made of cow-dung cakes. I recently learned that his grandmother was born in Tijara…
A version of this article appears in the October 2016 issue of ‘The World of Interiors’. Learn about our subscription offers
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