Introduction: Where Roofs Have Ears… and Animals
What if your rooftop wasn’t just a slab of cement or asbestos, but a quiet guardian of folklore, faith, and frogs?
In Barpali, a sleepy town tucked into Western Odisha’s Bargarh district, roofs speak. Not in Morse code or cryptic creaks, but in motifs molded by hand. A monkey here, a frog there, a crow cawing atop a khappar (terracotta tile)—each animal sculpted not for Instagram aesthetics, but for spiritual insurance.
They aren’t just decorative; they’re defensive. And they trace their roots not just to Odisha’s temples or tribes, but all the way back to Gobekli Tepe—the world’s oldest known temple site in present-day Turkey. Sounds dramatic? It is.
Because Barpali’s terracotta tile tradition isn’t just a craft.
It’s a clay-thick slice of anthropological history, slowly crumbling under the weight of concrete, capitalism, and China-made goods.
The Origins: From Gobekli to Gobar
Let’s rewind. Way back.
12,000 years ago, in Gobekli Tepe, people began carving animals—lions, birds, bulls—onto T-shaped stones. These weren’t caveman doodles. They were cosmological anchors—ways to explain, understand, and perhaps influence their chaotic world.
Fast-forward through Egypt (where animals were gods), Harappa (where bulls ruled the clay), and the Neolithic Deccan (which practically mooed with bull figurines), and you’ll find a cultural pattern: when life gets tough, humans turn to animals—and terracotta—for answers.
In Barpali, this impulse crystallised as khappar kaam: a stunningly symbolic practice of placing animal-shaped terracotta tiles on rooftops. Crafted by potters, believed in by farmers, and worshipped by entire villages, these tiles were once omnipresent in Western Odisha.
Today, only one man carries the tradition forward- Manbodha Rana, potter, national awardee, and Barpali’s last rooftop folklorist.
Let’s Talk Tiles: The Process Behind the Pottery
If you thought terracotta tiles were just slabs of fired clay with a hint of ochre… think again.
In Manbodha ji’s workshop, every tile starts with the same ingredients: soil, sweat, and stories. The process, handed down generationally, combines two techniques:
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Wheel-based shaping: The basic tile or toy is first created on a potter’s wheel.
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Hand-molding magic: Arms, ears, beaks, tails—these parts are sculpted and attached manually, giving each animal an expressive uniqueness.
Once shaped, the pieces are sun-dried, fired in traditional kilns, and sometimes glazed with a faint red wash. The result? Durable, weatherproof tiles that look like folklore and last like cement.
And yes, these tiles do make it to roofs. In fact, they top Bhubaneswar’s Kala Bhoomi—Odisha’s premier handicrafts museum—where a massive installation of Rana’s tiles now stares down from above, quietly watching over culturally curious cats like us.
Motif 1: The Crow, Oracle of Ancestors
Let’s start with the damara kua—Barpali’s black crow.
You might brush it off as just another bird-shaped tile, but in Odia folk belief, the crow is practically a medium. A feathery WhatsApp between you and your ancestors.
Every morning, women in villages offer rice to crows. During Shraddha (Hindu mourning rituals), feeding crows is akin to feeding departed souls. The belief? If the crow eats, your offering has reached the beyond.
The crow tile on rooftops is more than symbolic. It’s functional.
Its raised beak, spread wings, and perched posture suggest vigilance—warding off evil spirits, inviting ancestral blessings, and whispering good omens from the skies.
But perhaps most importantly, it’s a cultural emoji—a reminder that even in silence, the past perches close.
Motif 2: The Frog, Bringer of Monsoon Miracles
Now onto Barpali’s unsung hero: the benga (frog).
During dry seasons, frogs vanish. But once clouds gather, they reappear—croaking, chirping, and setting off a kind of amphibian orchestra. Farmers watch closely. Frogs are the drumbeats of rain.
And in Barpali, they’re also the architects of nourishment.
Terracotta frog tiles are placed to invoke rains, protect crops, and maintain seasonal harmony. You’ll often find them mid-jump, mouths agape, as if singing the very clouds down from heaven.
Today, as climate change disrupts rainfall and farming patterns, these motifs feel even more poignant—like tiny croaking appeals to a world gone dry.
The Collapse of a Craft
Like most folk traditions, khappar kaam didn’t decline. It dwindled.
Barpali once buzzed with terracotta potters—crafting tiles, idols, vessels, and toys that defined agrarian Odisha’s aesthetic and spiritual life. But with the arrival of:
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Concrete construction
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Cheap industrial tiles
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Glossy, mass-produced Chinese decor
…the demand crumbled. People swapped sacred frogs for acrylic Ganeshes and intelligent crows for camera-enabled doorbells.
