I sit cross-legged on the shop floor. Having just brought in my recent batch of woven rugs, I sit back. I find a faint smile making its way across my face as I think back on the years. I, like so many others began weaving young. It was an art that had been passed down through the years. It was our life and way of living. My grandfather, my father, now I.
1971 was the year.I had begun by weaving Khadi, selling it at 20paise a meter. A few years later I saw myself weaving ‘khais’- cloth for the traditional turbans. Alongside, weaving Khadi continued. Khadi for towels at 35 paisa a piece. I remember trying to weave acrylic yarn too at the time. Days went by, and went by well. I was supplying cloth to an organization. That was between 1980 and 2000. Things were well until the January of 2001.
I no longer wove. We had to move to Awadhnagar. Life had taken a turn and I saw myself working on the fields. Much to my delight, this was a short spell. The government began introducing schemes distributing free yarn. An opportunity for me, was it not? Many came along too; we all began weaving once more. We then began selling it at a cheaper price too. Not long after, the schemes ended, many once more did not see weaving as viable. I however, stayed on, for what else would I do if not weave?
For me the art extended to making my looms and charkas too, helping others with theirs as well. Carpentry in one of its forms I would say. Now, at the age of 57, and through the highs and lows that life brought on it wake, I am now content with the life I have woven for myself. Weaving to me is like a son. A son brings joy on his wake, nothing abysmal about a son. Weaving is just that.
