Cross-stitch, hardanger and drawn thread lie at the heart of my love for textiles. The joy of following a chart and building patterns by counting threads and applying stitches goes back to my childhood. There was a time when everyone I loved owned a tray cloth, cheval set or antimacassar stitched by me. No wonder I felt a curious kinship with the embroidery I came across in South Asia. Though the complexity of techniques and design far outshone my sparse European efforts, I knew that there, veiled behind the walls of compounds in villages and refugee camps sat women with needle and thread, making plain cloth beautiful.
After three years in Pakistan I had built up a modest textile collection by combing the local craft shops, NGO outlets and the regular Sunday market where textiles from Kashmir, Afghanistan and even Turkmenistan made their unpredictable appearance. There were phulkari embroideries from Swat, jolly multi-mirrored Sindhi patchworks and aar work from Kashmir. It was as though I had embarked on a self-designed course of study.
And now there was a field trip. I heard through the grapevine that a textile group in Delhi needed more bodies to fill their bus going to Gujarat on a ten-day textile trip. I jumped at the opportunity, joined the group in Delhi and soon we were on our way to Mumbai and from there to Bhuj, in the Rann of Kutch (or Kachchh as some would have it!) Here we were met by our leader, Judy Frater, an American textile scholar whose long residence among the Rabari of Kutch is recorded in her book Threads of Identity. I met the book in Delhi before I met the woman in Bhuj and knew we were in the hands of someone who not only knew the textiles of Gujarat but also its people and their language, someone the locals called sister.
We stayed in the Hotel Prince in Bhuj, which still had ancient walls and city gates and markets untouched by the subsequent 2001 earthquake. From here we made our daily trips to villages to meet embroiderers, tie-dyers, block printers and weavers. Soon we would discover that the seemingly barren scrubland was fertile with the skill and imagination of its crafts people.
But first we had to get travel permits; comings and goings in the area was strictly controlled by the military because of the proximity of the Pakistani border. I was not a little nervous when I presented my passport with its Pak residence permit. I flashed my ‘I’m not a spy’ smile.
“Sit,” ordered the official as he leaned back in his chair with my passport close to his nose.
Another look at me over the passport.
“You work in Pakistan?” he asked, elbows on the desk. He could barely bring himself to name the country.
“I teach piano.”
It worked as it did many times before at customs and visa offices all over South Asia. The mention of that instrument somehow softened the common view of Western women as emasculating feminists or creatures of wanton promiscuity. He smiled, stamped the permit and returned it with my passport. Thus, properly permitted and above suspicion I joined my fellow textilers in the minibus complete with air-conditioning, smiling driver and a very young village boy to lug our bags and serve as an extra pair of eyes in difficult traffic.

Kala Raksha*

The first place to visit is Judy Frater’s project, Kala Raksha Center for the preservation of traditional arts in the village of Sumrasar Sheikh, 25km north of Bhuj. Eight years into the project she already has much to show: a brand new architect-designed complex of round buildings in traditional style bhungas (my South African eyes recognize them as rondavels), housing workshops, a business center and shop, a library cum resource center and a guest house. We are met by a committee of friendly faces, smiling because they are happy not, because they have been told to. Soon we discover the source of this happiness: the place is run by locals for the benefit of all, binding together the artisans and their traditional art.
Soon we meet some of these artisans: young women sitting on the floor doing the finest suf embroidery. While some in our group hit the shop, some of us sit down and watch the work. Our demonstrator flashes a welcoming smile, and then turns her full concentration to her work. She is working on very fine even weave hand-loomed cotton. There is not much to see on the face of the work except tiny stitches outlining two sides of a triangle.  From the regularity of the specks I know the embroiderer must be counting threads, but to what end? And where is her chart or sampler? Calmly she continues until she has completed the outline of a diamond. She pauses, enjoying our puzzlement. Then, like a magician, she smiles triumphantly as she turns the work over. The wrong side is really the right side! The tiny stitches we saw at first anchored the satin stitch triangles into a complex design of stylized peacocks around a ‘garden’ of similarly stylized flowers. She shows us a finished piece with its mica mirrors all in place. She does not speak English but a friendly co-worker explains that the pattern is all in her head. She cuddles her baby before she moves on to the next triangle.
Outside the next bhunga we find the older women doing patchwork and appliqué, their eyes no longer strong enough to count the fine threads of suf. Some work on cushion covers and bags specifically designed for craft fairs and Western markets. They use traditional block prints in natural colours of black, indigo, madder and ochre. Others piece bright primary coloured squares and triangles of cloth into rallis, the very familiar South Asian sister of the quilt we all know in the West. Complete rallis, displayed like banners around the complex, give a festive atmosphere. It is the week leading up to the festival of Holi and people are getting excited.
I buy samples of the suf embroidery as a reminder that there are forms of counted thread embroidery far too difficult for me to even try.

Bandhani

The next day, in the cool of the morning, we visit the tie-dyer.  Before the tour begins we take tea and Marie biscuits in the shady side of the walled compound. Around venerable vats of indigo, madder and more, the dye master explains about the local sources of natural dyes and the function of mordants. He takes us to his laboratory where he keeps samples of roots, leaves, buds, bark, rinds and mysterious crystals in labeled jars. He confesses to buying his indigo in crystal form rather than laboriously processing it himself and admits to the occasional use of chemical dyes.
While the dyeing is interesting, it is the tying that is intriguing. Bandhan is the Hindi word for tying up, the process describing the product. It is usually used to decorate turbans, shawls and skirts made of feather-light cotton or silk. Until that morning my general idea of tie-dye was a fun resistance technique used by children to create bold starburst designs on tee shirts at summer camp. I had myself experimented tying and dyeing rice and beans in random fashion with mediocre results. The complex process demonstrated that day made it clear that I had all along been a mere dabbler. At the end of the demonstration I asked if I could possibly have a step by step teacher’s kit with samples showing the whole process. Over the years I have opened the little kit that was delivered to the Hotel Prince that evening, reliving the amazing demonstration of the morning:
One fourth of a design is drawn on thick cellophane. Tiny holes are then made along the lines of the design. The plain cloth is folded in four since all four layers will be tied at once. The design is placed on the folded cloth and as non-permanent colouring is passed over the lines of perforated holes, transferring a pattern of tiny dots.
Now begins the delicate stage of tying: each little dot is raised from below with a pointed metal pick worn on the pinkie, allowing the nimble fingered tie-er to secure and bind off a small area around the center of each dot. The thread is used continuously, creating the semblance of shirring as the skillful tie-er develops a rapid rhythm of ‘pop it up, tie it off’.
The cloth is now dipped in the first dye bath – the next shade darker than white – and dried without untying the tied threads in order to preserve the white in the design. More threads will be tied to preserve the first colour, then the second until the darkest dye. Only then are all the threads untied and the complete pattern revealed.
It is a process worthy of a poem.

