A smashing time

I only went in to have a look. It was a shop selling inlaid glass mosaic work. The craft is local to Udaipur and it's beautiful. It consists of coloured or silvered mirrored tiles, cut and inlaid by hand into a translucent white plaster. When the sun hits the glass it sparkles and shines so prettily that the magpie in me couldn't resist a closer look.

Inside, on shelves all round the walls stood stylised images and motifs of birds, flowers, trees and animals, glittering and glowing in the power-cut gloom. There was everything from small keyholders to wall plaques to huge, door-sized panels.

I was lucky that the shop I'd stepped into was also a workshop where the items were made by the artist who also owned the shop. It was still quite early in the day, so he was distracted creating clouds of dust as he swept the steps outside, so I slipped in unmolested.

I was intrigued by this beautiful art so when he came back in, I asked the owner and artist, Mahesh, who was in his early 20s, how the things were made. With his beginner's English and my absent Hindi, we managed quite well. First he drew up a little low table, itself covered in delicate silver mirrored tile design, and gave me a stool to sit on. As we crouched in the dimness, with only the light from the street, he showed me how he cut out the tiny pieces of glass.

First he took a shard of mirrored glass, and with a template of a leaf, no bigger than my little fingernail, drew the outline of it on the glass. Next he took a diamond-tipped glass-cutter and with two flowing movements, one for each side of the leaf, he scored round the shape.

As the glass is all hand-made it is very thin so he was able to snap off the excess glass with his bare fingers - no gloves, pliers or goggles here! - to leave a perfect silver leaf, delicate as, well... glass! I asked if I could have a go. Of course he made it look so easy. Putting enough pressure on the diamond tip and drawing a smooth score at the same time was very difficult. As I moved, I released the pressure slightly and the cutter shot wildly across the glass, scratching the surface as it went. Oh dear!

'No problem, no problem,' he said. He told me he'd been doing it for 12 years, of which 8 were training. Hmm, he must have started very young...! Clearly I wasn't going to master it in a few minutes, if ever.

When the pieces have all been cut they are placed individually by hand into a plaster made of marble dust and wood glue. This plaster itself is a thing of beauty. It's pure white, hard surface has a slight eggshell sheen, due to the marble dust and it seems to glow in low light or candlelight. It must have looked so beautiful in Udaipur's City Palace in front of maharajas and maharanis, shining pale and pure and setting off perfectly the glitter of the mosaics.

Mahesh came from a good pedigree of artists, he told me. With his halting English and my guesswork, I managed to piece together his story. His grandfather, also a glassworker, had won an award for his art and had even made a piece for Indira Gandhi in the 1970s. She had paid for him and his family to travel to and stay in Delhi, where he was presented with a 10g gold chain as a prize.

Mahesh was justifiably proud of his connection and showed me the only piece in the shop made by his grandfather. It was a colourful piece of the god Ganesh in crimson and gold glass. As I looked at it, he hastily said, 'Not for sale.'

I wasn't going to buy it anyway, but it was clear that this was a special piece to Mahesh. I was really pleased to have found someone for whom this was more than just a job, it was his art.

As we sat in his shop with me expertly ruining several shards of his precious glass, another tourist walked in. She was of a Vivienne Westwood vintage and had wild orange hair to match. She asked if I was learning to do glasswork and when I said I was just having a go, she hijacked Mahesh and took over the conversation.

In strident, loud ad impatient tones, peppered with big sighs of frustration, she tried to communicate to poor the poor man that she wanted a silver-tiled wall plaque with curved edges with a candle-holder attached to the bottom.

'You can do today? I come back tomorrow,' she said loudly and slowly, as if speaking to a deaf old man.
'Yes, yes,' replied Mahesh. After a brief chat with me, she left in a whirl of ethnic prints and rudeness.

Because she wanted the piece tomorrow, I was getting ready to leave, as I didn't want to distract Mahesh from his work of making it up. But suddenly he said, 'You come with me to wood cut shop? Only 1km away.' As I had nothing planned, I said OK.

Outside I was mildly alarmed to see him wheeling his motorbike out from an alleyway but I reasoned - wisely, I thought - that a least death by motorbike in India is a mildly glamorous way to go.

As I climbed on, a problem of etiquette presented itself. How to share a motorbike seat with a man who was still really a stranger? I'd seen Indian women on bikes sitting demurely sidesaddle and indeed when I looked down there was a little footplate on the left-hand side of the bike. But being a novice, I didn't trust myself with this approach, so I decided to straddle the seat behind Mahesh and hope this wasn't considered horrifically inelegant in a lady, or indeed a gross breach of social etiquette.

