Did You Hear the Loom's Sing?

Weavers, weaving at break of day,
Why do you weave a garment so gay? . . .
Blue as the wing of a halcyon wild,
We weave the robes of a new-born child.

Weavers, weaving at fall of night,
Why do you weave a garment so bright? . . .
Like the plumes of a peacock, purple and green,
We weave the marriage-veils of a queen.

Weavers, weaving solemn and still,
What do you weave in the moonlight chill? . . .
White as a feather and white as a cloud,
We weave a dead man's funeral shroud.

      

      - Indian Weavers by Sarojini Naidu

It’s a little after 4 PM in the evening when Suguna finally gets off the therai (loom) to make some tea for her husband. In a few more minutes, her children will return home from school and chaos will ensue.

“I try and finish as much as I can before they come home. At 5 PM they will go to tuitions and I will get an extra two hours to sit and work on this saree today, before going back to cook dinner at 7 p.m.” 

Her husband, Prakash casually saunters in to see who has come to their house. As if the sight of a girl with pen, notepad and a backpack is common at their house, he greets me with a warm “Vanakkam . . . Petti aah?” Are you here to interview us?

“Sister has come from Delhi,” Suguna informs him, as we move out to the Veranda.

Suguna comes from a family of weavers, the Saurashtras. “My earliest memory is of watching my naina weave a pattu vetti. In those days we would not be allowed to play or watch TV. I never went to school because weaving is our family legacy, and doing or knowing anything outside it was un-imaginable in those days.”

There is a beautiful pink saree spread out on the therai and she catches me looking at it.

“I will finish it by tomorrow. Usually, we finish a saree in a day or two. But since it was Diwali and all these festivals came, I lagged behind a little.”

There are two looms installed in the hall by the cooperative society they belong to.

“I find it inauspicious when either one of them is bare.”

An ink blue saree is being woven in the second loom.

“That is his work,” she tells me, pointing at her husband. “He was supposed to finish it two days ago, but he lags behind because he has no interest in this work anymore.”

I had imagined a weavers home to be a chaos of threads and needles, but it was quite the opposite. There were no wisps of silk threads peeking out from anywhere near the loom. Nothing was wasted. There was complete order and a method to the hall I was standing in, a contrast to the lives of the weavers themselves.

“This is a simple silk saree without much zari work.” Prakash tells me. “When we get orders for heavy work and intricate designs, it takes at least ten to fifteen days to complete a Kanchipuram pattu podavai (silk saree). For that, we will get paid more, about four to five thousand per piece. The simpler the design, the lesser money we get.”

I ask him if there is a minimum wage which is fixed by the government.

“For those of us who work under Silk cooperatives in Kanchipuram, there is a fixed rate for every design.”

For a town that is known for its rich cultural heritage, beautiful temples and the production of kanchi silk, Kanchipuram and its market are extremely unremarkable at first glance. At least until you travel about five to ten kilometers out of town and catch sight of the nesavalar (weaver) colonies. My earliest memories of Kanchipuram are the ones I inherited from my grandfather.

“The streets would sing the song of looms, tak-tak-tak-tak, and the kovil mani (temple bells) would occasionally flow with the rhythm of the weaver’s instrument during evenings.” These songs can no longer be heard as I walk into the weaver colonies- clusters of homes built by different cooperative societies. “The few looms which can still be heard sound tired and somewhat anachronistic. Many of the weavers have put away their loom frames; they either work as landless labourers during agricultural seasons or they eke out a living as rickshaw pullers.”⁽¹⁾

The political affiliation of weavers in Kanchipuram is glaringly evident from the two leaves painted at the entrance of most houses - the AIADMK symbol. It prompts a memory of former Tamil Nadu CM J. Jayalalitha clad in bright red kanchi silk sari during the controversial and even more extravagant wedding of her then foster son, Sudakaran in 1995. A photograph of Jayalalitha and her close aid Sasikala Natarajan posing together, draped in red and gold, circulated countrywide in all national newspapers, as the public condemnation of the undisguised misuse of official machinery and ‘public money’ reached a new high. The six yards that in many ways defined her life, career and public persona, simultaneously marked the declining generation of weavers and artisans in Tamil Nadu- “Tarikuzhi alla, chavu kuzhi” (It is the grave pit, not the loom pit.)⁽²⁾

In the main market, called Gandhi Road, one can see cooperative societies housed one next to the other. Created in order to protect the weavers from private entities and industrial production of sarees, these cooperatives provide housing and employment to the weaver. On the outskirts of the town, one can see various colonies, housing both the members and weavers of respective cooperative societies. 

No society is independent of any political affiliation. Their very names indicate which party they identify themselves with - Dr Kalaignar Karunanidhi Silk Co-op Society, Arignar Anna Silk Handloom Weavers Co-op, Murugan Silk Handloom Weavers, etc.