Lunch with the Khatris

Judy Frater uses the traveling time on the bus to inform us on the next visit. Not only will we see block printers at work but we are also invited to lunch with the owner. The Kathris of Kutch have for generations been associated with the making of ajrak, a resist block-printing technique found not only in Kutch but also in the neighbouring Pakistani province of Sindh. It is the same as cap batik in Indonesia.
Young Mr. Khatri is a jovial middle-aged man in a white shalwar kameez. He looks like the business managers one meets in the bazaars of Islamabad, well fed and confident. Seated on charpoys in the shaded sales section of the complex, we listen to his informative, if somewhat self-congratulary introduction: he is not a man of compromise; he uses natural dyes only and sticks to the traditional hard woods for carving high definition blocks. His products confirm this. Behind him are piles of bed covers and tablecloths in black and indigo and when he spreads some samples for all to see it is clear that it is work of the highest quality. The lines of the traditional designs are clearly defined and the blocks perfectly aligned. Compared to this work, my modest collection of ajraks, bought in Islamabad, may as well have been made by children for their smudgy lines and approximate block alignments. No wonder Mr. Kathri has a thriving business.
It is clear from the size of his homestead that he is well off; with its flashy new addition it could compete with the best of urban mansions. Here lunch awaits us. First we are pointed to the ablution area where a generous supply of tap water is part of the hospitality. It is hot and dusty and all of us infidels are happy to participate in a good Muslim custom. Barefoot we proceed to the best room in the new part of the house. From the courtyard beyond the door the laughter of women and children are heard. But only men attend us as we sit on the floor around an appetizing array of dhals, biryanis and chapattis. At centre stage is the old Mr. Khatri with thick spectacles and few teeth. It is in our honour that he serves the food on shiny stainless steel plates while his grandson circles on the outside to fill our stainless steel cups with water. Some ladies hesitate and send Judy questioning looks.
“Boiled and filtered,” she re-assures, “I’ve never gotten sick from Mr. Khatri’s water before.” Some believe her but some refrain; they have a dread of ‘delhi-belly’ and will wait until we get back to the bus and bottled water.
The room is chiefly decorated with stainless steel cooking pots of all shapes and sizes neatly arranged on a high shelf that goes all around the room. Wedding gifts to all the Khatri sons, not for use but as a status symbol, Judy explains. We are lucky to have an interpreter with an insider’s knowledge of language and customs. I watch her ignore her spoon, the only eating utensil provided, as she deftly uses her right hand to break off a piece of chapatti and scoop up some dhal.
“Who made this delicious food?” asks someone.
“The womans,” comes the proud reply.
“Could we thank them?”
Hesitation. Father and son exchange glances. Judy is consulted in the local dialect. Mr. Khatri goes to the door leading to the courtyard and shouts. The laughter stops. A nervous twittering ensues. Finally a female figure flutters into the doorway. We see her form but not her face; it is hidden behind her elaborately tie-dyed veil. Even when Judy conveys our thanks she keeps her face averted as she accepts our compliments. The formality over she is dismissed and the door closed. The laughter resumes as we finish our meal.
“Why would she not look at us?” someone asks in the bus.
“Oh, we’re not the problem. It is Mr. Khatri. She is his younger brother’s wife and as the older brother he is not allowed to see her face.”
To me this astonishing fact takes an equal place with the fine ajrak and tasty food chez Khatri. Often, when I see textiles in a museum or eat Indian food I think of that averted face, imagine the laughter from the courtyard and remind myself that here are places in the world where things are very different for women.

Visit with the Rabaris

The Rabari village is a hive of activity as we arrive: sweeping and whitewashing, decorating and repair. The festival of Holi is coming and squeaky clean and new is the order of the day.
As soon as they see the bus women in skirts, tight bodices and flowing veils, called odhanis, stream from their thatched huts. It is like an homecoming as they embrace their ‘sister’ Judy. No wonder, she lived among them for many years as a textile anthropologist. Threads of Identity is the tangible product of that experience. While we stand astonished before large hoops in noses and ears and the elaborately tattooed arms, she blends in naturally with their dialect and body language. These are the ‘sisters’ with whom she lived while their husbands roamed the desert with the goats looking for pasture. Here she experienced the rhythm of rural life light years away from the grand avenues and monumental buildings of Washington, DC. From textile museum to life among the textile makers, from academic to participant observer, she achieved a primary source experience few Westerners take the time to realize.
Most of the houses in the village are traditional round thatched huts, each with its raised terrace. Shiny, scrubbed cooking pots flank the wooden doorway. I step over the threshold expecting to see a functional interior; instead I am met by an abundance of decoration. Mud-plaster designs on the whitewashed walls are offset by a multitude of mirrors. It is obviously in the same tradition of the mirrored rooms found in grand palaces where the reflection of one small light turns into so many twinkling stars. I notice light bulbs in place as part of the decoration though we were told that there is no electricity in the village. It seems the light bulbs have been so placed in anticipation of a modern life to come. The absence of tables, chairs or beds indicates a simple life where most activities happen close to the ground. But it is not a life without beauty: the elaborately plastered clay armoires are decorated in the Mogul style. Sturdy wall shelves contain neatly stacked quilts and mattresses. The mud and dung floorcovering is cool and velvety just as it was in the huts on my granny’s farm in far-off Southern Africa.
We also visit the ‘modern’ house of one of the wealthiest villagers. His young wife speaks English and is happy to show off this monument to progress. It is rectangular with large windows and furniture brought from the city. There is no running water yet though the plumbing is in place. Taps have just recently come to the village; now women no longer have to walk for hours to fetch water but can collect it right there in the village. Progress has brought leisure to make them all smile. Soon pipes will bring water to the modern house and, for sure, electricity will follow. Then, who will want to live in a round hut with mud furniture? The new India is upon them.
Shopping is next. But there is no obvious trading post; the village is not on the tourist circuit and the women have agreed to sell some of their handwork as a favour to Judy. Inside the doorway of her hut sits a slim woman with a pile of embroidered textiles. She is one of the brave ones who is willing to wade into the uncharted waters of trade with Western women bent on a bang for their buck. With lowered eyes she lays out precious items: Dowry bags, bodices, odhanis, door hangings and festival decorations. The densely detailed embroidery speaks of hours and hours of concentration. They are works of devotion to destiny, in honour of marriage a woman’s inescapable fate. They are lovingly made over years for dowries with never a mercenary thought. No wonder the saleswoman falters when ‘how much?’ is fired at her from all directions. The hagglers are in their element as they try to beat down even the most obvious bargain.  Intrinsic value pales as market value gobbles it up. The saleswoman sends a child to fetch her auntie in the hope that an older presence might lessen the onslaught. Those bent on bargains only see this as a greater opportunity to walk away with more for less. I manage to slip around the side and buy two items from the auntie at the asking price. Haggling unleashes an energy totally at odds with my nature. I take my purchases and flee.
I find a quiet spot under a spreading acacia tree to view my acquisitions: There is a purple silk bodice richly embroidered in red, green, saffron and white. The design is made of lines of square chain stitch around mica mirrors of varying shapes and sizes. From the gathered breast cups, it is plain that this is a bride’s blouse. Only the front of the sleeves are embroidered while the back is completely bare; no need to waste time on what will not show when the head an back are covered by a long flowing odhani. Besides, a bare back is better in the desert heat. Children gather to watch while I examine my treasure. Smiles fly back and forth and giggles erupt when I put a fist in one of the cups to admire the circular design, which has at the center a large shining mirror, like a surrogate nipple. These children, like their mothers, are not used to tourists and have not learnt to ask for chocolate or pens. Laughing and staring seems reward enough.
The second item is a dowry bag made from a lined embroidered square, made into a bag by bringing the four corners together and securing two sides. The open sides form the flap of the bag, which is secured by a loop and button at the center. I imagine a young girl sewing the bag and gathering over the years the rings for fingers ears, toes and nose, bangles and bracelets, necklaces and amulets. These are all the things a bride wears to please her husband on high days and holidays. They are also the only things she owns outright since everything else belongs to him. In this bag she carries her only independent material security. If she is lucky she will be happy and never think of running away but if things should ever become impossible this bag would be her bank.

