LESS IS MORE

Sometime in life you have to downsize.  If you have been a “collector” all your life it is indeed painful.  Every object bespeaks memories, at least for me. I have never been able to splurge on artefacts, as  I do believe that whatever you possess need not necessarily be expensive. A piece of craft exquisitively fashioned, moderately priced can bring the same amount of appreciation as any of the Lladro porcelain curios.

 I would rather spend on the home than adornments for myself. Spend on  curtains, cushions, table linen etc, the whole family enjoys it, as well as visitors to your home. When you buy expensive saris and jewellery, it is for yourself..If you surround yourself with objects that are beautiful to look at, it gives you unmitigated pleasure…right from the plates you use, the cutlery, the simple things like the salt and pepper cellar, your table napkins, durries, the list is endless.  When these items are priced less,  they are easier to throw away when they have outlived their looks and usefulness.

A good time to downsize, is when the children get married and leave home. It doesn’t mean you leave the home bare and devoid of any décor.  Just begin by bequeathing stuff you don’t use. The pain is less when you have children who would love to have things that you have enjoyed. They have sentimental value, and it gives you pleasure to see them installed in your childrens’ homes. Alas they don’t make the children like that any more.

Today’s gen have defined tastes their own, diametrically opposite to yours. There’s no marrying the old and the new, as we have done. For them, an ornately carved chair, or a divan with exquisitely engraved tiles don’t hold them in thrall.  If they are “antique” pieces passed on from your parents, they would, in a moment of weakness probably condescend to accept a couple of pieces not before breaking their heads as to where these would find a place in their modern homes. Their contemporary tastes would allow huge leather upholstered sofas, pristine white curios,  modern paintings which you don’t understand even if you pretend to…finally you reluctantly agree that your pieces of furniture and bric-a-brac would look incongruous in their homes. Sigh!

One strategy worked for me when we left our bunglalow to have it “reduced” to apartments. We labelled a large cardboard carton, “Throw”.  The second one was labelled “Consider”, and the third, “ Keep”.  The third carton got filled in no time, the second took next place and the first hardly rose to half.  Once I emptied the “Throw” carton, it gave me such a sense of liberation, that I delved into the “Consider” carton, and removed many items I had absolutely no use for. An old vermicelli press, antiquated coffee filters from various countries, umpteen gadgets, old pressure cooker parts, had no room in my smaller apartment.

The buzz word is “merciless” don’t give the discards a second dekho, otherwise you get swamped in nostalgia and regret. I can never throw away an old piece of textile, however tattered.  I have never spent money on rare saris, they happened to be very affordable when I bought them, and to me they are priceless, because I reinvent the designs, pass them on to my weavers and acquaint them with the colours they would otherwise never be familiar with. And as for wearable saris I face an impasse!

My children will not wear my  saris, not that they dislike them, but because their “occasions” do not warrant being wrapped in traditional wear. Wearing salwar kameez, palazzo pants,  or any kind of western wear, is admittedly so convenient, though I have been crying myself hoarse urging the younger ones to wear saris. Anyway I have made a firm resolve that any of my traditional saris that the girls in the family do not want, will go to a textile museum.

And the photographs, hundreds of them lie sepia coloured with age. Digitalise them  even if you can’t do it yourself, put them on DVDs and just dump the rest. It is heartbreaking to fling memories away, but you have to get on with it.

My husband decided to dump a large cardboard carton in the guest room much against my will. Anything unused would find its way into the carton. In no time it was full…would you believe it a junk man was called in and he gave us a thousand bucks for what I thought was rubbish! And this was three years ago. The money came in handy towards charities I support.

Every time you clean a cupboard, you discover junk to discard.  I have been inspired by my friend Sita a practical woman if there was ever one.  She lived alone, and when she reached the stage when she wanted to be cared for, and not bother about the household and cooking and servants, she set about executing her meticulous plan. Apart from the bare necessities, she threw away just about every item that she was not going to use hereafter. The “items” found their way into friends’ homes, the ones who loved to hoard these useful items for a later date. Ice cream churners, juicers, Rukmini cookers, whatever, and Sita achieved her goal of clearing her home. Moving became much easier.

And today we have Quik-r to dispose of stuff, but not before you photograph them, upload the pics on to their site and state the price you want for them. I decided to travel  the new route and placed my well maintained though old microwave oven up for sale. No success as I had probably quoted too high a price. It was so simple just giving it away to my kitchen help who is so interested in cooking and related gadgets. The joy on her face was enough compensation!

