Blood On My Hands While Sewing The Frayed Edges

Did you see the dim light in the weavers home? Did you see the pregnant wife of the artist struggle while traversing the path to reach the hospital? Did you see the child of the artisan run behind kites bare footed in the afternoon sun? His bare back burnt by the harsh rays as his father weaves fabric for you and me. But his kids don’t have a new shirt, even when the fabric is loosely tied and the thread is worn out with time.

I have had sleepless nights since I saw that reticent weaver who was given a corner stall during the bonhomie of Durga Puja to sell sarees. His stall was rented out for two days, next to a dustbin with people negotiating the price of a saree. The weaver was assisted by a person from an NGO who was trying to help the weaver reach out to the visitors to buy his product, with fewer middlemen and more money. Weavers don’t know the language of economy. They speak to you in their mother tongue; India has 15 official languages and some dialects. He can’t communicate to you. He can’t tell you that when you buy one of his creations, you actually are helping him pay his children’s school fees, his meals and even the thread which goes into his looms.

It’s so easy to look away from the little thread that runs through your yarn of fabric. This fabric is created with hope. India is home to different arts and crafts unique to each state. In my blog, it’s just an mere endeavour to reach out to you as you buy a handmade product. Those trembling hands of the artisans, who are feeling lost and helpless, may regain their confidence with your endorsement. We are nothing without one another. Just as the harvest depends on the shifting seasons, we are all connected equally and harmoniously.

Help Me Help Them…

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Blood On My Hands While Sewing The Frayed Edges

February 6, 2019