Before we leave Kutch, we visit other villages where we see double-sided block printing and mashroo weaving. Mashroo is a fabric with a high sheen worn on festive occasions. Though it resembles silk, it is really a mixture of silk and cotton worn by Muslims to comply with a religious rule, which forbids the wearing of pure silk.
We also spend a day in Mandvi observing wooden boats being built and visiting the Maharao of Kutch’s tank and ‘orchard’, which it irrigates. These are both manmade, the innovation of the Maharao’s grandfather. Imagine the astonishment of the desert dwellers when they first set eyes on so much water and heard tales of the tiger hunt in the tiny irrigated forest growing up beside it. The Maharao himself has graced us with his presence and regales us with stories from his youth when, from his spacious tree house, he watched his playboy father make merry with the royal set during hunting season. Then, as now, the lake is teeming with crocodiles and warnings read: ‘Crocodiles. Do not enter! Trespassers will be eaten’!

Patan Patola*

Patan is on our way from Bhuj to Ahmedhabad. We will stop here to visit the double ikat weavers. The $30,000 price tag on a bridal sari, mentioned in the introduction, gets our attention.  Seeing the process, however, explains the price.
Apart from a bright new shop front, the weavers’ atelier bears witness to a precious craft untouched by modern innovation. Handlooms are lit by natural light from the windows, threads are tied in the semi-gloom and natural dye vats reside in the darker recesses. In the bright courtyard tied threads at various stages hang out to dry. After a flirtation with chemical dyes, there has been a return to traditional vegetable dyes. The colours used by this studio are predominantly yellow, red and black.
It is hard to comprehend the complexity and labor intensity of double ikat weaving until one sees the process from beginning to end. The design, for both warp and weft, is marked off onto precisely folded lengths of stranded silk thread fastened between two posts. We watch as the weavers’ sister ties off the parts of the design that will remain white. She wears thick glasses and bends over her work in concentration. She has done this all her life and has many designs in her head though she knows how to follow a chart for a new design. She knew we were coming and has more steps to show us: The bound white thread goes into yellow dye. Once dried the yellow parts are tied off, then dried again, it is dyed red, the red is tied off and, finally it is dipped in black. Once untied the warp, the length of a sari (nine meters), is put on the loom and the weft is wound on to shuttles.
The brothers do the weaving; it is a job for four hands. Painstakingly, one row at a time, the weft is passed through the warp, pushed back and then meticulously corrected with a needle in order to align the design on the intersecting threads. It takes months to make a sari but the result is a spectacular stream of bordered stylized floral designs in neat geometrical arrangements. Some designs even have a row of elephants walking along the border!
In the shop we are allowed to touch some of the saris while the weaver talks about different designs and their auspicious significance. There are sampler squares for sale but even those are beyond my budget. The only piece of double ikat I own is a grinsing ceremonial scarf, bought in Indonesia many years later.

Holi in Ahmedabad

The main purpose for our visit to Ahmedabad is to see the collection of textiles from the region in its famous Calico Museum.** This turns out to be a disappointment: we are shunted from one dimly lit exhibition room to the next by hissing harridans who seem to be getting paid a bonus for being unfriendly. The collection has magnificent examples of embroideries, tie dyed, printed and woven pieces stretching back through the centuries. But the enjoyment is taken out of the viewing when one barely has time to read the labels before the lights are turned off. There is no opportunity to go back to look at something a second time since the invigilators permit only one-way traffic. We are told afterwards that the rationale for this regime is conservation, to protect the textiles from light damage.
The events of evening make up for the disappointment. It is the night of the spring full moon and the beginning of Holi, the festival of colours. There is excitement in the air from the minute we step off the bus. Insistent drumming from the direction of the unlit bonfire is urging the rising of the moon. It also gets us into the mood while we enjoy a multi-course traditional meal in the charming village-style restaurant nestled among eucalyptus trees. After the meal there is time to explore. I escape from the crammed craft store to find a Rajastani puppet show. An argument between a king and son is followed by a scene between the same king and his evil sister. Someone explains the puppets are telling the story of how Holika is persuaded by her brother to take the apostate Prahlad on her lap and sit on the bonfire in order to destroy him. Holika, who is supposed to be fireproof, is burnt while Prahlad is saved by Vishnu for his faith. Before the puppets get to this part of the story there is a general commotion as everyone makes their way to the bonfire. The moon shines huge and yellow through the eucalyptus. A great cry of joy goes up when the bonfire is lit. The celebration is contagious: some sing, some dance and many throw popcorn and sweeties on the fire.
To this day the moon, the music and the mesmerizing flames still haunt my consciousness like a recurring dream. At regular intervals I am compelled to unpack the textiles and recall the details of that trip. And I know it was then that I truly came under the spell of India.

