Our Artisans & Weavers

Narendra Marvada grew up in Avadhanagar, a small village in Kukma near Bhuj in Kutch. His family moved there when he was very young after a serious accident changed his father Ravji Bhai’s life. His father could no longer continue the work he once did, and the family had to rebuild their lives from the beginning. To support the household, he began taking up small labour jobs. For Narendra, Kukma remains deeply meaningful because it is where he first understood struggle and learned the value of hard work and family. Despite the challenges, Narendra remembers his childhood as simple and joyful. He enjoyed going to school and studied until Class 10. His teachers were kind and encouraging, and school was one of the happiest parts of his early life. Outside the classroom, he spent most of his time playing with friends in the village, swimming, and being outdoors. Cricket was his favourite sport, and he played whenever he had the chance. Those carefree days remain some of his fondest memories.

Weaving was always present in Narendra’s life. The craft had been practiced in his family for generations. As a child, he often sat near the loom watching closely as threads slowly turned into patterned fabric. By the time he was seven or eight years old, he had already begun learning the basics. Even after his accident, his father patiently guided him, teaching him how to handle the loom and understand the discipline the craft requires. Life became more difficult after the 2001 earthquake in Kutch, when work across the region slowed down significantly. Survival became the immediate priority. Later, during the Covid-19 period, when craft sales dropped and orders almost disappeared, Narendra had to take up other work again to support his family. He worked as a labourer and later in factories as a machine operator for several years.

Even during those years, he never completely left weaving and returned to the loom whenever he could. Eventually, Narendra returned fully to the traditional weaving of Bhujodi, a craft known for its distinctive textures and deep cultural heritage. “Our craft is deeply traditional and has its own identity,” he says. “The designs carry a natural shine because of the way the threads are prepared and woven, and many patterns have been passed down through generations.” The weaving process requires patience and careful attention. It begins with preparing the threads and setting up the loom. The weaving then takes place slowly, row by row, demanding focus and skill. Some pieces also include decorative details such as embroidery or mirror work, often completed by the women in the household. From setting the loom to finishing the fabric, a single piece can take four to five days to complete.

Narendra speaks warmly about the women in his family. His wife Mamta, whom he married in Bhujodi when he was 25 and she was 22, also grew up around the craft. She studied until the fifth standard and manages the household while also helping with craft work whenever she can. In her free time, she continues learning new techniques through online and offline courses. Narendra’s mother, now 52, has also been an important presence in his life. He smiles when he mentions that during winters she makes urad dal laddoos, locally called ardya, which are his favourite. Narendra also acknowledges the support artisans receive through government initiatives. Workshops and training sessions help weavers understand design development and changing market preferences, while exhibitions and fairs help them reach customers. At the same time, he hopes the government will reconsider the GST (Goods & Services Tax) on handicrafts and handloom products. “Because of GST, the final price becomes higher and customers hesitate to buy. Reducing it would help small artisans and make handmade products more accessible,” he says.

Narendra finds joy in spending time with his two young children, a four year old daughter and a two year old son. Looking ahead, he says he does not want to force the craft upon them. They should choose their own paths freely. If they decide to continue weaving, he will support them wholeheartedly. But whatever they choose, he hopes they will always understand the tradition and resilience that shaped their family’s life.

Mita Pal is sixty years old and from Shrirampur in West Bengal. Her life, however, stretches far beyond one town or one craft. When asked about her parents, she says simply that they are no longer alive and does not dwell on the loss. Her husband, whom she loved deeply, passed away nearly ten years ago. Since then she has continued living and working with the same determination that shaped most of her life. Mita has a son, now thirty years old, who studied BCA and MCA, degrees in computer applications that focus on programming, software development, and computer systems. After completing his master’s level education in computers, he built a career in the corporate technology sector and now works in Bangalore as an IT professional. When Mita speaks about him, her voice fills with pride. She often says that his success is the result of years of struggle and sacrifice. Although Kantha became her livelihood, she never pushed her son toward the same work. Instead, she wanted him to pursue education and build a stable future beyond the uncertainties she had experienced.