My modest library boasts of books on craft, textiles, food, travel, plays, computers etc etc. I generously offered my cookbooks to a young lady in the family who let out a polite no no. “When I can just type in what I need into the net, and get the most fabulous recipes what do I need cookbooks for?”  I asked myself why we cookbook authors bother to write. I am the biggest perpetrator of the collector- of- books crime.

My husband’s collection is relatively modest by comparison. He has an amazing collection of nuts, bolts, spanners, screw drivers, little nails, big nails, hammers of varying sizes and garden equipment, some of which will find their way into the bedroom…A handyman, who fixes so many things in the home, he will rarely go to  a hardware shop to buy the odd assortment of things.

I do hope this article tickles your conscience for throwing away rubbish, for that is what they become when they no longer have the same value that they did years ago. So get someone to empty your loft one by one, and enjoy the feeling of liberation when you reduce your wants as for most of us, less is more… 

Andal

Andal was a sensuous woman, who lived 100 years ago. She symbolised the era of the saree, when you start wearing it very early and learn to accept it as if it was your skin. She wore sarees from the age of 7 and she learnt to do everything in it, including playing hopscotch, climbing trees, and skipping. When she reached puberty, she looked at the mirror more often and liked what she saw. She applied kohl made at home on those almond shaped eyes and placed a big pottu on her forehead. She strung the jasmine which grew in her garden and adorned her hair with it. She wore the saree with grace, and since it was woven short she could show off her pretty anklets. Her blouse was made from the thin printed calico that was in vogue those days. She matched it with the colours from the saree which had yarn dyed in natural colours when the alchemy of synthetic dyes hadn’t stormed the bastion of dye workshops.
Her mother, aunts and grandmother only wore pattu sarees woven in simple designs, with motifs of hamsas, rudrakshams and vel darri. Often they were korvai sarees with solid contrast borders and pallus. The sarees were washed immediately after they were worn for a full day. They had lines strung in the back yard, and the pattu sarees were washed with punga kottai, which was a kind of soap nut, soaked in water and lather coaxed by hand. The soap nut was kind to the sarees and gave them a becoming sheen. With every wash, the saree became soft and clinging and felt so good next to the skin. The saris were dried without too much of wringing, and hung with the borders facing downwards, and if there was space, singly in a horizontal manner. Andal would smooth out the wrinkles while the saree was still wet so that when you took it out, it looked well laundered.
And when cotton sarees were washed, they were immersed in rice conjee diluted, and placed in a bucket, and strung singly on the line so that the saree did not stick to the next layer. The saree had to be very lightly starched, if at all. All sarees were dried in the shade, and carefully folded and placed under the pillow or under the mattress if you slept on one.
Andal like all young women liked to think of herself as progressive. She would keep smoothing the crinkles that were invariably present. She decided one day to use a brass pot with hot water and apply it to the saree and lo and behold it looked so wondrous and perfectly smooth. When she wore sarees people whispered behind her back that she knew some magic to make her sarees so exquisitely smooth. No one dared to ask Andal, but an urchin who looked through her bedroom window one afternoon, watched her iron her sarees painstakingly, wearing out all the wrinkles as she pressed. Of course it went round the village, and most women looked smug as they sported nicely ironed sarees.
The grand sarees worn for weddings were preserved differently. Andal’s mother used to wrap each saree in a soft mulmul waishti. She placed dried neem leaves in the folds of the waishti to ward off insects. Andal’s Ammamma a wise old lady told her never to keep a silk saree unwashed however expensive. She explained to Andal that the perspiration ruined a saree, and the starch with the weavers spread on the yarn, eventually would eat away the saree. And sarees should always be dried in the shade.
Andal passed on the wisdom of caring for sarees to her children and grandchildren. She told them that she would sneak some jasmine into the folds of the saree, so that the smell lingered for months. Of course you had to make sure that the jasmine did not let out any liquid and spoil the silk.
She taught her grandchildren as they grew up that the saree is the most graceful garment in the world, and no other new fangled fashion could ever replace the saree, a rich gift from the Gods themselves. Those children whose mothers and grandmothers told them these stories are all saree wearers and many of them are members of the Kai Thari group today.
Andal is a fictitious character, but everything written about her is true and taken from life. Sarees should be stacked and not hung, though we are all guilty of doing that. Sarees not worn for sometime should be taken out and aired otherwise they split at the folds.
Image courtesy Internet

OHH MIGOD!

