Titarpur Ravana effigies are usually read as symbols of Dussehra, but the market that produces them reveals a more complicated story about Delhi’s seasonal urban economy. Along Najafgarh Road in West Delhi, artisans are adapting the faces and themes of the demon king to current politics, protests, public-health concerns and popular culture, even as the number of effigies sold has fallen since the Covid-19 pandemic.
The market’s importance lies not only in the spectacle of the finished figures. For several weeks each year, Titarpur becomes a temporary production district. Makeshift stalls stretch for more than a kilometre, while wooden frames, coloured paper, glue and decorative material are assembled in an open roadside setting. Artisans work against the festival deadline, producing effigies for celebrations across the capital and for smaller community events.
This seasonal concentration brings together workers with very different occupations and locations. Rahul, an artisan from Begusarai in Bihar, travels to Delhi for a month every year to assist his father. He is a BSc student, while his younger brother, Raja, studies for an MCA in Jaipur and also joins the family business during the season. Charanjeet Singh, who comes from Patiala, drives an autorickshaw and makes Ravana effigies during Dussehra because the work offers better seasonal earnings and an opportunity to exercise his creativity. Hussain, another artisan, repairs electronic appliances during the rest of the year.
Their work illustrates how a festival market can depend on temporary and multi-occupational labour rather than on a permanent workforce. The production system is flexible: people enter it for a short period, bring skills from other occupations and return to those livelihoods after the festival. The market therefore functions as a seasonal income opportunity, but its workers remain exposed to fluctuations in demand and the narrow window available for selling the finished products.
The effigy itself has also become a form of customer-directed public expression. Artisans reported requests linked to the Cockroach Janta Party, demonstrations at Jantar Mantar and the special intensive revision, or SIR, of electoral rolls. Other customers asked for references to dengue. One artisan said a customer wanted mosquitoes sketched on an effigy with the word “dengue” written on it. Another recalled a request to depict Jantar Mantar.
Some requests have created legal and political risks for the makers. Rahul said customers had asked for effigies on a Cockroach Janta Party theme and that one person wanted a green Ravana with “Pakistan” written on it. He said the artisans rejected such requests because they could lead to trouble or legal cases, while allowing customers to add their own writing later. The distinction is important: the artisans are willing to customise the product, but they also have to manage the consequences of what is displayed in a public market and eventually burned at a community event.
For the makers, politics is not an abstract subject. Hussain said the Jantar Mantar protest issue had affected the market because people who celebrate the festival were occupied with protests. His observation connects the seasonal business to the city’s public life. A protest, an electoral process or a public-health concern can enter the market not only as a conversation but also as a design request, changing what customers want to see on an object intended for public display.
This is also why Titarpur’s effigies function as a record of the city’s immediate concerns. The traditional Ravana retains his moustache, crown and elaborate clothing, but the surface can be altered to reflect whatever is receiving attention in Delhi. The result is neither a complete break with tradition nor a simple continuation of it. The festival form remains recognisable while its visual references change with the city’s political vocabulary and consumer culture.
The market’s other experiments show the same process at work. Four brothers — Shiva, Rahul, Aakash and Vikas — have produced Spider-Man-themed Ravanas, an effigy bearing the BMW logo and others featuring anime characters. Their explanation is direct: they make whatever is trending because that is what customers demand. Popular culture, brand symbolism and political messaging are therefore operating within the same seasonal marketplace.
Yet customisation should not be mistaken for commercial security. Rahul said his family once made 100 to 150 Ravanas in a season and sold all of them. Now they make about 50, and many remain unsold. The figures point to a contraction in the market, although the material supplied does not establish a single cause for it. The artisans themselves identify the period since the Covid-19 pandemic as the point after which the earlier rhythm of demand changed.
The reduction has practical consequences. Effigy-making is tied to a short festival cycle, so unsold stock cannot easily be carried into another season or redirected to an unrelated market. The artisans’ work involves frames, paper, colour and labour assembled for a specific cultural occasion. When demand falls, the risk is absorbed by families and seasonal workers rather than by a large formal production system.
The accounts from Titarpur also show how the city’s festival economy is organised through family networks. Shiela, who has run her business for 15 years, said her daughters-in-law operate a stall beside hers. Her stall mainly serves customers seeking smaller effigies for community celebrations. The arrangement combines household labour, small-scale production and direct retailing, allowing families to expand their presence during the short period when demand is concentrated.
The market’s location along a major Delhi road adds another layer to the story. The supplied account describes a long line of makeshift stalls and workers operating in an open roadside environment, but it does not establish the permissions, land arrangements, safety requirements or municipal framework governing the market. Those institutional details remain important questions for understanding how seasonal urban commerce is accommodated, regulated and protected.
The same limitation applies to the market’s post-pandemic decline. The artisans provide a clear account of falling output and unsold stock, but the available material does not provide sales records, customer counts, prices, municipal data or a comparison across multiple years. It is therefore possible to identify a reported decline in business without assigning it a definitive cause or measuring its full scale.
What the evidence does establish is a pattern of adaptation under pressure. Artisans are changing designs to follow demand, rejecting requests they consider legally risky, relying on family members and combining effigy-making with other occupations. They are also working within a compressed production period in which a change in public attention can quickly influence orders.
Titarpur’s Ravana market consequently brings together three urban systems that are often reported separately: informal livelihoods, public culture and the city’s changing demand. The artisans are not simply reproducing a ritual object. They are responding to what customers want, to what people are discussing and to what can safely be displayed. At the same time, the fall in reported sales shows that cultural visibility does not guarantee economic stability.
The evidence leaves several questions open. It does not show how many artisans or stalls operate in Titarpur, how prices have changed, whether festival organisers are placing fewer orders, or how the market compares with other effigy-making centres. It also does not establish whether the reported decline is temporary or part of a longer trend. What is clear is that Titarpur’s makers are preserving a seasonal craft by continually modifying its visual language, while carrying more of the market risk themselves. Even Ravana’s changing face reflects the pressures shaping Delhi’s informal festival economy.