“>Textile trip to Gujarat – Spring 1998

Cross-stitch, hardanger and drawn thread lie at the heart of my love for textiles. The joy of following a chart and building patterns by counting threads and applying stitches goes back to my childhood. There was a time when everyone I loved owned a tray cloth, cheval set or antimacassar stitched by me. No wonder I felt a curious kinship with the embroidery I came across in South Asia. Though the complexity of techniques and design far outshone my sparse European efforts, I knew that there, veiled behind the walls of compounds in villages and refugee camps sat women with needle and thread, making plain cloth beautiful.
After three years in Pakistan I had built up a modest textile collection by combing the local craft shops, NGO outlets and the regular Sunday market where textiles from Kashmir, Afghanistan and even Turkmenistan made their unpredictable appearance. There were phulkari embroideries from Swat, jolly multi-mirrored Sindhi patchworks and aar work from Kashmir. It was as though I had embarked on a self-designed course of study.
And now there was a field trip. I heard through the grapevine that a textile group in Delhi needed more bodies to fill their bus going to Gujarat on a ten-day textile trip. I jumped at the opportunity, joined the group in Delhi and soon we were on our way to Mumbai and from there to Bhuj, in the Rann of Kutch (or Kachchh as some would have it!) Here we were met by our leader, Judy Frater, an American textile scholar whose long residence among the Rabari of Kutch is recorded in her book Threads of Identity. I met the book in Delhi before I met the woman in Bhuj and knew we were in the hands of someone who not only knew the textiles of Gujarat but also its people and their language, someone the locals called sister.
We stayed in the Hotel Prince in Bhuj, which still had ancient walls and city gates and markets untouched by the subsequent 2001 earthquake. From here we made our daily trips to villages to meet embroiderers, tie-dyers, block printers and weavers. Soon we would discover that the seemingly barren scrubland was fertile with the skill and imagination of its crafts people.
But first we had to get travel permits; comings and goings in the area was strictly controlled by the military because of the proximity of the Pakistani border. I was not a little nervous when I presented my passport with its Pak residence permit. I flashed my ‘I’m not a spy’ smile.
“Sit,” ordered the official as he leaned back in his chair with my passport close to his nose.
Another look at me over the passport.
“You work in Pakistan?” he asked, elbows on the desk. He could barely bring himself to name the country.
“I teach piano.”
It worked as it did many times before at customs and visa offices all over South Asia. The mention of that instrument somehow softened the common view of Western women as emasculating feminists or creatures of wanton promiscuity. He smiled, stamped the permit and returned it with my passport. Thus, properly permitted and above suspicion I joined my fellow textilers in the minibus complete with air-conditioning, smiling driver and a very young village boy to lug our bags and serve as an extra pair of eyes in difficult traffic.

Kala Raksha*

The first place to visit is Judy Frater’s project, Kala Raksha Center for the preservation of traditional arts in the village of Sumrasar Sheikh, 25km north of Bhuj. Eight years into the project she already has much to show: a brand new architect-designed complex of round buildings in traditional style bhungas (my South African eyes recognize them as rondavels), housing workshops, a business center and shop, a library cum resource center and a guest house. We are met by a committee of friendly faces, smiling because they are happy not, because they have been told to. Soon we discover the source of this happiness: the place is run by locals for the benefit of all, binding together the artisans and their traditional art.
Soon we meet some of these artisans: young women sitting on the floor doing the finest suf embroidery. While some in our group hit the shop, some of us sit down and watch the work. Our demonstrator flashes a welcoming smile, and then turns her full concentration to her work. She is working on very fine even weave hand-loomed cotton. There is not much to see on the face of the work except tiny stitches outlining two sides of a triangle.  From the regularity of the specks I know the embroiderer must be counting threads, but to what end? And where is her chart or sampler? Calmly she continues until she has completed the outline of a diamond. She pauses, enjoying our puzzlement. Then, like a magician, she smiles triumphantly as she turns the work over. The wrong side is really the right side! The tiny stitches we saw at first anchored the satin stitch triangles into a complex design of stylized peacocks around a ‘garden’ of similarly stylized flowers. She shows us a finished piece with its mica mirrors all in place. She does not speak English but a friendly co-worker explains that the pattern is all in her head. She cuddles her baby before she moves on to the next triangle.
Outside the next bhunga we find the older women doing patchwork and appliqué, their eyes no longer strong enough to count the fine threads of suf. Some work on cushion covers and bags specifically designed for craft fairs and Western markets. They use traditional block prints in natural colours of black, indigo, madder and ochre. Others piece bright primary coloured squares and triangles of cloth into rallis, the very familiar South Asian sister of the quilt we all know in the West. Complete rallis, displayed like banners around the complex, give a festive atmosphere. It is the week leading up to the festival of Holi and people are getting excited.
I buy samples of the suf embroidery as a reminder that there are forms of counted thread embroidery far too difficult for me to even try.

Bandhani

The next day, in the cool of the morning, we visit the tie-dyer.  Before the tour begins we take tea and Marie biscuits in the shady side of the walled compound. Around venerable vats of indigo, madder and more, the dye master explains about the local sources of natural dyes and the function of mordants. He takes us to his laboratory where he keeps samples of roots, leaves, buds, bark, rinds and mysterious crystals in labeled jars. He confesses to buying his indigo in crystal form rather than laboriously processing it himself and admits to the occasional use of chemical dyes.
While the dyeing is interesting, it is the tying that is intriguing. Bandhan is the Hindi word for tying up, the process describing the product. It is usually used to decorate turbans, shawls and skirts made of feather-light cotton or silk. Until that morning my general idea of tie-dye was a fun resistance technique used by children to create bold starburst designs on tee shirts at summer camp. I had myself experimented tying and dyeing rice and beans in random fashion with mediocre results. The complex process demonstrated that day made it clear that I had all along been a mere dabbler. At the end of the demonstration I asked if I could possibly have a step by step teacher’s kit with samples showing the whole process. Over the years I have opened the little kit that was delivered to the Hotel Prince that evening, reliving the amazing demonstration of the morning:
One fourth of a design is drawn on thick cellophane. Tiny holes are then made along the lines of the design. The plain cloth is folded in four since all four layers will be tied at once. The design is placed on the folded cloth and as non-permanent colouring is passed over the lines of perforated holes, transferring a pattern of tiny dots.
Now begins the delicate stage of tying: each little dot is raised from below with a pointed metal pick worn on the pinkie, allowing the nimble fingered tie-er to secure and bind off a small area around the center of each dot. The thread is used continuously, creating the semblance of shirring as the skillful tie-er develops a rapid rhythm of ‘pop it up, tie it off’.
The cloth is now dipped in the first dye bath – the next shade darker than white – and dried without untying the tied threads in order to preserve the white in the design. More threads will be tied to preserve the first colour, then the second until the darkest dye. Only then are all the threads untied and the complete pattern revealed.
It is a process worthy of a poem.

