ambika.jagassarsingh@guardian.co.tt
Today, homes across T&T will soon glow with the warm flicker of hundreds of tiny clay lamps—deyas—symbolising the triumph of light over darkness. But behind each flame lies the artistry and devotion of craftsmen like Makh Ticklal, a traditional deya maker from Chaguanas whose hands have shaped both clay and culture for generations.
Seated at his potter’s wheel, hands coated in brown clay and a smile lighting his face, Ticklal proudly recalls his beginnings.
“I’ve been doing this since I was a little boy, helping my mother and father in the business,” he says. “When I finished school, I was supposed to go on to ECIAF (the Eastern Caribbean Institute of Agriculture and Forestry), but my father stopped me to run the business full-time.”
For the 40-year-old potter, deya-making is more than an occupation—it’s a family legacy.
“This business has been going on from generation to generation—from my great-grandfather, my grandfather, my parents, and now me,” he explains with pride.
The process begins with a special kind of clay called sapate clay, sourced from quarries across Trinidad. The clay is soaked and kneaded—a task once done by foot but now assisted by machines—before it’s placed on the potter’s wheel to take form.
“After it’s kneaded, we put it on the wheel, and I make whatever items I want. Right now, it’s deyas,” Ticklal says.
From start to finish, it takes about three days to complete a batch—shaping, drying, and firing the pieces in the oven. With Divali just days away, Ticklal and his family are working around the clock.
“There are only a few days again for Divali, so from today we start putting them out in the sun. We’re rushing them right now,” he laughs.
The work is physically demanding, and the risks are real.
“It’s plenty hard work, but I was born into this. Sometimes I get a little damage, like a cut—right now my finger cut here, where the stool eat away my finger,” he admits, flexing his hand.
Despite the challenges, his dedication never falters. Each deya carries both craftsmanship and devotion, and his workday always begins with prayer.
“Before I start to work, I have to go to my temple and say my prayers. That gives me the energy to start,” he says.
For Ticklal, the act of lighting a deya goes far beyond decoration.
“There’s a purpose in lighting the deya, the wick, and the oil,” he explains. “Once you light that on the night of Divali, it’s like burning off your problems. That’s the reason for it.”
As modern alternatives such as electric or water-activated deyas gain popularity, Ticklal hopes the traditional clay version will never fade away.
“You could light other things, yes—but you must light some deyas,” he insists. “That’s our tradition.”
Now, he is ensuring that the legacy continues. His 12-year-old son has already started learning the craft.
“He’s learning right now,” Ticklal says with pride. “Because to pass it on from generation to generation, we have to keep it up. A lot of my family don’t like this because there’s plenty hard work, and you need a lot of cooperation and help to run this business.”
As the nation celebrates the Festival of Lights, the glow of each deya carries more than just illumination—it bears the touch of generations, the strength of tradition, and the enduring spirit of artisans like Makh Ticklal, keeping the light alive this Divali.
