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Myself Ramesh, I am finding the colours are shifting so beautifully now. The geru mitti, which is red earth, it becomes like a warm orange when the sun hits it directly on the handmade paper. And the deep green from the neem leaves, it gets a touch of blue. It is a different light in the studio these days, a softer light. The peacocks are looking especially vibrant this afternoon. It makes me feel grateful for this process, ji.

A man at the mela stall yesterday watched me grinding my own pigment for a while and then told me very kindly that I should buy tube colours, because my work would look "more finished" and "sell better." He meant well, I think. He said the buyers nowadays want the bright flat colours. I told him kindly that this paint I am making, from the leaves and the lamp black and the haldi, this is not decoration. This is the painting itself. My mother ground the same way. Her mother also. You remove that, you have only a picture left, the soul is gone. He nodded and walked away. But the thought stayed with me all evening. Sometimes people think they are giving you a business advice when they are only telling you to stop being who you are. I will keep the grinding. It is slow, it stains the fingers, it is worth it.

Yesterday a young girl came to me with her Mithila work and she had used a bright purple from a tube for the lotus. She was so proud, and the drawing was good, her lines were clean. But I had to tell her no, this is not our colour. She looked at me like I had scolded her for nothing. I tried to explain. In our tradition, we do not have purple. We have red from the kusum flower, yellow from turmeric, blue from indigo, black from soot. The lotus is red or pink or sometimes white, but not this purple. She said but it looks nice, and she was right, it did look nice. But it is not Mithila. This is the thing that troubles me these days. I am not against new things. When I was young I also wanted to try new colours. But the old way, it has a reason. The natural colours are not just colour, they carry the thing itself, the earth, the flower, the root. When you use a purple from a tube, you lose that connection. The painting becomes decoration only, not ritual. I let her keep the purple lotus in the end but I asked her to do another one with proper red, and to tell me the difference after. She is young, maybe twelve. I want her to stay with this art but also to understand why the old rules are there before she decides to break them. Sometimes I feel like a strict grandfather when I say these things. But this is our heritage, not just any painting.

Myself Ramesh. I paint Mithila, as my mother and her mother taught me. Natural colours only, turmeric yellow, indigo blue, vermilion, so on. A gallery in Delhi some years back said they liked my work very much but could I please use "more contemporary palette" they said. I was confused ji. These colours are the tradition. They carry meaning. I cannot change simply because somebody wants something else. I said no. And they moved on. Now I wonder, has any gallery asked you to change something fundamental about your work? The colours, the subject, the size, the medium. And did you do it, or did you hold your ground? I am curious to know. 🙏

Namaste to all. A question I am wanting to ask this group. Few years back I had sent my paintings to one gallery in the city. They liked the work, this is not the issue. But then they told me, Ramesh ji, can you please make the same fish and peacock in more bright colours, more modern feeling, because the buyers are liking that only. My natural colours are from flowers, ochre, lamp black, from the old method. I said no, kindly I will not change. They did not take the work after that. So I am asking. Have you ever been asked to change something in your work for a show or a gallery? The colour, the size, the subject, the frame? And what did you do, you agreed or you refused? I refused and I am still wondering sometimes if I was doing the right thing. Tell me your story ji. I want to hear how others are handling this.

One time a gallery person looked at my Mithila paintings, natural colours, hand-ground, the way my mother and grandmother taught me, and said could I make them brighter? More modern? Like acrylic maybe. I was standing there holding a brush and I did not know what to say ji. I thought about it for many days. In the end I did not change. But I have wondered since if I was foolish. What is the thing a gallery asked you to change about your work, and did you do it or did you walk away? I am asking because I still think about this sometimes.

Myself Ramesh. I want to say something that has been on my mind. In the old way, we make our own colours. Rice paste for white. Lampblack from the diya. The red from kusum flower or from geru, the earth. My mother she would grind these things for hours on the sil-batta, mixing with gum from the babul tree. The colour sits on the paper differently. It breathes. Now many students and even some senior artists are using poster colours from the market. It is faster. Also cheaper sometimes. But I look at those paintings and the line has no life. The colour is flat like plastic. You can feel no hand in it. One girl in my class last month she told me guruji natural colours take too long. I said beta that is not a problem. That is the art itself. The grinding, the mixing, the waiting, this is not wasted time. This is the painting. But I also understand. The buyers they want bright. They want quick. And we must eat. So I am conflicted ji. I use both now. Some natural for my own work, some synthetic when I must. But I feel a little shame mixing the two in one painting. Like I am cheating my grandmother. Anyone else feel this way about old materials vs new ones? Or is it only me.🙂

Today I ground my own green from the neem tree behind the house. My mother used to do this same thing, pluck the leaves, dry them in the shade for three four days, then grind with a little lime to hold the colour. The shade it gives is not bright, not like the market green from a tube. It is dull, dusty, like the underside of a leaf. But when you put it on the paper next to the vermilion it wakes up somehow. That is the thing nobody tells you about natural colour, it needs its neighbours. Alone it looks dead. Put it beside the red, beside the lampblack, and it starts to talk. I was thinking how many years I have been doing this and still the first hour of grinding feels like a waste. Paper dust and powder going everywhere, the colour looking weak, and you think, this is nothing. Then you mix it and you remember. Every single time the same doubt. My grandmother used to say the colour decides whether it will work for you, and you just have to ask politely and wait. She was right, I think. Maybe that is also the whole lesson of this art. You cannot rush the leaf.🙏

