“A straw in the wind may show which way the heritage blows.”
If you’ve ever brushed off paddy straw as just cattle fodder or thatching material, Odisha’s Dhenkanal district is ready to humble you. Because in a nondescript corner of this rice bowl state, artists are wielding the most unassuming material — dried stalks of paddy — and spinning it into something no less magical than gold. No dyes. No brushes. Just straw, scissors, and staggering patience. Welcome to Jirala, a village that doesn’t just grow rice — it immortalizes it. And at the centre of this quiet revolution is Pradeepta Nayak — a national award-winning artist who has built an entire creative economy out of agricultural “waste”. Today, we unpack the history, process, and present of Odisha’s straw craft — one sliver at a time.
A Thread from the Past: The Origins of Straw Craft
To understand straw art is to understand Odisha — a land where myths are motifs, where every brushstroke tells a tale, and where gods have wardrobes (yes, we’re talking about Jagannath’s Beshas). Much like Pattachitra, with which straw craft shares a spiritual siblinghood, this art form borrows heavily from the mythological canon. But while Pattachitra speaks in natural dyes and paper, straw craft whispers in sepia — letting rice straw play both medium and message. No one really knows when the first straw design was crafted in Odisha — oral traditions don’t timestamp well — but local legends suggest that the art may have once adorned temple walls or local chieftains’ homes. It faded with time, like many rural art forms, relegated to memory and museum corners. Until a boy named Pradeepta picked up a strand of waste straw in the late 1980s and gave it purpose again.
Waste Not, Wonder More: The Craft Process
Here’s where it gets fascinating. Unlike most handicrafts that begin with a sketch or loom, straw craft begins with segregation. Not by caste or class — but by shade.
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White straws — fresh from the fields.
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Golden yellow — aged under the sun and rain.
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Deep reddish-brown — sourced from thatched roofs or cattle barns.
Each hue is natural, untreated, and crucial to the artwork’s depth and warmth. Once sorted, each straw is split into fine slivers — called sasa in Odia — then flattened with meticulous precision. Think scalpel surgery, but for rice. The artist first outlines a mythological scene or motif — usually on butter paper — and then begins the delicate process of layering these slivers onto a black velvet-covered board. Each artwork, even one no larger than an A4 sheet, can take anywhere between 15 to 60 hours. Some of Pradeepta’s large-scale compositions — like his famed Nagarjuna Besha — involve over 500 individually placed straw strands. It’s like building a Taj Mahal with toothpicks.
Motif 1: Kandarpa Rath – When Devotion Pulls the Chariot
Let’s begin with a visual feast: Kandarpa Rath. One of Pradeepta’s bestsellers, this masterpiece captures a lesser-known, more poetic image of Radha and Krishna’s romance. In this tableau, Radha and Krishna are seated on a chariot not pulled by horses — but by the Gopis themselves. Each gopi becomes a wheel, a rope, a rein. Rendered entirely in straw, this work is a feminist reinterpretation of love — where devotion isn’t servile, but sacred. The chariot here is symbolic of both surrender and strength. Every strand used to depict the gopis radiates fluidity and movement, despite the medium’s rigidity. You don’t just see the story. You feel its grain.
Motif 2: Nagarjuna Besha – The Warrior Wardrobe of Jagannath
If Radha-Krishna is romance, Jagannath is grandeur. The Nagarjuna Besha is a rare avatar where the Lord dons warrior armour — complete with golden ornaments and weaponry. It was last publicly celebrated in Puri in 2020 after decades. Pradeepta’s straw rendition of this moment — which sold for ₹1 lakh — isn’t just art. It’s archiving. He uses different tones of straw to recreate Jagannath, Balabhadra, and Subhadra, each enshrined in their martial glory. The reddish straws add heat to the divine intensity, while pale ones illuminate facial features. For a deity who wears different clothes for every festival, this one becomes his suit of power — and for Dhenkanal’s straw craft, it’s a badge of artistic legitimacy.
From Solo Passion to Collective Profession
But Pradeepta didn’t stop at personal passion. He founded the Kalyani Straw Craft Centre, named after his mother, where he’s trained over 1,500 students, 70% of whom are women. Why women? Because, in his own words, “Straw art demands patience. Men give up. Women persist.” One of his oldest students, Minati Sahoo, juggles Anganwadi duties by day and straw crafting by evening. Another, Kuni Patra, has won state awards for her work. These women aren’t just artists. They’re breadwinners. Storytellers. Cultural stewards. Straw art in Dhenkanal isn’t just about aesthetics anymore. It’s a quiet revolution in empowerment.
The Economics of Straw
Let’s talk numbers — because heritage doesn’t pay rent unless marketed right.
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A simple straw flower: ₹250
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A framed motif (A4 size): ₹5,000 – ₹10,000
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Elaborate panel (like Nagarjuna Besha): ₹1,00,000
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Pradeepta’s annual income: ~₹7,00,000
This may not sound like unicorn money, but in rural Odisha, it’s a livelihood. More importantly, it’s dignified income — rooted in sustainability, culture, and local pride. And the Odisha government has noticed. In recent years, they’ve increased monthly stipends for artisans, sponsored their travel to exhibitions (like Toshali Mela, CAPART Gramashree), and even supported international showcases. But the pièce de résistance? Pradeepta’s dream to have Jirala declared as a crafts village, much like Raghurajpur for Pattachitra or Pipili for Appliqué.
Contemporary Threads: Where is the Art Today?
In an increasingly algorithmic world, straw art is surprisingly going viral. Not on Instagram reels or NFTs (yet), but in galleries, museums, and diaspora homes.
Pradeepta’s buyers include:
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Art patrons in Canada, Australia, and the US
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Non-resident Odias who commission heritage panels
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Private collectors looking for rare folk art forms
The push for a GI Tag is gaining traction. If granted, it would formalize straw craft’s legacy, protect its origin, and empower its artisans economically. Meanwhile, workshops are expanding. Newer artists are experimenting with straw on fabric, 3D installations, and even fusion crafts that marry straw with Pattachitra or filigree. It’s still nascent. But it’s promising.
Conclusion: A Golden Future
They say you can’t build legacies on straw. Jirala disagrees. Here, straw isn’t fragile. It’s fierce. It speaks of devotion, labour, and lineage. Of women who refuse to be silenced. Of a man who looked at agricultural residue and saw art in it. So the next time you see a field of harvested paddy, don’t just walk past. Pause. There’s a story waiting to be split, flattened, and framed — one straw at a time. If Pipili gave us stitchwork gods and Raghurajpur gave us painted gods, then Jirala, quietly but confidently, is giving us gods made of straw — and perhaps something more divine: community, craft, and continuity.
References:
- Biswal, D. (n.d.). Paddy straw: Turning agricultural waste into art in Odisha. VillageSquare. Retrieved May 25, 2025, from https://www.villagesquare.in/paddy-straw-turning-agricultural-waste-into-art-in-odisha/
- JustKalinga. (2020, November 28). Nagarjuna Besha of Lord Jagannath celebrated after 25 years. JustKalinga. Retrieved May 25, 2025, from https://justkalinga.com/nagarjuna-besha-of-lord-jagannath-celebrated-after-25-years/
- TripstoRoadsLessTravelled. (2023, August 18). A quiet revival of Odisha’s straw art traditions.