I started my Ganesha hunt like any modern devotee—crooked fingers flying over a search bar at 2 AM, convinced the shiniest idol would bring instant blessings. When the package arrived, I tore it open with all the enthusiasm of a child on Diwali morning. But instead of the warm glow I’d imagined, I got what looked like a toy-sized Ganesha with a finish so unnaturally bright, even my phone’s flash was jealous. Lesson one: Photoshop magic on e-commerce sites does not translate to real-world divinity.

Emboldened (and slightly bruised in ego), I marched to the nearest handicrafts store. The showroom sparkled with brass bowls, lamps, and yes, plenty of Ganeshas. I ran my fingers over a medium-sized idol—he felt surprisingly cool and smooth, but something in his gaze seemed off-center, like he was yawning mid-prayer. The shopkeeper nodded approvingly, but my heart said, “Meh.” I realized that even brick-and-mortar stores sometimes cater more to margins than to true craftsmanship. And I still felt insatiated.

This feeling I harboured for sometime, but suddenly when I was touring UP, just as I was having a chat with my travel aquaintence, they suggested that I go directly to the karigar. And they tipped me off to a workshop in Aligarh, and this became my next destination. in Aligarh  Here I first met Mr. Deshpande (name changed) and his family they had been hand-casting brass idols for three generations. I headed down winding lanes until I spotted a squat red brick building dotted with puddles and the soft clink of metal tools.

Inside, the air smelled like charcoal and promise. Mr. Deshpande greeted me with a shy smile. His idols sat on dusty planks, each one subtly different—none of the identical clones I’d seen before. When I admired a particularly graceful Ganesha, he explained how he mixes the alloy himself, tweaks the copper-to-zinc ratio for the perfect reddish-gold hue, and spends days chiseling the tiniest details.

“Why isn't this available everywhere?” I blurted out, half-blushing. He chuckled, wiping his brow. “Middlemen want uniform pieces they can sell fast. They say my work costs too much—so they skip me and buy cheaper, factory-made idols. I survive on direct customers who feel the difference.” His pride was contagious, and suddenly I didn’t just see brass—I felt devotion molded into metal. Ironically, the price that Mr. Deshpande was quoting was still lesser than the ones I found online and in the store.

Holding that final idol in my hands, I noticed the weight—he was warm, almost alive. His trunk curled just so, forehead etched with a gentle curve that whispered patience. I paid Mr. Deshpande directly, proud that my rupee honored his art, not someone’s margin.

When I placed him on my puja shelf, the house seemed to inhale. His finish wasn’t blinding—it was soft, inviting morning light to dance off his belly. Every time I pass him now, I’m reminded of that winding journey: from online blunder to polished showroom letdown, all the way to an artisan’s humble workshop. I didn’t just buy a brass idol; I forged a connection—one built on trust, feel, and the promise of blessings that will last for generations.

And for the first time, I know I wasn’t scammed—I was initiated.

this is what we want to share with you in Tuki crafts: authentic craftsmanship—honest and true to its skill—resonates in every detail no showroom or slick online listing can replicate. When you choose work born from an artisan’s unwavering dedication, you’re honoring a legacy of quality and trust that can’t be mass-produced.

And as our journey to understand Indian arts, and handicrafts started with Brass, thats why we are focussing on this and Mr. Deshpande's collection for this season.