“Bronze teaches you one thing: wait.”
In a small courtyard layered with ash and time, Rehman begins his work. Bronze isn’t gentle—it resists, it sears, it breaks if you rush. But Rehman doesn’t. He learned long ago that this craft is equal parts fire and stillness.
He melts metal with the focus of a monk, pours it into sand molds shaped by hand, and waits. “This isn’t factory work,” he says, laughing. “It’s feeling work.”
Kalakar treasures Rehman’s pieces because they carry weight—of metal, yes, but also of heritage, ritual, and care.
Bronze has been used in Bengal for over a thousand years—for puja bells, for water vessels, for sculpture and symbol. Rehman sees himself as part of that lineage—not an artist, but a bridge.
His workshop is filled with stories: a bell made for a grandmother’s shrine, a spoon shaped like the moon. Each object, no matter how small, holds a world within it.
The process is slow. Molds take days to set. Firing is unpredictable. Cooling takes time. But this rhythm suits Rehman. He’s not interested in rushing toward modernity. He’d rather walk with his ancestors.
Through Kalakar, his work is now shared in homes where bronze is rediscovered—not as a luxury, but as a link to something older, steadier.