Mita’s own childhood was marked by financial hardship. She studied until Class 12 but could not appear for her board examinations because family responsibilities and lack of money forced her to stop. Part of her childhood was spent in Birbhum, in the Kinnahar area, where her school stood close to her home. Despite the difficulties outside, school was a place where she felt supported. Her teachers were very fond of her, especially an assistant teacher named Manju, whose encouragement she still remembers. Even as a child, Mita showed a natural creative instinct. During Saraswati Puja celebrations and school events, teachers often asked her to help with costumes, makeup, and dressing younger students for performances. She enjoyed selecting outfits, arranging hair, and preparing performers for the stage. Her eye for colour, detail, and presentation was already visible. Her first experience with Kantha stitching came in Class 5 during a “wealth out of waste” school project. Using pieces of an old quilt, she stitched a small baby cloth with Kantha techniques. The work impressed her teachers so much that she topped the project, a moment that quietly planted the seed for what would later become her profession.

Responsibility entered Mita’s life very early. By the time she reached Class 10, she had already begun working to support her family. She started a small saree business, travelling between Birbhum and Kolkata to collect sarees from her masi and selling them at small margins. Even that modest income made a difference during a time when the family struggled deeply and was once forced to sell property at a very low price just to survive. Mita carried the responsibility of supporting two brothers and one sister and helped ensure their marriages and stability before thinking about her own life. Years later, through continuous work and persistence, she was able to buy a flat, something that once seemed impossible. Mita met her husband at a wedding at her aunt’s house. Their conversations began around her saree business, and he often bought sarees from her, sometimes simply to support her efforts. Although he came from a financially stable family that ran a clocks and watches business, their marriage was strongly opposed because it was a love marriage without dowry. The hostility soon turned into emotional and physical abuse from her in laws, and at one point the couple were even forced to live in the kitchen. Her husband was also pushed out of the family business for standing by her.

Instead of abandoning her, he chose to leave everything behind and move with her to Delhi, a decision that changed the course of her life. In Delhi, Mita slowly began gaining recognition for her work. She participated in exhibitions, especially at Dilli Haat, where visitors appreciated the detail and discipline of her stitching. Some of her work was eventually displayed in museum collections, and she received appreciation and awards that strengthened her confidence as an artisan. Kantha gradually became the centre of her work, and she became known for using fine cotton thread and small, careful stitches, drawing inspiration from mythology, daily life, and personal memory. During this time, her husband played an important role. While she focused on the craft, he helped manage tasks she found difficult, such as coordinating with officials, communicating with organisers, and navigating government exhibitions. Without his support, she believes entering those spaces would have been far more difficult. Today Mita Pal continues to stitch. For her, Kantha is not simply decoration. It is livelihood, independence, and the quiet thread that carried her through a lifetime of hardship toward dignity and pride.

Shubham Dosayi is only twenty-two, yet he speaks about work and responsibility with unusual maturity. He comes from Bagru village, about thirty kilometres from Jaipur in Rajasthan, a place known for its long tradition of hand block printing. In his family, this craft has been practiced for seven generations. For Shubham, it is not simply a business but a legacy that carries history, skill, and discipline. Shubham is also pursuing a degree in commerce, balancing formal education with the practical knowledge he learns every day in the workshop. Interestingly, Shubham’s childhood was not centred around the craft. He spent much of it in Surat, Gujarat, where his life revolved around sports rather than printing tables. By the time he was in third standard he had already started playing football seriously, and by sixth standard he was competing at the state level. Before tenth grade he even travelled to Denmark to participate in the Gothia Cup. Hostel life shaped much of his school experience. He remembers sneaking out with friends to play football, getting caught by hostel authorities, and still returning to the field the next day. Studies were never his main interest; he says he studied just enough to pass. What truly excited him was sports, especially football, and he still follows the game closely today, with Cristiano Ronaldo remaining one of his favourite players.

His connection to the family craft deepened during the Covid-19 period in 2021. At the time he was around sixteen or seventeen. Business slowed dramatically, workers had to leave, and much of the workload fell on family members. Instead of stepping away, Shubham began learning the craft seriously. He started understanding how block printing works in detail, from analysing designs to understanding how colours behave on different fabrics. He also learned the traditional names of motifs such as Nargis buti. His family alone holds more than one lakh designs, each with its own identity and history. Discovering the depth of this knowledge gave him a new respect for the craft and for the generations that preserved it. Home life remains an important source of strength for him. His grandfather and father continue to work closely with the craft, and evenings are often spent together discussing work, sharing meals, and laughing as a family. During winter nights they sit around bonfires and talk about life and business. His parents have also shaped his values strongly. They emphasise honesty, respect, and fairness in dealing with people. These principles guide the way Shubham approaches both his work and his relationships.