A small thing I want to ask you all, since it has been sitting in my mind. Some years back I carried my paintings to a gallery in Patna, and the person there, without asking me, lifted one from the corner with two fingers to look at the back. Natural colour on handmade paper, it can smudge, and he did not ask. I said nothing, I am sorry to say. I was younger and I needed the sale. So my question: what is the one thing a gallery person did with your work, in front of you, that you did not like. Touching without asking, calling it "ethnic" or "craft item," asking you to make it in a smaller size for tourists, anything. Myself I will say the "craft item" word hurts more than the finger. Tell me yours ji.

Namaste to all ji. I want to ask one thing from those who have approached galleries. My own case: a gallery in Delhi asked for my work, and I sent the Mithila painting as it is done in our family, natural colours, fish and peacock, the old stories. They replied saying it is "very traditional" and asked whether I also do something more modern. I did not change. I said this is the work, this is what my mother and grandmother did. Nothing came of it. But I am still thinking. Some people told me I should have sent a mix, old work plus some new style, so they see the range. Others said no, if a gallery wants you to become someone else, that is not your gallery. So my question to you: when you went to a gallery the first time, did you show your real work or the work you thought they wanted? And how did it go for you. Tell me honestly, I will not feel bad. 🙏

The buyer was from Patna, a gentleman who came to the house with his brother. He saw one Kohbar painting, the one with the bamboo grove and the lotus pond, and he liked it very much. I said 3,500 rupees. He paid without any bargain at all, which should have told me something. Then afterward I did the full sum on paper, because my wife asked me straight how many days it took. Eleven days. Not full days, mind, but mornings and evenings, and the paper and brushes and the natural colours also have cost. The black from soot, the yellow from turmeric, the red I make from kusum flower and it takes one full day just for that grinding. So when I put the paper cost and the colour making and eleven days together, it came to something like 180 rupees for one day of work. My wife said nothing. She only looked at me. That was worse than if she had said something. And still I am not able to raise the price, this is my difficulty. In my area people will say, why so much for a painting on paper, my cousin's daughter also does this. The cooperative also gives a fixed rate which is old rate only. And I am afraid if I say 6,000 then the gentleman will go quietly to somebody else and I will never know. Now I am thinking to keep one painting aside and not sell it, only to see what price it can get if I wait. Has anybody here done this waiting business successfully? For me patience is there but the house expenses are also there, both things are pulling.

Myself Ramesh, I was finishing a large piece for a client in Delhi. It depicted the marriage of Shiva and Parvati, very detailed work with natural colours on handmade paper. For weeks, my eyes were glued to the fine lines, the tiny figures. When it was done, the client asked for the final price. I calculated everything – the cost of the paper, the pigments which are becoming costly now, my time spent over many days and nights. When I told him the figure, my own hands started to shake a little. It was a good price, a fair price for the work, but still, it felt very high for me. We are not used to such figures in Madhubani, you see. He paid without any question, thankfully. But I am still thinking about it.

I am putting this here because I have no one else to say it to without sounding ungrateful. Last month I finished a painting for the cooperative, the one that takes our work to Delhi and to the fairs. Wedding scene, peacocks on both sides, natural colour. Fine line work, my eyes are not what they were, so it was slow. Three weeks nearly, with the teaching going on in the mornings. Account came: 1,850 rupees. Paper and the red I make from sindoor and gum and the yellow from turmeric and stone, that all paid from my side. So the real figure is lower than 1,850. There was a time when the buyer came to the house or to the haat and money was less but it was ours and the talking was ours. Now there is the cooperative and the gallery and the website, and I am grateful, truly, because the work goes far. But somewhere in that chain the person who makes the line is the smallest one in it. My son says I should put my own price on the paper when I send it. I am 56, I have been doing this since I was a girl of nine. And still I hesitate to write a number, because in our community the art was never sold as such, it was given for the wedding, for the puja, for the household. That thinking is inside me and I cannot remove it. Tomorrow I have to send two more to the same place. I will send. But something in the chest is sitting heavy.

One thing I have learned in this Mithila painting journey is that when a gallery takes interest, sometimes they also start advising. "Make it smaller. Less detail. More modern. This border is too much." They think they are helping. Myself, I have refused more than once. Our art is not mine alone to change, it belongs to my mother, my grandmother, our whole community. The fine lines and the natural colours, that is the story. When I hold firm, sometimes they respect it. Sometimes they walk away. But I also have a younger friend in the cooperative who listens too much to such advice and now her work is like nobody's work. She is stuck in the middle. So I ask you, when a gallery wants you to bend your work to fit their wall, how do you decide? Where is the line between being practical and losing yourself? I am curious what others do.

