In a quiet lane in Daulatganj, Lucknow, tucked between hardware shops and homes that have seen better days, sits a man with a chisel and a lifetime of memory. Jalaluddin, bone carver and national award recipient, leans over a delicate piece of bone, gently carving out a design that feels like it belongs to another century.
His hands are steady. His eyes are calm. He doesn’t say much. But the work speaks.
For 35 years, Jalaluddin has shaped what others discard, buffalo bone, camel bone, even horn, into pieces of beauty and utility. His small workshop is filled with dust, fragments, and history. And though there is little noise, what he does here echoes a royal past.
An Art Rooted in Royalty
Bone carving, once the pride of the Nawabs of Awadh, has deep roots in Lucknow. Back then, artisans didn’t work in narrow bylanes, they worked in royal courts. Their material of choice was ivory, and the pieces they created were nothing short of regal: sword and dagger hilts, ornate howdahs and palanquins, finely detailed chessboards and chowpad sets, delicate bangles, combs, photo frames, mirror borders, and richly carved furniture.
Ivory was their canvas, patronage their livelihood, and perfection their standard.
But times changed.
When the use of elephant tusks was rightly banned, artisans like Jalaluddin adapted. They turned to camel and buffalo bone—materials that were more humble, but no less capable of beauty. With patience and precision, they kept the craft alive, transferring royal elegance onto everyday objects: jewelry boxes, trinkets, Juda pins, earrings, cutlery, bookmarks, even chilams.
“Bone may not be ivory,” Jalaluddin says, “but it still tells a story.”
Two Traditions, One Fate
In Lucknow, the art took two forms: jaali work and round carving.
Jaali work is like lace in stone, fine, airy patterns drawn from Mughal architecture and nature. These patterns find their way onto boxes, table lamps, and earrings, crafted from bone dyed in soft hues. Round carving, on the other hand, is more sculptural. It captures scenes from royal hunts, forests alive with tigers, peacocks, elephants, and flowering trees. It requires thicker bones and deeper imagination.
Both forms are rich. Both are fading.
The process is painstaking: cutting, cleaning, bleaching, carving, and finally, finishing. Tools with names like basula, reti-files, chausis, and tekoras fill Jalaluddin’s bench, many handmade, passed down, and worn smooth by use.
The bones come from local butchers, buffalo and camel bones sorted by type: Tersoor (most common), Gola, Bhanhu, and Paaya. Nothing is wasted. Everything has purpose.
What Remains, What Might Be Lost
There was a time when hundreds practiced this craft in Uttar Pradesh, particularly in places like Barabanki, Mahila Raiganj, and Mandiyao Thanna. Today, only a few families remain.
Internationally, the pieces still draw interest—collectors admire the detail, the heritage, the sheer effort. But within India, promotion is scarce, support minimal. The craft survives more out of pride than profit.
“It’s not just work,” Jalaluddin says. “It’s who we are. But our children don’t want to continue. They see no future in it.”
And yet, he teaches. Quietly. Patiently. A few local boys have started coming to the workshop. He shows them how to hold the tool, how to feel the bone beneath their fingers. Not everyone stays. But even one student is enough to hope.
A Craft with a Heartbeat
There is no fanfare here. No headlines. Just an old craft, still breathing in the hands of a man who refuses to let it die.
Bone carving isn’t fast, and it isn’t loud. But it carries with it centuries of culture, moments of joy, fragments of history shaped into form. In the steady hands of Jalaluddin, it remains dignified, delicate, and deeply human.
If he can pass it on, if even one pair of young hands chooses to continue, then maybe this dying art still has life ahead.
In a world that often forgets where it came from, Jalaluddin quietly remembers.
And he carves.