A major turning point came in 2024 when the family purchased their own property after years of working from rented spaces. For Shubham, who was only twenty at the time, it was the moment when responsibility felt real. The business was no longer just about learning; it supported employees whose livelihoods depended on it. Realising that several families relied on the workshop made him approach the craft with greater seriousness and long-term commitment. Today Shubham focuses on printing on velvet using natural dyes. The velvet fabric is sourced, but the printing remains entirely handmade. Natural dye preparation is demanding and sometimes unpleasant. Ingredients such as pomegranate peels, iron-soaked water, and Multani mitti are used to create colours. The process can be messy and slow, yet he respects it because it keeps the craft authentic and environmentally responsible. One of his early challenges came in 2022 when a French client ordered one hundred metres of velvet. Since velvet is expensive, the project was risky. Shubham decided to work in batches of ten metres at a time.

Although the foreign client showed limited interest, domestic buyers appreciated the designs, turning the experiment into a success and giving him confidence to explore velvet printing further. Shubham is clear about one thing: he refuses to undervalue his craft. While people often spend freely on fast fashion brands, they tend to bargain heavily when buying handmade textiles. For him, quality and dignity matter more than simply making a sale. Looking ahead, Shubham hopes to strengthen the use of natural dyes and elevate velvet as a respected medium in block printing. His goal is simple but powerful: Indian handmade craft should receive the same respect that people give to international luxury brands, and artisans should be recognised for the knowledge, patience, and skill their work carries.

Kamini Sinha’s journey as an artist is not just about creative expression; it is about persistence and quietly building a life on her own terms. Now in her late forties, she lives in Ranchi, Jharkhand, though she spent her early life in Patna, Bihar. As the only child of her parents, she grew up in a supportive and forward-thinking household where education and independence were strongly encouraged. Her parents believed she should work, build a career, and remain self-reliant.

Following that path, Kamini pursued her studies seriously, completing her M.Sc. and preparing for competitive examinations for government jobs. She reached the interview stage, but life took a different turn after her marriage in 2010. Moving to Ranchi brought not just a change in geography but also a shift in her personal freedom. She faced restrictions from her in-laws that limited her ability to work or explore her ambitions openly. In this environment, her aspirations were often pushed aside.

Yet, her interest in art remained constant. From childhood, she had been curious and creative, drawn to activities like crocheting, gardening, and traditional forms of painting. Even while focusing on academics, she carried a quiet desire to do something artistic, often wishing she had formally studied fashion designing. That part of her identity, though suppressed for a while, never disappeared.

It was during this restrictive phase after marriage that art became more than a hobby. She began sketching and painting quietly, often hiding her work from her husband and in-laws. These small, private acts became her way of reclaiming space and identity. Importantly, while she had to conceal her efforts at home, she never hid anything from her parents, who continued to support her emotionally. That continued bond gave her the confidence to keep going.

Her entry into Madhubani painting and Sohrai art was entirely self-driven. Growing up in Bihar, she was familiar with Madhubani, and after moving to Jharkhand, she encountered Sohrai. However, she did not learn either form through formal training. Instead, she built her foundation through sketching, which she describes as the skill that “got her everywhere and anywhere.” With that base, she taught herself how to adapt to different styles and gradually developed her own approach. In the early years, her work remained within the boundaries of her home. But over time, she began sharing it in small ways, taking on minor opportunities and gradually stepping into the public space. This transition was not immediate. It took years of persistence for her work to be recognised and for her family’s perception to shift. As her art began to gain visibility, resistance within her household slowly reduced. Today, both her husband and in-laws have come to accept and support her work, marking a significant change from the constraints she once faced.

Over the past two decades, Kamini has built a professional identity rooted in consistency and self-learning. She specialises in customised artworks and has evolved significantly in her style. Without any formal mentorship or inherited legacy in the craft, she has shaped her journey independently.

At the same time, her work is not limited to her own growth. She actively teaches art to young girls free of cost, focusing on those who may not otherwise have access to skill-based opportunities. Her aim is not just to pass on artistic techniques but to make them capable of earning. She encourages them to take small commissions, understand pricing, and engage with customers. For her, art is not only a form of expression but also a pathway to financial independence and dignity. A turning point in her career came in 2013, when she received the State Award from the Jharkhand government under Jharcraft. This recognition brought her work into a larger space and strengthened her credibility as an artist. Over time, she has participated in exhibitions and established herself as a recognised name in the field. One particularly meaningful moment was meeting Droupadi Murmu at ISM Dhanbad, where she presented a painting titled Jeevani, based on the President’s life. She has also benefited from government initiatives, including financial support through the Startup India scheme, which helped her set up her own flat and production space. This independence is central to her identity today. She runs her own workspace, manages her practice, and continues to expand her reach through exhibitions and commissioned projects.