Lunch with the Khatris

Judy Frater uses the traveling time on the bus to inform us on the next visit. Not only will we see block printers at work but we are also invited to lunch with the owner. The Kathris of Kutch have for generations been associated with the making of ajrak, a resist block-printing technique found not only in Kutch but also in the neighbouring Pakistani province of Sindh. It is the same as cap batik in Indonesia.
Young Mr. Khatri is a jovial middle-aged man in a white shalwar kameez. He looks like the business managers one meets in the bazaars of Islamabad, well fed and confident. Seated on charpoys in the shaded sales section of the complex, we listen to his informative, if somewhat self-congratulary introduction: he is not a man of compromise; he uses natural dyes only and sticks to the traditional hard woods for carving high definition blocks. His products confirm this. Behind him are piles of bed covers and tablecloths in black and indigo and when he spreads some samples for all to see it is clear that it is work of the highest quality. The lines of the traditional designs are clearly defined and the blocks perfectly aligned. Compared to this work, my modest collection of ajraks, bought in Islamabad, may as well have been made by children for their smudgy lines and approximate block alignments. No wonder Mr. Kathri has a thriving business.
It is clear from the size of his homestead that he is well off; with its flashy new addition it could compete with the best of urban mansions. Here lunch awaits us. First we are pointed to the ablution area where a generous supply of tap water is part of the hospitality. It is hot and dusty and all of us infidels are happy to participate in a good Muslim custom. Barefoot we proceed to the best room in the new part of the house. From the courtyard beyond the door the laughter of women and children are heard. But only men attend us as we sit on the floor around an appetizing array of dhals, biryanis and chapattis. At centre stage is the old Mr. Khatri with thick spectacles and few teeth. It is in our honour that he serves the food on shiny stainless steel plates while his grandson circles on the outside to fill our stainless steel cups with water. Some ladies hesitate and send Judy questioning looks.
“Boiled and filtered,” she re-assures, “I’ve never gotten sick from Mr. Khatri’s water before.” Some believe her but some refrain; they have a dread of ‘delhi-belly’ and will wait until we get back to the bus and bottled water.
The room is chiefly decorated with stainless steel cooking pots of all shapes and sizes neatly arranged on a high shelf that goes all around the room. Wedding gifts to all the Khatri sons, not for use but as a status symbol, Judy explains. We are lucky to have an interpreter with an insider’s knowledge of language and customs. I watch her ignore her spoon, the only eating utensil provided, as she deftly uses her right hand to break off a piece of chapatti and scoop up some dhal.
“Who made this delicious food?” asks someone.
“The womans,” comes the proud reply.
“Could we thank them?”
Hesitation. Father and son exchange glances. Judy is consulted in the local dialect. Mr. Khatri goes to the door leading to the courtyard and shouts. The laughter stops. A nervous twittering ensues. Finally a female figure flutters into the doorway. We see her form but not her face; it is hidden behind her elaborately tie-dyed veil. Even when Judy conveys our thanks she keeps her face averted as she accepts our compliments. The formality over she is dismissed and the door closed. The laughter resumes as we finish our meal.
“Why would she not look at us?” someone asks in the bus.
“Oh, we’re not the problem. It is Mr. Khatri. She is his younger brother’s wife and as the older brother he is not allowed to see her face.”
To me this astonishing fact takes an equal place with the fine ajrak and tasty food chez Khatri. Often, when I see textiles in a museum or eat Indian food I think of that averted face, imagine the laughter from the courtyard and remind myself that here are places in the world where things are very different for women.