A gallery in Delhi once told me, "Can you make these paintings bigger and finish in half the time, we have buyers waiting." I said ji this is Mithila painting, every line takes time, the natural colours need to dry, I cannot rush the fish and the gods like chai. They did not understand. This happened with you also? Someone wanting you to produce faster, change your speed, compromise the work itself? How you handled it?

I have been trying for months to make nice reels about Mithila painting. The process, the natural colours, the meaning of the fish and the peacocks. Good lighting, proper background, all arranged. My son helps me with the editing. And these posts, they get some likes, some comments saying "beautiful art ji," but not much more. Then last week my son took a photo of me at six in the morning while I was mixing pigment. I had not even bathed. Old kurta, hands stained with lampblack. The photo is not good, blurry, bad angle. I told him delete it. He said no, let me post. That blurry photo got three inquiries from young women in Patna and one from Delhi who want to learn. They said it looked "real." One said she could see I was actually doing the work, not performing. So now I am thinking, all the effort I put into making things look nice for Instagram, maybe that is the wrong thing. Maybe the people who want this art are looking for something that is not polished. But this is strange for me because in Mithila painting, we spend hours making every line perfect. The whole point is precision. But online, they want the opposite. I am not sure what to do with this information. Keep posting the blurry morning photos or go back to the proper videos? Both feel wrong in different ways.

Last year in Madhubani, marriage season was coming and a family from Darbhanga came to me. They wanted a large Mithila piece for the wedding wall, traditional, with the sun and moon, the fish, the bridal procession. I told them ₹8,000 for the whole thing, handmade paper, natural colours from my own stock, ten days' work minimum. They said they would think about it. Next week I heard they went to a younger fellow in the next lane. He does the work too, learned from his aunt, but he charges ₹4,000. He uses poster colour, not geru and rice paste. And the paper is machine-made. But it is half my price, so they went to him. I am not angry at the boy. He is feeding his family. But this is the thing, when your own neighbour will do it for half, the customer does not see the difference between handmade pigment and a tube from the market. They see two paintings that look somewhat same, and they pick the cheap one. My son tells me I should raise my prices even more, because the people who understand the difference will pay. But the people who understand the difference are fewer every year. The ones coming to buy are often new money, wanting a "Mithila painting" to hang on the wall like a thing, not knowing what they are looking at. So I am stuck. ₹8,000 is already not much when you count the grinding of the colours, the preparation of the paper, the days of sitting. But I cannot compete with ₹4,000 and poster colour. And I don't want to compete that way either. How do you hold a price for the real thing when the market does not know what real means anymore?

There is a girl from our village, maybe eighteen years now. I taught her when she was small, maybe ten, how to hold the brush, how to mix the rice paste for the base, the meaning of the fish and the lotus. She would sit on the floor with me and her lines were shaky, very much so, but she had patience. Last week her father brought me one of her new pieces. A Sita in the forest, done on handmade paper, all natural colours, the indigo she made herself from the leaves. And I tell you honestly, the linework stopped me. Clean as anything my mother ever did. The detail in the leaves, the border pattern she invented herself, not from the book. I sat with it for a long time. I felt first pride, then a small strange other thing. Not jealousy exactly. But something that sat in my chest heavy. She has surpassed me. At her age I was still copying, still learning. She is already making. I told her father she should apply for the state craft fellowship. He said what will she do with a fellowship, she will marry next year. I said nothing then. But I am thinking what to say. It is her hands. They should not stop now.

They wrote in English, very polite, saying they want a "collection" of Mithila work for a show in November. Twelve pieces. Six weeks. When I said yes, my son was happy. He said this is the exposure, this is how it works now. But ji, they are wanting the paintings quickly and they are also wanting the old designs. You cannot have both. The kohbar ghar I make takes me nearly three weeks alone, because the fine line is not something you can hurry. My mother used to say the brush should move at the speed of the breath, otherwise the line becomes a scratch. The fish must be drawn with patience or it will look like a fish from a shop. Also the payment. They are giving forty percent now, rest after the show, and if nothing sells then nothing more. Paper and natural colour cost I am bearing myself. So I am doing the work of six weeks for money that may or may not come. I have already told them yes. Now I am thinking whether to write back and say only eight pieces, and that the kohbar will be one of them and it will take its own time. Anyone here has dealt with galleries like this? Or should I just do the eight and let them be angry.

One gentleman came to look at my paintings at the exhibition in Patna. He stood before the big fish one, the one with my grandmother's border pattern, for a good five minutes. I thought he was appreciating. Then he turned and asked, very polite, "Can you do this in a more modern style? Something for a flat in Delhi." I told him this painting is not old because nobody thought to make it new. It is old because the line has passed through four generations of women in my family, and each one added something of her own, and still it remained Mithila. If I take off the fine line and the natural colour and the story, then what is left is just pretty pictures, and plenty of people can make pretty pictures. He said he understood. He bought a small fish anyway. So maybe he understood a little. But it sits in me. People think tradition is the thing that resists them, not the thing that carried them here. They want the art without the weight. I do not know how to explain that the weight is the art.