However, her journey also highlights the ongoing challenges faced by artisans. Financial instability, limited direct access to markets, and dependence on intermediaries continue to affect earnings. While schemes exist, many artisans struggle with awareness and access. Kamini points out that application processes are often complex and not easily navigable without guidance.

In her view, improving the situation requires practical changes. She believes that local facilitation systems should be created to help artisans access schemes and funding. Training programs should go beyond skill development and include pricing, branding, and digital literacy so that artists can sustain themselves independently. She also emphasises the need for consistent opportunities, such as regular exhibitions and direct market linkages, rather than one-time support. Kamini Sinha’s journey is not just about becoming an artist. It is about slowly building agency in a restrictive environment, transforming a hidden passion into a profession, and then using that platform to uplift others. Her story reflects both the strength of individual determination and the need for systems that make such journeys less difficult for those who follow.

Arfat Anwar, 28, is a Banarasi artisan from Mubarakpur, where weaving is a shared way of life. He comes from a large joint family. His father is one of eight brothers, and most of the extended family is involved in the same craft. Work and home are closely connected, and people live and work together while depending on the same skill for their livelihood. He grew up around looms, watching the craft unfold daily. His mother was also involved in weaving, and he began learning small tasks at the age of nine. In the beginning, his learning was informal. It came from observing others, assisting when needed, and slowly taking on more responsibility. At one stage, he worked under a masterji, which brought more structure to his learning and helped him understand detailing, finishing, and consistency.

Alongside this, he also pursued formal education. He completed a Bachelor of Arts and later went to Indore for a six month textile designing course at Handloom School, Maheshwar. Learning here the combination of traditional learning and formal training shaped how he approaches his craft today. He does not just follow patterns but also thinks about design and improvement.

Arfat mainly works on Banarasi sarees, focusing on elements like jaal work, buti, and borders. The level of intricacy directly affects both time and price. The process begins with dhaaga warping, followed by bleaching and dyeing. After this, the design setting takes place, often involving detailed card punching. Reed filling is done before the weaving begins, and only then does the actual bunaai start! The timeline depends on the complexity of the design. A very simple saree might take about a week, though such work is rare. Most sarees take around ten days, while highly intricate pieces can take up to a month. The finer the design, the slower the process. There are no shortcuts, and even a small mistake can affect the entire piece. He works from morning to evening, and the work requires continuous focus.

Earlier, Arfat depended on middlemen to sell his work. This meant that despite doing the main labour, he received a smaller share of the final price. He describes that phase as unfair. Over time, through exhibitions and direct orders, this has changed. Direct interaction with buyers has given him better control over pricing and more clarity in transactions. While it is not perfect, he now feels the returns are more reasonable. His sarees are priced between ₹6000 and ₹20000 depending on the design, and he also sells fabric priced between ₹1000 and ₹2000 per meter.

One of the biggest challenges he faces today is competition from machine made Banarasi products. These are cheaper and widely available, which makes it difficult for handmade work to compete. According to him, one way to identify authentic handwoven work is by looking at the back of the fabric. Machine made sarees usually have a rough finish on the reverse side, while handmade pieces are cleaner and more controlled. He also points out that pure thread quality cannot be matched on powerlooms. He works with materials like mulberry silk, muga silk, and raw silk, which affect both texture and durability.

When asked about government support, his response is direct. Schemes exist, but they have not reached him. He has applied multiple times for an artisan card and related benefits, but even after four years, he has not received the physical card. He feels there is a gap between policy and access, especially in rural areas, and that only a limited number of artisans benefit repeatedly. He believes officials should visit places like Mubarakpur more actively and ensure that support reaches a wider group.

There are also everyday challenges. Competition from machine made products is strong, and negotiating with buyers can be difficult, especially when handmade work is compared to cheaper alternatives. There are periods when demand is low, which affects income. At one point, Arfat considered leaving this field and becoming a teacher, mainly because it seemed more stable. Over time, he stayed back, partly because of family and partly because he had already invested years into the craft. Now, he wants to grow within it.