Visit with the Rabaris

The Rabari village is a hive of activity as we arrive: sweeping and whitewashing, decorating and repair. The festival of Holi is coming and squeaky clean and new is the order of the day.
As soon as they see the bus women in skirts, tight bodices and flowing veils, called odhanis, stream from their thatched huts. It is like an homecoming as they embrace their ‘sister’ Judy. No wonder, she lived among them for many years as a textile anthropologist. Threads of Identity is the tangible product of that experience. While we stand astonished before large hoops in noses and ears and the elaborately tattooed arms, she blends in naturally with their dialect and body language. These are the ‘sisters’ with whom she lived while their husbands roamed the desert with the goats looking for pasture. Here she experienced the rhythm of rural life light years away from the grand avenues and monumental buildings of Washington, DC. From textile museum to life among the textile makers, from academic to participant observer, she achieved a primary source experience few Westerners take the time to realize.
Most of the houses in the village are traditional round thatched huts, each with its raised terrace. Shiny, scrubbed cooking pots flank the wooden doorway. I step over the threshold expecting to see a functional interior; instead I am met by an abundance of decoration. Mud-plaster designs on the whitewashed walls are offset by a multitude of mirrors. It is obviously in the same tradition of the mirrored rooms found in grand palaces where the reflection of one small light turns into so many twinkling stars. I notice light bulbs in place as part of the decoration though we were told that there is no electricity in the village. It seems the light bulbs have been so placed in anticipation of a modern life to come. The absence of tables, chairs or beds indicates a simple life where most activities happen close to the ground. But it is not a life without beauty: the elaborately plastered clay armoires are decorated in the Mogul style. Sturdy wall shelves contain neatly stacked quilts and mattresses. The mud and dung floorcovering is cool and velvety just as it was in the huts on my granny’s farm in far-off Southern Africa.
We also visit the ‘modern’ house of one of the wealthiest villagers. His young wife speaks English and is happy to show off this monument to progress. It is rectangular with large windows and furniture brought from the city. There is no running water yet though the plumbing is in place. Taps have just recently come to the village; now women no longer have to walk for hours to fetch water but can collect it right there in the village. Progress has brought leisure to make them all smile. Soon pipes will bring water to the modern house and, for sure, electricity will follow. Then, who will want to live in a round hut with mud furniture? The new India is upon them.
Shopping is next. But there is no obvious trading post; the village is not on the tourist circuit and the women have agreed to sell some of their handwork as a favour to Judy. Inside the doorway of her hut sits a slim woman with a pile of embroidered textiles. She is one of the brave ones who is willing to wade into the uncharted waters of trade with Western women bent on a bang for their buck. With lowered eyes she lays out precious items: Dowry bags, bodices, odhanis, door hangings and festival decorations. The densely detailed embroidery speaks of hours and hours of concentration. They are works of devotion to destiny, in honour of marriage a woman’s inescapable fate. They are lovingly made over years for dowries with never a mercenary thought. No wonder the saleswoman falters when ‘how much?’ is fired at her from all directions. The hagglers are in their element as they try to beat down even the most obvious bargain.  Intrinsic value pales as market value gobbles it up. The saleswoman sends a child to fetch her auntie in the hope that an older presence might lessen the onslaught. Those bent on bargains only see this as a greater opportunity to walk away with more for less. I manage to slip around the side and buy two items from the auntie at the asking price. Haggling unleashes an energy totally at odds with my nature. I take my purchases and flee.
I find a quiet spot under a spreading acacia tree to view my acquisitions: There is a purple silk bodice richly embroidered in red, green, saffron and white. The design is made of lines of square chain stitch around mica mirrors of varying shapes and sizes. From the gathered breast cups, it is plain that this is a bride’s blouse. Only the front of the sleeves are embroidered while the back is completely bare; no need to waste time on what will not show when the head an back are covered by a long flowing odhani. Besides, a bare back is better in the desert heat. Children gather to watch while I examine my treasure. Smiles fly back and forth and giggles erupt when I put a fist in one of the cups to admire the circular design, which has at the center a large shining mirror, like a surrogate nipple. These children, like their mothers, are not used to tourists and have not learnt to ask for chocolate or pens. Laughing and staring seems reward enough.
The second item is a dowry bag made from a lined embroidered square, made into a bag by bringing the four corners together and securing two sides. The open sides form the flap of the bag, which is secured by a loop and button at the center. I imagine a young girl sewing the bag and gathering over the years the rings for fingers ears, toes and nose, bangles and bracelets, necklaces and amulets. These are all the things a bride wears to please her husband on high days and holidays. They are also the only things she owns outright since everything else belongs to him. In this bag she carries her only independent material security. If she is lucky she will be happy and never think of running away but if things should ever become impossible this bag would be her bank.

Before we leave Kutch, we visit other villages where we see double-sided block printing and mashroo weaving. Mashroo is a fabric with a high sheen worn on festive occasions. Though it resembles silk, it is really a mixture of silk and cotton worn by Muslims to comply with a religious rule, which forbids the wearing of pure silk.
We also spend a day in Mandvi observing wooden boats being built and visiting the Maharao of Kutch’s tank and ‘orchard’, which it irrigates. These are both manmade, the innovation of the Maharao’s grandfather. Imagine the astonishment of the desert dwellers when they first set eyes on so much water and heard tales of the tiger hunt in the tiny irrigated forest growing up beside it. The Maharao himself has graced us with his presence and regales us with stories from his youth when, from his spacious tree house, he watched his playboy father make merry with the royal set during hunting season. Then, as now, the lake is teeming with crocodiles and warnings read: ‘Crocodiles. Do not enter! Trespassers will be eaten’!

Patan Patola*

Patan is on our way from Bhuj to Ahmedhabad. We will stop here to visit the double ikat weavers. The $30,000 price tag on a bridal sari, mentioned in the introduction, gets our attention.  Seeing the process, however, explains the price.
Apart from a bright new shop front, the weavers’ atelier bears witness to a precious craft untouched by modern innovation. Handlooms are lit by natural light from the windows, threads are tied in the semi-gloom and natural dye vats reside in the darker recesses. In the bright courtyard tied threads at various stages hang out to dry. After a flirtation with chemical dyes, there has been a return to traditional vegetable dyes. The colours used by this studio are predominantly yellow, red and black.
It is hard to comprehend the complexity and labor intensity of double ikat weaving until one sees the process from beginning to end. The design, for both warp and weft, is marked off onto precisely folded lengths of stranded silk thread fastened between two posts. We watch as the weavers’ sister ties off the parts of the design that will remain white. She wears thick glasses and bends over her work in concentration. She has done this all her life and has many designs in her head though she knows how to follow a chart for a new design. She knew we were coming and has more steps to show us: The bound white thread goes into yellow dye. Once dried the yellow parts are tied off, then dried again, it is dyed red, the red is tied off and, finally it is dipped in black. Once untied the warp, the length of a sari (nine meters), is put on the loom and the weft is wound on to shuttles.
The brothers do the weaving; it is a job for four hands. Painstakingly, one row at a time, the weft is passed through the warp, pushed back and then meticulously corrected with a needle in order to align the design on the intersecting threads. It takes months to make a sari but the result is a spectacular stream of bordered stylized floral designs in neat geometrical arrangements. Some designs even have a row of elephants walking along the border!
In the shop we are allowed to touch some of the saris while the weaver talks about different designs and their auspicious significance. There are sampler squares for sale but even those are beyond my budget. The only piece of double ikat I own is a grinsing ceremonial scarf, bought in Indonesia many years later.

Holi in Ahmedabad

The main purpose for our visit to Ahmedabad is to see the collection of textiles from the region in its famous Calico Museum.** This turns out to be a disappointment: we are shunted from one dimly lit exhibition room to the next by hissing harridans who seem to be getting paid a bonus for being unfriendly. The collection has magnificent examples of embroideries, tie dyed, printed and woven pieces stretching back through the centuries. But the enjoyment is taken out of the viewing when one barely has time to read the labels before the lights are turned off. There is no opportunity to go back to look at something a second time since the invigilators permit only one-way traffic. We are told afterwards that the rationale for this regime is conservation, to protect the textiles from light damage.
The events of evening make up for the disappointment. It is the night of the spring full moon and the beginning of Holi, the festival of colours. There is excitement in the air from the minute we step off the bus. Insistent drumming from the direction of the unlit bonfire is urging the rising of the moon. It also gets us into the mood while we enjoy a multi-course traditional meal in the charming village-style restaurant nestled among eucalyptus trees. After the meal there is time to explore. I escape from the crammed craft store to find a Rajastani puppet show. An argument between a king and son is followed by a scene between the same king and his evil sister. Someone explains the puppets are telling the story of how Holika is persuaded by her brother to take the apostate Prahlad on her lap and sit on the bonfire in order to destroy him. Holika, who is supposed to be fireproof, is burnt while Prahlad is saved by Vishnu for his faith. Before the puppets get to this part of the story there is a general commotion as everyone makes their way to the bonfire. The moon shines huge and yellow through the eucalyptus. A great cry of joy goes up when the bonfire is lit. The celebration is contagious: some sing, some dance and many throw popcorn and sweeties on the fire.
To this day the moon, the music and the mesmerizing flames still haunt my consciousness like a recurring dream. At regular intervals I am compelled to unpack the textiles and recall the details of that trip. And I know it was then that I truly came under the spell of India.

