The man who repairs umbrellas outside the station has been there longer than the station's current roof. He works from a folding stool and a tin box, and he has never, in my hearing, described what he does as a craft.
He is fast in the way that only long practice makes people fast: not hurried, just without any wasted motion. A broken rib takes him ninety seconds. He does not look at the umbrella while he talks to you about it.
There is a category of skill that gets no vocabulary because the people who have it do not need one. Naming a thing is what you do when you are teaching it to someone who does not have it, or defending it from someone who wants it gone. He is doing neither. He is fixing an umbrella.
What strikes me, every time, is that repair is the only relationship with an object that requires you to understand it. Buying does not. Using does not. Discarding certainly does not. Repair is the one that asks how the thing is actually put together, and it is the one we have arranged our economy to make least convenient.
He charges forty rupees. It costs more than that in bus fare for most of his customers to reach him. They come anyway.