Outside work, his life is simple but active. He plays badminton and cricket, travels when he can, and spends time with friends. He enjoys cooking, especially on weekends, and mentioned making dishes like chicken fry with friends. In a setting where men are not always associated with cooking, this reflects a personal interest rather than expectation. He also considers himself a foodie and enjoys exploring different kinds of food. He is active on social media and shares his work occasionally. He has a strong interest in design and wants to improve further, especially by exploring modern applications of Banarasi textiles such as jackets, shirts, and other contemporary clothing. He also notes that Banarasi work is generally heavier, while Mubarakpur weaving has its own distinct identity. His story reflects a steady effort to continue the craft while finding ways to adapt and sustain it for the future.

Aasuram is forty five years old and belongs to Dhanau village in Barmer district of Rajasthan. In his home, applique is not an individual profession but the centre of the family’s livelihood. Nearly fifteen to twenty members of his extended household are connected to this craft, and each person contributes in a specific way. The men largely handle the designing and preparation of patterns, while the women carry out tirpai and chipai, the careful patching and stitching that give applique its finished form. What reaches the market as a single decorative or wearable product is therefore the result of many hands working quietly within one family.

Aasuram studied until Class 8 and then became fully involved in this work. His childhood was spent in the village, where free time usually meant playing cricket with other children. Unlike many artisans who at some point imagine another profession, he never felt drawn away from applique. This was the primary occupation of the family, and he grew up seeing it not as a burden but as a familiar and stable part of life.

Behind this continuity lies a larger history of displacement and rebuilding. Aasuram shared that his parents came to Rajasthan from Pakistan during the war period. Like many families who had to resettle, they rebuilt their lives through whatever work was available to them, and applique gradually became their main source of income. What began as a means of survival eventually turned into a sustained family craft.

In earlier years, much of the work produced by the family was linked to traditional domestic use. Decorative applique pieces were commonly prepared as part of a girl’s dowry. Over time, however, both customer demand and market taste changed. Today Aasuram and his family make a much wider range of products, including dupattas, stoles, tops, skirts, kurtis, salwar suits, cushion covers, and customised decorative pieces. One of the features he values most about applique is its adaptability. If a customer sends a photograph or reference image, the same motif can be translated into fabric patchwork and stitched into a garment or furnishing item.

The process of making an applique product is slow and layered. It begins with Aasuram preparing the design according to the size and use of the final product. This stage itself can take around two days. Once the pattern is finalised, the fabric is cut carefully into the required shapes, which takes another full day. After that, the cut pieces are passed to the women in the household, who begin the chipai work by hand. Since these women also manage all household responsibilities such as cleaning, cooking, fetching water, and caring for children, applique is fitted into whatever small pockets of time remain after domestic labour. They often work only for a couple of hours a day. As a result, even something as seemingly simple as a cushion cover can take nearly fifteen days to complete.

This slow timeline makes the economics of the craft striking. A cushion cover that may involve fifteen days of distributed labour earns only around three hundred rupees in labour charges. The amount reveals how heavily this family based craft depends on underpaid handwork, particularly the labour of women whose contribution is essential but rarely visible to the buyer.

Unlike many artisans who rely on agents or wholesalers, Aasuram does not sell through middlemen. His main sales happen through government supported handicraft exhibitions held across the country. At the time of speaking, he was preparing to travel to Bangalore for one such fair. He mentioned that exhibitions in Bangalore, Kolkata, and Pune usually bring strong customer response, especially because younger buyers now look for handmade dupattas, stoles, tops, skirts, and other fusion products. These exhibitions give him direct access to customers and allow him to understand what kinds of products are in demand.

His experience with government support has been largely positive. Through handicraft departments and artisan networks, he receives free stalls at exhibitions along with travel, stay, and food support. He also noted that assistance is sometimes available in the form of loans for purchasing materials. He has his artisan card and feels that this institutional help has made it possible for artisans like him to continue without depending on agents. His only concern is that many exhibitions are too short. According to him, if fairs that currently run for five days were extended to ten or fifteen days, artisans would be able to recover much more from the effort of travelling long distances.

Like many handmade crafts, applique too faces competition from machine made alternatives. Aasuram explained that one simple way to identify authentic handmade applique is by looking at the reverse side of the product. Machine finished pieces usually appear rough and uneven from the back, while handmade work has a more controlled and careful finish.

Even with these challenges, Aasuram does not speak of leaving the craft. He remains attached to it because it is inherited, practical, and deeply tied to the family’s survival. Outside of work, his memories still return to village cricket, but most of his present life revolves around designing, supervising production, and travelling to exhibitions. His story reflects a craft sustained not by one artisan alone but by an entire household, where migration history, women’s labour, government support, and changing market demands all come together to keep applique alive.