If you look carefully round my home you will find maybe a hundred Ganeshas, in different mediums..he might be hidden under a leaf, behind a lamp, on the puja shelf, on my office desk, a doodle on my sketch pad, wherever. He is my ishta deivam,  my favourite among the pantheon of gods. Everything about him is lovable, his pot belly girded with a snake, the elephant head, with his flapping ears, the broken tusk….but the only thing which gives me a little shiver is his inseparable vahanam the mouse.

He is venerated  by most of us every year about this time, and we make his favourite kozhakattais and sundal in the south, the modaks in the north. Why then… (we have asked ourselves this question hundreds of times) do we buy a new Ganapathi only to sink him into the water? There is a touch of sadness, and we have asked seers and pundits who have not given us the right answer. There is only one explanation, according to me. Dust unto dust, a symbol of accepting the path we will all follow. But then, it is not the end, Ganapathi rises like the phoenix out of the ashes he was consigned to year after year when we rejoice and welcome him into our homes once again.

I have decided not to go through this practice. Every year my terracotta puliyar gifted by cousin Ganga sits decorated with flowers and jewelry and as tenderly he is placed back. What I do however, is fashion a stylised form of Ganesh in turmeric bearing a vermillion dot, which is discarded after the puja is over.

Every year I make kozhakattais, sundal, vadai, payasam, promising myself that next year I would do away with rituals knowing that Lord Ganesha will always bless me for my fervour and love for him even if I just pray to him with fruit and flowers. I know he will continue to remove obstacles from my path.  Then Ganesh Chaturti approaches, I see the twinkle in his eyes, and I fall for it, and I am perspiring over making the goodies for him….Will we Indians ever change!!!???

HANGING BY A THREAD

If Manu the ancient lawgiver could have forseen the effect of devising a mangalsutra as a symbol of wedded bliss, he might have revised his prescription. It is to his credit that the custom has sustained through 15 centuries according to ancient manuscripts which proclaim the origin to 6^th Century A.D. In Sanksrit, mangala means “holy or auspicious” and sutra is thread.

India being a land of diversity there are are various mangalsutras.   The Lakshmi thali worn by the Telegus, the Ela Thali by the Malayalis, the kumbha thali worn by the Tamil Kshatriyas, the  diamond pendant on black beads by some North Indians, and the Maharashtrians, wear a pendant of two vati ornaments. Originally in South India only the yellow thread was worn, but given up due to impracticality and fashion trends in the chain designs.

Adi Sankara in his Soundarya Laheri  emphasised on the significance of the mangal sutra  presumably worn for the long life of the husband. Hindu women led by religious custom and social expectations would never remove the thali, even on dressy occasions when other heavy necklets were worn. Of course the other symbols of a married woman, a sumangali were the toe rings, the kumkum or bindi, and glass bangles.

The woman was shorn of all these symbols when her husband died. In the old days it was this  custom which branded a woman a widow, so no man went near her, and devoid  of these beautiful adornments she looked “less attractive”, to men who would otherwise give an unattached woman the glad eye. In some communities the head of the widow is shaved and she wears widows weeds  which loudly proclaim her status. White in India is also associated with widowhood, all of these cruel customs which need to be dispensed with.

Feminists today question the significance of the mangalsutra, and, recently spotlighted in the news was “unequal power play” between the married couple, describing the thali round the woman’s neck as merely shackles, and controlled by a man who “owned” her.  We all recall the big hooha that went on followed by debates, in the media which is quick to grab unusual stories.  Some women went to the extent of removing the thali and throwing it off in the presence of a smiling husband, and it was certainly a show of emancipation and that too in conservative South Indian society.

Society is indeed dynamic and cultural traditions were cast for certain reasons which were valid for that period of time.  One needs to bow down to the wheels of change, to a very modern society which does not recognise the need for all these symbols. Why then do we go through the rituals of marriage? Is it a drama, a spectacle endured for the benefit of a large audience?  Why stretch it to five days, including traditions which might not be really ours like mehndhi, sangeeth and so on? 

