Ratilal Kansodaria: the native wisdom of molten earth

Ratilal Kansodaria: the native wisdom of molten earth

Ratilal Kansodaria was like the first flush of the Saurashtra morning sun, crackling lightly against the canopy of ancient trees, cradling the early risers in its afterglow and touching Mother Earth, from which new shapes and forms would emerge. There was in him a childlike curiosity, devoid of guile or over-reasoning, relishing the forms of everyday life as they evolved over the years. He never lost his native innocence and sense of awe, carrying them tucked inside his seasoned heart, never sacrificing the simplicity of a pure emotion for a more nuanced mindfulness.

He was equally warm and forthright, like someone raised amidst the simple certainties of a village, yet stern and discerning as a teacher guiding wayward wards toward a semblance of discipline as the Principal of a Fine Arts College. This blend of amiability and expressive language, combined with the firmness that came from a life centered on routine and dedication to his art, marked him out as one of the last of the old-school artists—someone who navigated both the past and the present with equal ease.

His natural terrain was the abandon and ease of creating forms that flowed from one to another in an undulating rhythm of life. Consequently, his works were relatable and admired even by those with only a rudimentary understanding of art, and that perhaps was his greatest mastery. The simple is always the most difficult to fathom and to forge.

As a friend, and as someone I deeply looked up to, we shared a camaraderie that was effortless and joyful. We could talk across a wide range of subjects, opening passages into newer understandings with each conversation. His warmth, his wholehearted welcome, his humility, and his largeness of heart were his true calling cards. He would confide in me about new opportunities and evolving possibilities, while I would share my own art, and we connected at a level where neither of us had to censor our thoughts or measure our words. Such reciprocity is rare in creative fields.

His journey was epochal, and his loss is both personal and larger than the personal. He never lost the common touch and remained deeply connected to his roots. Perhaps that is how he will stay with us: as the very earth from which sculptures arise, shaping themselves into idioms and metaphors of the here and the beyond.

©Shujaat Mirza 2026