Tucked away in the quiet folds of Dharavi, a place often misrepresented by its scale and density, lies a sculptor’s studio. It is not just a workspace, but a world built around tradition, trust, and talent. At the centre of this world is Chetan Kamable, not a man of old age, but one of immense skill and quiet stature, and his student, Pradum, a soft-spoken sculptor with a creative hand.

Chetan has lived in this neighbourhood his entire life. While this studio is only a few years old, its soul feels much older, shaped by collaborative learning, teaching, and meticulous practice. Chetan is deeply respected in the community, not just for his craftsmanship, but also as a guru.

Among his many students is Pradum, who moved to Dharavi around ten years ago. Though quieter, he is observant and confident. He is heavily influenced by Chetan and mentioned that he wants to get into JJ college of Arts as well.

Over time, he has become part of the fabric of the studio, not as an outsider, but as someone who now contributes to its rhythm. He is not just a student anymore. He is a sculptor in his own right, bridging the quiet patience of a learner with the confidence of someone who will carry this tradition forward. His bond with Chetan is one of both respect and mutual growth. As he told us, “You can ask whatever you want,” with a soft smile that hinted at both pride and comfort and innocent excitement in the space he now calls his own.

He took us to the second studio, less crowded but more layered, where the walls were lined with sketches and older photographs. Here, his presence felt more animated, as if this was where he was truly in his element. Despite his home being nearby, he prefers to live with his co-workers. For him, the studio is not just a place of work, it’s where things happen. Where he learns, fails, and tries again. Where he belongs.

From Dussehra to Ganesh Chaturthi, this group works almost continuously, sculpting 8 to 9 idols a day. These aren’t mass-produced commodities; each one is made by hand with clay, precision, and care. The idols are sent to homes and pandals across Maharashtra and Gujarat, especially places like Surat, through tempos, or even online orders managed by friends like Girish, who acts as both logistic support and family.

One statue we saw, a three-foot-tall Sai Baba idol, had already taken five months and was headed for a traditional lost-wax metal casting process. From shaadu maati (natural clay) to final polish, every step is a conversation between the hand and the divine.

Ganesh Chaturthi, especially in Maharashtra, isn’t just a celebration; it’s a citywide transformation. Streets bloom overnight with temporary shops, filled with hand-crafted idols drenched in colour, emotion, and prayer. These idols are not just objects of worship. They are containers of emotion, nostalgia, childhood, and devotion. The hands that shape them, like Chetan’s and Pradum's, hold not just clay, but collective memory.

People from Konkan and other parts of Maharashtra, as well, come to this space to work and create art, idols and memories together. It’s a site of cultural unity, where religion doesn’t divide, but coexists in the form of shared purpose. Here, young learners, old masters, irrespective of their age, geography and history, come together through devotion. It’s reflective of Lord Ganesha himself, worshipped across communities, across generations, in homes of all kinds.

Even an older kaka (uncle) who had just joined a month ago was already part of the rhythm. No one is an outsider here for long. There’s no visible hierarchy except that which is shaped by skill, trust, and time. Even within that, mutual respect prevails. 

Studios like this are the unseen backbone of Maharashtra’s festival calendar. They breathe life into tradition, not just for Dharavi, but for towns and cities far beyond. These artists, often overlooked, are the makers of joy, celebration, and collective identity.

In a world racing forward, this little studio resists most powerfully, with patience, presence, and pride. Amongst the clay dust, the faint notes of Marathi songs, the scattered tools, and half-formed gods, stories like Chetan’s and Pradum’s continue to take shape, humbly.