Today, Manbodha Rana is the last full-time tile potter in Barpali.
His home doubles as a kiln, workshop, and open-air museum. His work has reached craft expos, museum rooftops, and culture-hungry Instagram reels. Yet, his local sales remain marginal.
A Glimmer of Hope: The Rana Renaissance
But it’s not all terracotta tears.
Manbodha ji has trained his nephew Mukunda Rana and his son Debananda Rana, who now craft stunning pieces in Kuibahal, a nearby village in Subarnapur district.
He’s also innovated: crafting new animals, abstract forms, and even hybrids for contemporary audiences. At times, his tiles resemble a Pattachitra-meets-Pottery-Barn crossover.
His greatest hits?
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Terracotta bulls: Symbolic of agriculture, masculinity, and Odisha’s sacred bond with farmland.
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Adi Mata idols: Feminine deities guarded by bulls and male figures—echoing ancient fertility cults.
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Monkey tiles: Playful, bold, and very Barpali—adding charm and childlike joy to rooftops.
His craft is slowly trickling into tourist circuits, museum stores, and high-end decor catalogs. Kala Bhoomi was the first public institution in Odisha to commission his tiles in bulk. And if social media had a “handcrafted heritage” algorithm, he’d already be viral.
The GI Tag Conundrum: Recognition Without Reinforcement
You’d expect a tradition this unique to have a GI (Geographical Indication) tag by now. But unlike Pipili’s appliqué or Pochampally’s ikat, Barpali’s terracotta tile craft still languishes in bureaucratic obscurity.
The reasons?
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The craft is hyperlocal—confined to one or two families.
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There’s little documentation or lobbying.
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No formal cooperative or collective effort has emerged.
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Odisha’s artisan policy still favours more mainstream crafts like silver filigree and Sambalpuri weaving.
So while the Ranas are sculpting with soul, the system hasn’t yet given them the stamp that could turn their pottery into a protected, promoted brand.
The Road Ahead: Can These Roofs Rise Again?
Let’s pause and pan out.
Barpali sits at the crossroads of disappearing heritage and digital rediscovery. While local demand dwindles, cultural tourism, museum collaborations, and conscious consumerism are opening new doors.
Here’s what might turn the tide:
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Cultural Tourism Circuits: Tie-ups with nearby Sambalpuri weaving clusters can draw double interest—textiles and terracotta.
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E-commerce for Ethnic Craft: Platforms like Okhai, Gaatha, and Jaypore are ideal launchpads for curated collections.
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Design Interventions: Imagine Barpali tiles with modern design twists—like hanging planters, incense holders, or garden wall panels.
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School Workshops & Craft Education: Integrating tile-craft modules in schools around Odisha can kindle early interest in folk art.
And of course, GI tag + branding + government incentives—the good old trifecta.
Conclusion: Clay, Culture & Conscious Choices
Barpali’s rooftops tell stories—of animals, ancestors, agriculture, and artistry. They remind us that heritage doesn’t always hang in galleries. Sometimes, it sits quietly above our heads, weathered by sun and forgotten by time.
In Manbodha Rana’s world, a lump of earth becomes a symbol. A crow becomes a prayer. A frog becomes a forecast. And a tile becomes testimony.
So the next time you look up at a lifeless roof, ask yourself—
Could there have been a monkey on it? A frog with prophecy?
And could we bring it all back—one handmade tile at a time?
Because in Barpali, roofs don’t just shelter homes. They shelter history.
References:
1.Blog Virasat-e-Hind. (n.d.). Where roofs have ears… and animals [Blog post]. WordPress. https://blogvirasatehind.wordpress.com
2.Kala Bhoomi. (n.d.). Odisha Crafts Museum: Kala Bhoomi. Handlooms, Textiles and Handicrafts Department, Government of Odisha.
3.Virasat-e-Hind Foundation. (n.d.). Documentation of Barpali terracotta tile craft and folk motifs. Internal archival source.
4.Wikipedia contributors. (n.d.). Barpali. In Wikipedia. Retrieved [Month Day, Year], from https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Barpali
5.Singh, K. (2010). Folk beliefs and ritual practices in rural Odisha. New Delhi: Indira Gandhi National Centre for the Arts.
6.Mohanty, B. (2017). Terracotta traditions in Eastern India: A study of symbolism and survival. Bhubaneswar: Odisha State Archives.
7.Sharma, R. (2021). Reviving dying crafts: The story of Barpali’s rooftop potters. Journal of Indian Folk Culture, 18(2), 45–53.