For some of us, the thali is a comfort jewel, when we as young brides  valued and honoured it.  It becomes so much a part of daily dressing that, the occasional absence when it needs to be redone, or during hospital stays, one feels lost and deprived. Not so the next gen I thought, so it surprised us no end when our Bengali daughter-in-law, so thali driven wears it all the time!! To me, it is a security symbol, and I am so conditioned to it, that bereft of this chain, I don’t feel fully dressed.

A  symbol of marriage be it a wedding ring, or a chain, or just the yellow thread, does seem important at the time of the wedding ceremony, and there are only a handful of women and men who would sign at the registrars office without a sentimental symbol of being married, irrespective of religion. caste or creed.

I have to share this about an aunt in her younger days, who would hang her thali over a peg on the coatstand every night before she went to bed, wearing it only after her bath in the morning. She did this surreptiously, covering the chain with a towel, knowing it would incite a great deal of criticism from elders in the household, not to mention having to face the horror writ large on the face of the maids! One fine day, thanks to a memory lapse she forgot to wear it.  As she was stirring her curry, she remembered, and reached the coatstand in a flash only to find  the thali  gone.

Unable to publicise her loss she went about in asking her children and her husband in whispers whether they had seen the four sovereigns thali . The immediate family was amused, as they watched her pull out the drawers in a frenzy and diving into the clothes cupboard in a futile hunt.  Aunty dare not ask the maids, knowing she would be reprimanded , and she was nervous to incur the wrath of her in-laws. Happily, her husband produced the chain, which he had safely put away, and couldn’t resist lecturing her on carelessness. On his part he couldn’t care a whit whether she wore it or not.

68 years of Independence and are our women independent or not and are they hung up on age old customs or is it plain conditioning? Would you rather not wear a thali or is it part of your skin? These are questions I would love to hear the answers to!!

RIGHT PLACE AT THE  RIGHT TIME

I am allergic to ants… red ants. Just looking at the little troopers travelling army like, gives me goose bumps! No joking… if I am bitten and no action is taken, I will have to be carried out on a stretcher. I’ve realised quite late in life that you can develop allergies that you never had before. One sunny, beautiful day in Bangalore we were standing outside my cousin’s place in Indira Nagar, waiting for her to answer the doorbell and a sea of ants lying comfortably under granite slabs wedged between grass patches decided to converge on an unsuspecting victim.  By the time we went inside I had broken into hives and could hardly breathe. A terrified cousin pushed me into the car and on to the first hospital she spied. A  quiet unoccupied place with no activity. As they helped me in, the doctor happened to walk in to pick up his bag which he had forgotten when he left for lunch. He took one look at me, wheeled me into Emergency, and gave me a Betnasol shot or was it Avil? I had to be given oxygen and after a couple of hours we left.

I was in the right place at the right time. My cousin fortunately knew driving. She had no clue about any hospital in the area, but drove there by instinct.  The doctor luckily for me forgot his bag. Otherwise I wouldn’t have been alive to tell you this story  as I was heading for anaphylactic shock.  He told me how to cope with it, carry a vial of injection, in my handbag, keep anti allergic pills at all times, carry a repellent and above all not to scratch, for that releases more histamine.  Soon after it happened, I remember how I used to spray my feet liberally with  “Off” whenever we sat on the lawns of the Club. Though I still carry my my emergency pouch I am not paranoid as I was and have learnt to cope, and recognise the symptoms.

As far as doctors are concerned, select one whom you feel are comfortable with, and one you can talk to, not necessarily the one at the top of the profession. With due respect to them,  they might not be persons who are on the same plane as you. Some of us tend to be so overawed that we neither take cognisance of what the good doctor is saying, nor forget to ask whatever you thought of asking. You come home feeling pretty foolish and at the same time hesitate to call the doctor for clarification.

On one occasion just before an international holiday, a lady in the family, went in for a casual check up as was usual with her.  The doctor, a leading cardiologist made the perfunctionary examination, and intuitively good at diagnosis,  advised her to cancel her holiday. After investigations she had a pacemaker fitted in place of the much planned holiday with the family.  It was a life saving visit to the doctor and his insight.

Another young man well known to us, was forced by his family to go for a check up which he avoided like the plague, being a high flying executive with “no time”. While he waited for the concerned technicians he suddenly decided to go in for an executive check up, which had an extra test which was PSA, generally not necessary for men younger than 50. To his utter shock the levels were very high and he needed surgery immediately. Again by the grace of God he  is completely well and leads an active life.