Suguna and her husband work for Arignar Anna Silk Co-op which was established in 1971.  “The cooperatives are the reason why we are still surviving. Some days when the design goes wrong and a thread is missed, an entire saree gets wasted. Then our three-day labor is gone. I have begun to cook at weddings to manage our household nowadays” 

Unlike Prakash, Suguna appears to have a more positive outlook towards her profession. “In our community, a weaver is married off to a weaver only. What will I or he do with an educated partner, when weaving a saree requires at least two people? I was married off to him as a companion, not just for life but for work as well.”

Narratives of ‘community’ and weaving as a familial tradition indicate that the division of labor is largely based on age and gender. Nalli Kuppusaimi indicates the change in this division of labor, as production is no longer owned by weavers themselves. “Kuppusami recalls with nostalgia the early 1920s and 1930s when there was a one-to-one equation between the production of the silk saree and the buyer.”⁽³⁾ Women largely remain invisible in these narratives, merely performing the function of labor which is exchanged between their native home and to their husbands’.

I tell her how my family had brought several silk sarees for a family wedding, which were sold to us as Kanchi silk but no one knew how they were produced.

“He thinks our handwork has no value anymore. Like you just said, who will know whether the saree was hand-woven for days or machine produced within hours? My husband has lost hope in this profession. He laments not knowing any other skill.” As for her, she is content with life as it is. “One cannot do this work if there is no interest.” She points towards her hall- ‘Idhu dhan vazkhai’ (this is all there is to life.)

The alienation that these weavers endure today has a history going far back to the 17^th century when the East India Company established its presence in Madras. During the period of colonial rule in Madras, the weavers were pushed out of their villages to the newly created Black Town areas - a practice which continues today, with the weavers continuing to live in the outskirts of Kanchipuram. 

The weavers who lived in the Black Town came directly under the control of the British administration and all cotton or silk was the property of the Company. The mode of production, which had been one of weaver-buyer had now transformed into one of master-weaver under the new capitalist endeavor brought by the colonial masters. In an account from Salem district records during the 19^th century, “the weavers were saddled with the loom tax, house tax, sayar tax (tax on dyes) chappadalali or stamp duty.”⁽⁴⁾ In the course of three centuries from the 17^th to the 19^th century, the role of the master changed from a representative of the weaver to an agent of the Company.

The position of the master as a tyrannical figure continued well into the twentieth century, and the deplorable conditions of the weavers whose suffering began with the withdrawal of royal patronage in the pre-colonial era deteriorated further. It was with the establishment of cooperative weaver societies in the post-independence era, and new textile laws laid down by the government, that a new form of collective emerged, which provided a form of economic and social security to the weavers.

The president of Anna silk co-op, Mr. Dayalan Chettian takes me through the dying area inside their office. Unlike Suguna, who is a small-time weaver, Chettian comes from the family of Mudaliyars (cotton weavers). In a very matter of fact manner, he tells me “all industries have a downfall at some point. The price of gold has gone up by so much and yet the kanchi silk and its weavers have had no improvement in their lives. The increasing urge in the market is to capitalize on ethnicity and sell ‘culture’.” Lounging outside his home in an easy-chair, he sips on tea and casually murmurs “They are all (weavers) stuck in a trap in which penury and excellence go hand in hand.”

New methods of production under the capitalist economy resulted in a change in power relations and methods of manufacture. Kanchipuram may be the center of silk woven sarees, but most of the raw material is from elsewhere, indicating an intricate and lengthy process of production. The raw silk is procured from Hosur, Dharmapuri and Bangalore areas, where the Mulberry worm is cultivated. It is then procured by the Tamil Nadu Co-operative Silk Producers Federation (TANSILK), from which the cooperative societies buy silk and distribute it among the weavers. The bundle of silk procured from TANSILK is raw and rough to the touch before it is given to the dyers. The twisted silk (ready silk) is “dyed according to market preferences; for example, this was a month of festival so we mostly made pink and red sarees.” Chettian points at racks of red and pink silk left to dry in the shed outside his home.

However, the process isn’t over yet. The golden Zari is separately produced in Surat. In original Kanchi sarees “zari was always made of silver thread coated in pure gold. The heavier the saree meant the more the gold in it.”

At present, Surat is the largest producer of golden border zari. However, since the production in Surat is privatized, the government once again steps in to provide assistance. “The zari is naturally expensive and when you leave it on Private hands the costs are usually sky-high. That is why we have the Tamil Nadu Zari Ltd. right here in Kanchipuram.” A government of Tamil Nadu undertaking, it was established in 1971 “to provide protection to the silk handloom weavers’ cooperative societies in the State engaged in the weaving of silk by making available the required quality of zari at the reasonable rates to save them from stiff competitions of the monopoly of the zari merchants in and outside of the State.”⁽⁵⁾ (TNZL, official site)

Each cooperative has a rule book. At the Kanchipuram Murugan Silk Handloom Weavers Society, I chance upon one. It is impressive how detailed rules for the coolie (waged labor) are. The government, in order to protect the weavers from exploitation, had laid down the exact wage for the designs being commissioned. But these rates have barely changed in the past two decades, laments Raja, a weaver and part-time peon in the cooperative office.

