KANCHEEPURAM
Ramaswamy enjoyed his
bath, it was the only time he could call his own, when no one would disturb him
or his thoughts. As he poured the sombu of cold water over his head, he dreamt
design and colour. He came out smiling with a wet towel round his torso and
went straight to the deities on the wall, and lit the camphor his wife kept ready for him in
the dhoopakalsa. The ringing of the puja bell told everyone in the household
that Ramu was almost ready for his work. Ponni handed him a plate of two dry
dosais and yesterday’s chutney. He wolfed it down with indecent haste with a
hot cup of coffee. Ponni was a good wife.
He touched the loom and
pressed his hands to his forehead. The loom. So sacred to him. Ramaswamy lived
in Kancheepuram, the sacred temple city which gave him life and now probably
his death. The city of weavers like him who worked so hard that their joints
pained with the continuous work. They believed they were descendents of the
Sage Markandeya weaver of the Gods. They were told that the first fabric woven
was by him out of lotus fibre.
People who visited Kancheepuram
were struck at the coloured warp threads stretched across the roads, tied to
forked bamboo poles. Early morning weavers could be seen carrying the warp on
giant spools and setting them up.
Every home in
Kancheepuram the silk city had a loom. The loom was the centre of their daily
life, it was like a wooden giant occupying the biggest room in the house. All
life flowed round the loom. Adjacent was a backyard leading to the kitchen
where he could see Ponni start her daily chores of cooking and cleaning.
Children played in the yard, vessels were washed, and Ponni would sit there and
spin the yarn and load it on bobbins and sang softly to herself. The loom gave
them life, and the children sensing it would toddle across to their father. One
of Ramu’s children would sleep under the loom as it was so cool.
Ramu eased himself into
his hard stone seat and dangled his aching legs into the pit provided below.
Above the jala with its tentacles of threads supervised his every move like a
friendly giant spider. When he reached out and touched the heddles, it was taal
to every beat. When he stroked the warp threads stretched across the loom, it
was like playing a stringed instrument, a raga, it stirred his very soul.
His little son would
watch him intently and when he was old enough he would come home from school
and help to pass the shuttle, his slim nimble fingers would guide it through
the threads. Ramu managed to weave korvai sarees, and hugged the payment of
5,000 rupees for a set of three sarees as just payment. There was money to be
made in silk sarees, but cotton saree wages were very low, and weavers like him
refused to weave them.
And then, in a well
meaning move the Child Labour Act came into existence in the mid 80s. No child
under twelve could work, even in their parents’ homes, and the repercussions
would be serious. Muthu, Ramu’s son was
on an occasion twining the yarn in a spirit of playfulness. The Inspectors,
tipped off, marched in and clamped a fine of 500 rupees for breaking the law,
and no amount of pleading would make them relent. The oral tradition of weaving
handlooms was slowly but surely being broken. Something which was as natural as
breathing was taken away from them and that led to the death of the korvai
sarees. If a family could not manage it, they could not afford to pay extra for
outside labour.
Long hours at the pit
loom led to arthritis, straining led to eye problems. Ramu sighed. His children
would be educated and they would no longer be slaves to a vocation which killed
them sapping them of all energy.
NGOs sympathised, they
brought in innovation and high wages for a project, and an exhibition. After
that a vaccum. No market visibility.The government offered them support,
continuous work if they joined co-operatives. Ramu refused, he had his own
reasons.
The wheel of destiny
had to come full circle. Suddenly handlooms were celebrated, the weavers
venerated, old designs were rehashed by die hard traditionalists, every effort
was a giant drop in the ocean. But the damage was done. The young were no
longer interested, they drifted off to the corporate world which had the stamp
of respectability where they were offered better wages and sustainable
livelihoods…
As he wove, Ponni
brought him hot pakodas. He refused to touch them as it would dirty the yarn.
She fed him one. “What are you weaving?” she asked. “A sari for my queen for
Deepavalli,” he said. He placed the mirror under the warp and a beautiful small
intricately woven border of deep pink and gold showed itself. “At least this
year I can afford it!” he said.
“Yes we will see better
times,” said Ponni, chuckling with the typical optimism that she was blessed
with, knowing that they would always be mired in the groove of a traditional
vocation as they knew no other skill. And once Muthu started earning, they
could retire and live in comfort……