To be at the right place at the right time,  we would be greatly blessed if we have a doctor who has good handwriting. At one point or the other we have come home to read unintelligible squiggles which form part of the prescription. While it is all explained to us, and we nod our heads knowledgeably in the consulting room, our minds draw a blank once we are out it, and we gaze at the doctors writing in trepidation. Learn to make little notes while you are there, even if you are laughed at! Some hospitals have the protocol of typing out the prescriptions before we leave but often enough their interpretations of the writing have gone awry, and this has to be pointed out.  You cannot be too careful, and while the doctors have the best of intentions, remember how busy they are, and you need to participate and ask the questions, nothing in life is ever handed out on  a platter.

While most of us are so critical of doctors, I often wonder if we realise the pressures of their daily lives especially the surgeons. No wonder then that some of the surgeons outside of India, organise music in the operating theatres. The tradition of playing music during medical procedures goes way back to ancient times, when the Greeks regarded Apollo as the God of healing and music.

Apart from calming frayed nerves of the operating team,  music had a way of distracting the patient from the dread of the situation. To quote music therapist Melanie Kwan of the Association for Music Therapy, Singapore, who addressed  the American Psychological Association, "When their acute pain symptoms were relieved, patients were finally able to rest." It is believed that “active music engagement allowed the patients to reconnect with the healthy parts of themselves, even in the face of a debilitating condition or disease-related suffering."

When driving with the music system is on is considered a distraction, I wonder if the surgeons operating to music do not feel like swaying to the music, rather than give 100% to their work which requires so much of intense concentration….but on the contrary I believe it eases their tensions making them operate better.    I remember reading a newspaper report on surgeons operating with music in India, but we have to check that one out. If the patient is given options where you fill up a form and one line asks, “choice of music during surgery”  I would opt for Beethoven, Mozart or classical flute by Shashank rather than a Martin Garrix or new age composers, or even Elvis from our generation!!

THE #100 SAREE PACT

Something’s abuzz in the city. the #100 sari pact. People are talking about it, yes both men and women. What is this sari pact? Does it have political overtones?  I thought I would demystify this phenomena !  The pact to craft activists like me is like  manna from heaven.  I have intensely regretted the fact that the sari is veering towards oblivion, regardless of the fact that the saree shops enjoy peaking sales during festivals and marriage seasons. I have been using any platform that I get to shout myself hoarse that the younger set should wear saris at least once in a way.

No one wants to wear saris anymore. Not just the next gen, but ammas and pattis. Inconvenient, they say to wear at home. Who wants to wear the flapping 6 yards with the inner trappings of an underskirt and a well fitted blouse?  So comfy to slip into that loose caftan, often termed nightie, or get into a beautiful salwar kameez. No worry about maintenance, starching and ironing if you happen to be a rigid cotton person like me…. I too am guilty of falling into the same trap, opting for comfort at home. The difference is that whenever I go out, I make it a point to wear a sarees, as I am making a statement.

Take a look around and you will find that most  maids come dressed in salwar kameezes.  Take a walk in the morning, and you see young women emerging  from slums wearing frilly nighties, with a babies  perched on their hips, or pumping water into buckets with gusto,  the wetness seeping right above their hemlines! I have made it a rule though, that  no maid of mine will report to work in a “nightie” as none of us lounge in these.

The pact began when two friends, Anju Maudgal Kadam and Ally Mathan were discussing the need to wear saris to save it from extinction. A casual conversation which morphed into a movement.  They made a pact to wear sarees at least a 100 times before the end of the year 2015. It didn’t matter what saree it was, or if it was the same saree worn a multiple times. They influenced their friends in other cities to join the pact as only young people can. That was the birth of the #100 saree pact which went viral, even international! The media was quick to pick it up, and the #100 saree pact was reported in the print media, radio and television.

This apart, the founders have saree dates, where like minded women, (even if they are not the saree wearing kind) meet at coffee shops or restaurants, wearing sarees of course. I was invited to the saree date meeting at Amethyst, and it was, for me an eye opener to feel the enthusiasm of the group of 15 or more. Each narrated a saree story, and it didn’t matter what saree, as long as it was one. Saree dates were organised all over the country, as well as in the UK and US! Getting the youth to start wearing this fabulous unstitched garment was to me a big step in keeping our traditions alive. I prayed this might not be a flash in the pan kind of thing.

