Geetanjali Krishna: Eyes wide shut

PEOPLE LIKE THEM

The first time I saw Nanda Prashant Kumar Sahu, we were unable to talk. Mouth agape, head askew, the man was in deep slumber. I stared at him for a bit. He didn't wake up. I coughed politely. It had no effect. At this point the reader might want to know why I was so keen to disturb his peaceful nap. The fact is it was a busy Saturday afternoon in Dilli Haat, and this fellow's stall had some nice Sambalpuri Ikat from Orissa. How could he sleep, I wondered, when tribal handicrafts from all over were selling briskly around him? Anyway, I trotted off to see the rest of the stalls, where I was happy to find everyone awake. But the saris drew me back on my way out.

This time, his eyes were open. "This is the quietest corner of Dilli Haat," he complained when I said that I'd caught him napping, "people walk right past these stalls further into the ones further in. What can a man do but sleep?" Anyway, the sight of a potential buyer filled him with new life, and he began showing me sari after traditional sari woven with the age old tie-and-dye technique. "Unlike Rajasthani tie-and-dye, which is done on cloth, we dye the yarn before weaving it," Sahu explained.

Here's what I understood of the process of weaving Ikat: first the artisan stretches warp yarns on a frame, and binds selected areas. The warp bundles are then dyed, producing resist patterns wherever the dye cannot penetrate. Then selected areas are unbound, other areas are bound, and the yarns are immersed in a second dye bath. This tie-and-dye process can take up to eight days depending on the complexity of the design. Once completed, the bindings are removed and the fabric is woven. Through this painstaking process, sophisticated textile art is produced with both drama and subtlety.

"My father," said Sahu, "a national award-winning weaver, loved to weave in traditional colours like maroon, purple, green and black. His designs were impossibly intricate! I try to weave like him." Younger weavers today sometimes weave more contemporary designs, but he prefers traditional patterns. "For example, when I go to Bhubaneshwar to sell saris, I take a lot of double Ikat saris (locally known as Sapta) because there's great demand for them there. In bigger metros, full Ikat sells better," he said.

By this time, he had shown me most of his stock. A little dazzled by the plethora of colours and designs spread out in front of me, I asked whether the Dilli Haat exhibition had been worthwhile for him. He grimaced, saying that most stalls that had good sales were the ones with products priced under Rs 300. "It's a price-driven market," he said, adding, "people come here to look, not necessarily to buy expensive items like Ikat saris. My season has been pretty poor so far!"

Having taken up so much time, I felt pressured to buy something. But although the saris were beautiful, I realised none were very unusual. He needed to offer, I decided, a better selection of saris to sell successfully here. Oblivious to my thoughts, Sahu said ruefully as he folded the saris, "they'd have flown off the shelves if we'd been better located... like near the momo stalls!"

That's when it struck me that it's one thing to appreciate the immense labour that goes into most Indian handicraft, but unless craftsmen understand the importance of making what the market demands, Sahu is going to keep weaving sari after unsellable sari, with his eyes wide shut.