Cross-stitch, hardanger and drawn thread lie at the heart of my love for textiles. The joy of following a chart and building patterns by counting threads and applying stitches goes back to my childhood. There was a time when everyone I loved owned a tray cloth, cheval set or antimacassar stitched by me. No wonder I felt a curious kinship with the embroidery I came across in South Asia. Though the complexity of techniques and design far outshone my sparse European efforts, I knew that there, veiled behind the walls of compounds in villages and refugee camps sat women with needle and thread, making plain cloth beautiful.
After three years in Pakistan I had built up a modest textile collection by combing the local craft shops, NGO outlets and the regular Sunday market where textiles from Kashmir, Afghanistan and even Turkmenistan made their unpredictable appearance. There were phulkari embroideries from Swat, jolly multi-mirrored Sindhi patchworks and aar work from Kashmir. It was as though I had embarked on a self-designed course of study.
And now there was a field trip. I heard through the grapevine that a textile group in Delhi needed more bodies to fill their bus going to Gujarat on a ten-day textile trip. I jumped at the opportunity, joined the group in Delhi and soon we were on our way to Mumbai and from there to Bhuj, in the Rann of Kutch (or Kachchh as some would have it!) Here we were met by our leader, Judy Frater, an American textile scholar whose long residence among the Rabari of Kutch is recorded in her book Threads of Identity. I met the book in Delhi before I met the woman in Bhuj and knew we were in the hands of someone who not only knew the textiles of Gujarat but also its people and their language, someone the locals called sister.
We stayed in the Hotel Prince in Bhuj, which still had ancient walls and city gates and markets untouched by the subsequent 2001 earthquake. From here we made our daily trips to villages to meet embroiderers, tie-dyers, block printers and weavers. Soon we would discover that the seemingly barren scrubland was fertile with the skill and imagination of its crafts people.
But first we had to get travel permits; comings and goings in the area was strictly controlled by the military because of the proximity of the Pakistani border. I was not a little nervous when I presented my passport with its Pak residence permit. I flashed my ‘I’m not a spy’ smile.
“Sit,” ordered the official as he leaned back in his chair with my passport close to his nose.
Another look at me over the passport.
“You work in Pakistan?” he asked, elbows on the desk. He could barely bring himself to name the country.
“I teach piano.”
It worked as it did many times before at customs and visa offices all over South Asia. The mention of that instrument somehow softened the common view of Western women as emasculating feminists or creatures of wanton promiscuity. He smiled, stamped the permit and returned it with my passport. Thus, properly permitted and above suspicion I joined my fellow textilers in the minibus complete with air-conditioning, smiling driver and a very young village boy to lug our bags and serve as an extra pair of eyes in difficult traffic.

Kala Raksha*

The first place to visit is Judy Frater’s project, Kala Raksha Center for the preservation of traditional arts in the village of Sumrasar Sheikh, 25km north of Bhuj. Eight years into the project she already has much to show: a brand new architect-designed complex of round buildings in traditional style bhungas (my South African eyes recognize them as rondavels), housing workshops, a business center and shop, a library cum resource center and a guest house. We are met by a committee of friendly faces, smiling because they are happy not, because they have been told to. Soon we discover the source of this happiness: the place is run by locals for the benefit of all, binding together the artisans and their traditional art.
Soon we meet some of these artisans: young women sitting on the floor doing the finest suf embroidery. While some in our group hit the shop, some of us sit down and watch the work. Our demonstrator flashes a welcoming smile, and then turns her full concentration to her work. She is working on very fine even weave hand-loomed cotton. There is not much to see on the face of the work except tiny stitches outlining two sides of a triangle.  From the regularity of the specks I know the embroiderer must be counting threads, but to what end? And where is her chart or sampler? Calmly she continues until she has completed the outline of a diamond. She pauses, enjoying our puzzlement. Then, like a magician, she smiles triumphantly as she turns the work over. The wrong side is really the right side! The tiny stitches we saw at first anchored the satin stitch triangles into a complex design of stylized peacocks around a ‘garden’ of similarly stylized flowers. She shows us a finished piece with its mica mirrors all in place. She does not speak English but a friendly co-worker explains that the pattern is all in her head. She cuddles her baby before she moves on to the next triangle.
Outside the next bhunga we find the older women doing patchwork and appliqué, their eyes no longer strong enough to count the fine threads of suf. Some work on cushion covers and bags specifically designed for craft fairs and Western markets. They use traditional block prints in natural colours of black, indigo, madder and ochre. Others piece bright primary coloured squares and triangles of cloth into rallis, the very familiar South Asian sister of the quilt we all know in the West. Complete rallis, displayed like banners around the complex, give a festive atmosphere. It is the week leading up to the festival of Holi and people are getting excited.
I buy samples of the suf embroidery as a reminder that there are forms of counted thread embroidery far too difficult for me to even try.