I grabbed the opportunity to push this pact a little more, to widen its concept. Why not make a pact to wear handlooms? At least  60 times out of the 100?  I talked about the way the weavers laboured to hand weave one saree, and afterwards to locate a market when tradition collapsed in favour of bling. The response was very encouraging, and I promised to send them historical notes and point them in the direction of  where such gorgeous saris could be acquired. And yes even deliver a little talk with a power point presentation to drive home the point!

When did the saree actually arrive? This is a nebulous area, and one can only base it on conjecture. It could date back several centuries, when an old statue of a priest was unearthed from the Indus Valley Civilization where he is wearing a garment draped like a saree. It could be that the dhothi which is the oldest known garment that was draped marked the beginning of the saree.

There was this primordial  belief among ancient Hindus that the unstitched garment indicated purity. In fact even needles going through the fabric was considered  inauspicious. The ancient sculptures of goddesses indicated a nivvi or the pallu as we know it today. It was tied at the waist, covered the legs and spread out fan like in front as a decorative drape.

Author Soha Parekh who wrote a book on the saree, shares a folk tale with a charming poetical observation…which suggests that the sari was born on the loom of the weaver, who dreamt of a beautiful woman, and as he wove, “he captured the shimmer of her tears, the drape of her tumbling hair, the colours of her many moods and the softness of her touch and her exquisite grace…” He kept on working on the loom till the saree evolved.

Our country has such diverse cultures be it textiles, food or sarees. Every state has its own speciality, and has a heritage stamp of its own.

One question I have often been asked is, will the sari go into the annals of history as an obsolete, once favoured national garment like the kimono? A few years back I couldn’t answer the question.

Today with the saree pact going round, more youngsters are not just joining the pact but are an integral part of it, interested in knowing the history, the varieties, and filled with determination to bring about a great revival of this wondrous garment. I can now say with impunity, the saree is here to stay.

And to stretch it further, why not have a handloom saree day at our Club on one of the festival celebrations? That would ensure that with everyone, young or old wearing a saree are part of the #100 saree pact!

The craft of Sanjhi

Have you ever tried folding a paper into a square, folding it again and snipping off the corners? Open it and you find  pretty patterns of holes throughout the paper.

Sanjhi craft is somewhat like this, except stencils are used to make definite designs on paper and the cutting is done with special scissors. Primarily these stencils were made to draw rangoli patterns on the floor. They  are placed on flat surfaces, or water, where the rangoli has to be drawn. Dry colors are then sifted onto the surface. Placing the colours evenly over  the stencils is a work of art and lifting the stencil off the surface also requires skill. Peacocks, bullock carts, horses, cows, butterflies and trees are some of the common motifs used. The intricate craftsmanship reflects the artist’s devotion and the intimate love for Lord Krishna. An elaborate Sanjhi design could take anywhere between an hour and a month to produce.

 Primarily the art of sanjhi making whether it is a folk or temple tradition are directed towards worship. Goddess Sanjhi is venerated, and prayer offered to her. It is a labour of love, when after the worship, one sanjhi is effaced and another one created. The term Sanjhi is derived from the Hindi word sandhya, the period of dusk with which the art form is typically associated.  It was Radhe, who it is said, made  Sanjhi rangolis using natural colors, to impress Krishna. Sanjhi has been popular ever since, and during the Mughal period, contemporary themes were introduced for greater perspective.

Sanjhi making is prominent in Vrindavan in Uttar Pradesh, both in homes and the temples, and the designs related to Sri Krishna’s life. The peak period is in September and October when pilgrims flock from all over India, to particular sites, of the Krishna Temples, and the Sanjhi creations are placed in specific places in the temples. One traditional sanjhi at Goverdhan is the image of Sri Krishna lifting the mountain with his finger, and another of him playing with the gopikas. Once the rituals are over, the papers and material are thrown into the river.

The art of cutting paper using stencils, is also taken up by unmarried girls in the hope of getting a good husband, a temple tradition of the 17^th Century, and apart from being practised in Vrindavan it is also done in a single temple in Barsana, Radha’s village.

A languishing craft, it was revived by the Delhi Crafts Council, when the remaining few artistes were traced, and a newer set of people were trained in the craft. Sanjhi craft was shifted from the traditional to the contemporary mode, where it is converted into framed pictures, coasters, lampshades etc, so that a new market is thrown open.