Now how to hold on? With India's roads pitted and potted as they are, clinging on with legs only and keeping my hands off Mahesh was not an option for me. Should I employ the slightest, steadying touch, just enough to keep me and the bike from parting company? Or should it be more? I decided the former would be acceptable, so I gingerly held on to Mahesh's love handles, feeling a bit familiar, and we set off.

After the first pothole it was clear this was not enough. I lurched alarmingly backwards with a yelp and just managed to restore my balance in time for the next hole. To hell with etiquette! I wrapped my arms tightly round mahesh's stomach and interlocked my fingers for good measure.

Now I felt the threat of imminent death had receded, I started to enjoy the ride. We flew through the warm air, faces caressed by delicate exhaust fumes, the scent of drains and general refuse. Swooping round corners and down alleyways, my fear subsided and I started to smile. There's nothing quite like the delicious illicitness of riding a motorbike with no cranial protection on a poorly maintained road.

My happiness was short-lived. In the street ahead, there was a traffic jam, or rather a cow jam. A large brown beast was blocking our way, but for a narrow gap to one side of him. He stood there like a god of all he surveyed, his long, grandly-curved horns gleaming with malice. But Mahesh was an expert cow-dodger and as we passed inches from the bull's horns, I squealed involuntarily (remembering the Kerala Cow Incident of last year) and gripped Mahesh tightly with my thighs to avoid contact. If he was alarmed by my forward gesture he was gentleman enough not to show it.

We slid uneventfully past the remainder of the bull and within a few minutes we were at the wood-cutting shop. After a quick job of shaping the wooden base for Vivienne Westwood's plaque, we were done.

Then Mahesh said, 'My house near, come see.' I followed him down a narrow alleyway and arrived at... a cowshed!

'This my father's cows.' He pointed to five or six animals lying in what I can only describe as a marsh of food, dung and straw. He'd told me his father was a farmer, but I'd not imagined this. I'd envisaged rather, a bucolic village scene at sunset, with gleaming golden animals herded through clouds of brown dust by a wizened old Indian. But at least I now knew that these endlessly wandering urban creatures did actually belong to someone.

Mahesh took me up some stairs and into their house, above the cows. I was surprised when he introduced a shy, pretty girl as his wife. This was the home he shared with his wife, 3-year-old daughter, his brother and his parents. Forgetting how young couples are when they marry in India, I had wrongly assumed Mahesh was single.

In India, all descriptions of marital status refer back to marriage as the normal and desirable state. You are either 'married or 'unmarried'. Only more modern Indians will refer to themselves as 'single'. When spoken 'unmarried' has an inflection of doom, as though this is a terrible and sadly unfortunate state in which to be.

I sat down in pride of place on a plastic chair in what I quickly realised was their bedroom. Of course, not having their own home, this was where he would entertain visitors. Soon his wife brought us the customary cups of hot, sweet chai and she sat there politely while I made conversation as best I could with her husband, to the accompaniment of the faint pong of cow dung wafting up from below.

I wondered what Mahesh's wife thought of him turning up unannounced on his bike at 11am on a Monday morning with a foreign woman with her arms, and indeed legs, wrapped tightly round him. I asked him about this back at the shop.

'No problem. She has a very good nature,' he said proudly. This, I've learned, is a characteristic much prized in an aIndian wife. The ability to take anything and everything in her stride without being reduced to a flapping wreck. When your husband springs unexpectd foreign guests on you, this is a nature well worth having.

Now I offered to help Mahesh with more of his work, so we sat there for half an hour or so, me drawing round the tiny template over and over again, while he cut out the leaves. We sat in comfortable silence, but I sensed he was restless. Suddenly his phone rang and when he'd hung up he said, 'My friend has new puppy. You come and see it?'

I had been on the point of leaving to carry on my walk round the town, but it felt rude to refuse. Another short bike ride away we met his friend and his family and their new German Shepherd puppy, all of whom were wholly unpeturbed by my incongruous presence. I'm not much of a dog person but the puppy, called Michelle (?), was cute, so I made appreciative cooing sounds.

As quickly as we'd arrived we left again, this time with Mahesh's friend in tow. I climbed on behind them both and, as my accquaintance with Friend was two hours younger than with Mahesh, I opted for the Love Handle Grip only. This seemed appropriate. After we'd dropped Friend off along the way, we headed back to the shop.

Now it really was time for me to go, but I wanted to buy something from Mahesh first, so I chose a pretty picture frame in white and silver. When I asked the price, he told me adding, 'I am happy you interested in my work. Special price for you.' Whether it was true or not, I didn't care. This transaction and the item itself was something into which both of us had invested considerable time and effort. I wasn't going to haggle this time.