Bandhani

The next day, in the cool of the morning, we visit the tie-dyer.  Before the tour begins we take tea and Marie biscuits in the shady side of the walled compound. Around venerable vats of indigo, madder and more, the dye master explains about the local sources of natural dyes and the function of mordants. He takes us to his laboratory where he keeps samples of roots, leaves, buds, bark, rinds and mysterious crystals in labeled jars. He confesses to buying his indigo in crystal form rather than laboriously processing it himself and admits to the occasional use of chemical dyes.
While the dyeing is interesting, it is the tying that is intriguing. Bandhan is the Hindi word for tying up, the process describing the product. It is usually used to decorate turbans, shawls and skirts made of feather-light cotton or silk. Until that morning my general idea of tie-dye was a fun resistance technique used by children to create bold starburst designs on tee shirts at summer camp. I had myself experimented tying and dyeing rice and beans in random fashion with mediocre results. The complex process demonstrated that day made it clear that I had all along been a mere dabbler. At the end of the demonstration I asked if I could possibly have a step by step teacher’s kit with samples showing the whole process. Over the years I have opened the little kit that was delivered to the Hotel Prince that evening, reliving the amazing demonstration of the morning:
One fourth of a design is drawn on thick cellophane. Tiny holes are then made along the lines of the design. The plain cloth is folded in four since all four layers will be tied at once. The design is placed on the folded cloth and as non-permanent colouring is passed over the lines of perforated holes, transferring a pattern of tiny dots.
Now begins the delicate stage of tying: each little dot is raised from below with a pointed metal pick worn on the pinkie, allowing the nimble fingered tie-er to secure and bind off a small area around the center of each dot. The thread is used continuously, creating the semblance of shirring as the skillful tie-er develops a rapid rhythm of ‘pop it up, tie it off’.
The cloth is now dipped in the first dye bath – the next shade darker than white – and dried without untying the tied threads in order to preserve the white in the design. More threads will be tied to preserve the first colour, then the second until the darkest dye. Only then are all the threads untied and the complete pattern revealed.
It is a process worthy of a poem.

Lunch with the Khatris

Judy Frater uses the traveling time on the bus to inform us on the next visit. Not only will we see block printers at work but we are also invited to lunch with the owner. The Kathris of Kutch have for generations been associated with the making of ajrak, a resist block-printing technique found not only in Kutch but also in the neighbouring Pakistani province of Sindh. It is the same as cap batik in Indonesia.
Young Mr. Khatri is a jovial middle-aged man in a white shalwar kameez. He looks like the business managers one meets in the bazaars of Islamabad, well fed and confident. Seated on charpoys in the shaded sales section of the complex, we listen to his informative, if somewhat self-congratulary introduction: he is not a man of compromise; he uses natural dyes only and sticks to the traditional hard woods for carving high definition blocks. His products confirm this. Behind him are piles of bed covers and tablecloths in black and indigo and when he spreads some samples for all to see it is clear that it is work of the highest quality. The lines of the traditional designs are clearly defined and the blocks perfectly aligned. Compared to this work, my modest collection of ajraks, bought in Islamabad, may as well have been made by children for their smudgy lines and approximate block alignments. No wonder Mr. Kathri has a thriving business.
It is clear from the size of his homestead that he is well off; with its flashy new addition it could compete with the best of urban mansions. Here lunch awaits us. First we are pointed to the ablution area where a generous supply of tap water is part of the hospitality. It is hot and dusty and all of us infidels are happy to participate in a good Muslim custom. Barefoot we proceed to the best room in the new part of the house. From the courtyard beyond the door the laughter of women and children are heard. But only men attend us as we sit on the floor around an appetizing array of dhals, biryanis and chapattis. At centre stage is the old Mr. Khatri with thick spectacles and few teeth. It is in our honour that he serves the food on shiny stainless steel plates while his grandson circles on the outside to fill our stainless steel cups with water. Some ladies hesitate and send Judy questioning looks.
“Boiled and filtered,” she re-assures, “I’ve never gotten sick from Mr. Khatri’s water before.” Some believe her but some refrain; they have a dread of ‘delhi-belly’ and will wait until we get back to the bus and bottled water.
The room is chiefly decorated with stainless steel cooking pots of all shapes and sizes neatly arranged on a high shelf that goes all around the room. Wedding gifts to all the Khatri sons, not for use but as a status symbol, Judy explains. We are lucky to have an interpreter with an insider’s knowledge of language and customs. I watch her ignore her spoon, the only eating utensil provided, as she deftly uses her right hand to break off a piece of chapatti and scoop up some dhal.
“Who made this delicious food?” asks someone.
“The womans,” comes the proud reply.
“Could we thank them?”
Hesitation. Father and son exchange glances. Judy is consulted in the local dialect. Mr. Khatri goes to the door leading to the courtyard and shouts. The laughter stops. A nervous twittering ensues. Finally a female figure flutters into the doorway. We see her form but not her face; it is hidden behind her elaborately tie-dyed veil. Even when Judy conveys our thanks she keeps her face averted as she accepts our compliments. The formality over she is dismissed and the door closed. The laughter resumes as we finish our meal.
“Why would she not look at us?” someone asks in the bus.
“Oh, we’re not the problem. It is Mr. Khatri. She is his younger brother’s wife and as the older brother he is not allowed to see her face.”
To me this astonishing fact takes an equal place with the fine ajrak and tasty food chez Khatri. Often, when I see textiles in a museum or eat Indian food I think of that averted face, imagine the laughter from the courtyard and remind myself that here are places in the world where things are very different for women.

Visit with the Rabaris

The Rabari village is a hive of activity as we arrive: sweeping and whitewashing, decorating and repair. The festival of Holi is coming and squeaky clean and new is the order of the day.
As soon as they see the bus women in skirts, tight bodices and flowing veils, called odhanis, stream from their thatched huts. It is like an homecoming as they embrace their ‘sister’ Judy. No wonder, she lived among them for many years as a textile anthropologist. Threads of Identity is the tangible product of that experience. While we stand astonished before large hoops in noses and ears and the elaborately tattooed arms, she blends in naturally with their dialect and body language. These are the ‘sisters’ with whom she lived while their husbands roamed the desert with the goats looking for pasture. Here she experienced the rhythm of rural life light years away from the grand avenues and monumental buildings of Washington, DC. From textile museum to life among the textile makers, from academic to participant observer, she achieved a primary source experience few Westerners take the time to realize.
Most of the houses in the village are traditional round thatched huts, each with its raised terrace. Shiny, scrubbed cooking pots flank the wooden doorway. I step over the threshold expecting to see a functional interior; instead I am met by an abundance of decoration. Mud-plaster designs on the whitewashed walls are offset by a multitude of mirrors. It is obviously in the same tradition of the mirrored rooms found in grand palaces where the reflection of one small light turns into so many twinkling stars. I notice light bulbs in place as part of the decoration though we were told that there is no electricity in the village. It seems the light bulbs have been so placed in anticipation of a modern life to come. The absence of tables, chairs or beds indicates a simple life where most activities happen close to the ground. But it is not a life without beauty: the elaborately plastered clay armoires are decorated in the Mogul style. Sturdy wall shelves contain neatly