Raja also comes from a family of Sourashtras, a community of Gujarati silk weavers who had migrated to the Tamil country during the rule of Krishna Deva Raya of the Vijayanagar Empire in 14^th century. Largely concentrated in Madurai, some of them are scattered across Tamil Nadu today due to demands of labor. Raja’s family is also a generation of weavers who were based in Coimbatore. “I don’t remember much as I grew up in Kanchipuram, but I have heard stories of my family legacy, of how the king was their patron, once upon a time.”

I ask Raja if there is a difference in designing and making of a saree, based on each community.

“No nothing like that. Who are we to design things? It is the mudalali (owner) who tells us what he wants based on the latest fashion”

He and Suguna’s husband Prakash share similar sentiments.

“Back in the day, about ten to fifteen years ago, the cost of one gram silver was 10 rupees. Gold was about a thousand rupees per gram. Nor everyone could own a silk saree, not then and not even now. 

Today, with inflation and the added cost of our coolie (wages) the silk saree costs no less than few lakh rupees. The simplest one will be worth at least fifteen thousand rupees.”

I quickly interrupt him to point out how even today silk sarees are the main attraction at all events and festivals in our culture. “How many times have you gone to purchase a silk saree and checked if they were machine made or handwoven; if the zari was truly gold or synthetic? When these retail shop keepers throw so many colorful sarees in front of you, one forgets what is original and what is not. You won’t know the difference. “

The Ministry of Textile had listed 22 varieties of designs solely under the monopoly of weavers, in order to keep their work in demand. However, in 1991, 22 designs were reduced to 11 and the remaining was shared with industrial manufacturers. At present, the nesavalar is left with only about five or six designs. The traditional designs which could only be woven in handlooms were replaced by computer designed patterns that could be easily created at half the cost on power looms. In 1998, the textile policy (not changed) released by the Tamil Nadu government stated: “Due to low-value addition, low productivity and increasing costs of raw materials and labour, handloom fabrics have traditionally suffered a cost handicap in the market compared to similar products produced by power looms . . . Therefore to offset this inherent handicap, subsidies have traditionally been given to the handloom sector . . . It is estimated that the annual subsidy in Tamil Nadu is of the order of Rs 70 crores. Despite such support, the economic condition of the weavers producing low-value fabrics has not improved. In fact, as noted earlier, there continues to be steady attrition in the number of handloom weavers.”⁽⁶⁾

“A weaver takes fifteen days to produce a minimum of three sarees, but the machine takes one day to produce about five sarees. If my labor is worth two thousand rupees, then the man working at machines gets only three hundred rupees. Now you tell me if given a choice, what mode of production will you choose for good profit?” Raja asks me.

The cooperatives societies are also mostly community-specific according to him. “I am sure you must have heard about and even seen the massive Nalli showroom on your way here. Like your Sharma’s and Sastri’s in north, Nalli is the name of a community of weavers (Chettiars). Like a trademark, anybody belonging to their community attaches Nalli in front of their name. Nalli Chinnasami Chettiar would sell hand-woven sarees from door to door in Madras during the 1920s. His son Nalli Kuppusami Chettiar mobilized their community people and started the business of sarees; now look at them, there is not a single person in the weaving community who does not envy the Nalli people. Nalli is what it is today because of their strong community and camaraderie between them.”

While they feel helpless about their current situation, there is still hope for their children. “I want my daughter to become a teacher. Let this life of hardship end with us.” Suguna tells us.

My aunt strongly objects to this. “But what about our culture? Please teach your children this wonderful art, namma kalacharam (the essence of our tradition).”

“And who will save them from this poverty?”

Mr. Chettian points to the homes clustered around one another. “Unlike their parents, the children should know they have a choice, a better future.”

----------X--------

I have spent the better part of my life watching women drape the nine-yard wonder that is the Kanchipuram saree and I have seen it passed on from one generation to the next as an inheritance exclusively among women. What I never saw, or even wondered about was the worn hands of the nesavalar, whose life, in its entirety, revolved around the white and golden threads of silk. 

A memory that will always stay with me is of watching Suguna take out one skirt after another, all in colorful hues. “I can never weave a saree for myself. I don’t think any weaver can weave for himself. It just does not feel right. But for my daughter, I have made many, many things.”

“Do you make them from leftover threads?” I ask her.

“No, no. There is no such thing as leftovers. Every single thread of silk is counted and aligned in a saree. I save money every few months and ask mudalali (owner) to give me whatever comes of it. That is why they are all colorful. I just stitch whatever color I get.”

“If you stay here a few more days, we will weave you a saree as well. Take it as a token of a gift from namma ooru (our town) Kanchipuram” she offers. “Yellow is your color, I can already tell.”