Adventures, Continued

Despite our efforts to aggregate the basic necessities, Alexander and I have made time for some magical excursions.

On September 11th we visited the famous Calico Museum of Textiles. A stern woman wielding a stick gave us a three-hour regimented tour of the many extensive collections (the museum is only accessible through daily tours). “You. Come now! Through door. Watch your head,” she demanded. Alexander and I struggled to take notes and absorb the beauty of the fading pieces. One of my favorite artifacts was a curtain made for the 16th century Portuguese market. Although it appeared at first to be a simple white hanging, a light was turned on to reveal an intricate design– all sewn with thin white thread. The picture showed a story of dozens of hunters running through the jungle, shooting arrows at a group of elusive tigers. “When the sun shines through, the picture appears,” our tour guide explained.

The following day we were advised to stay within the campus of NID due to Hindu fundamentalist protests. Alexander and I took refuge in the air-conditioned library. He researched leheria turban design, mata ni pachedi, and mashru fabric patterns in an attempt to narrow his research project while I read The Social Life of Things. That night we caught a lecture on Iranian cinema and a screening of Kiarostami's Taste of Cherry. Incredible.

The 14th was one of the best days to date. In the morning we made a visit to a tailor who had been recommended to us by several NID professors. The rickshaw dropped us off at the tiny shop, located on a quiet dirt alley away from the main road. The tailor and his son welcomed us inside and showed us countless sketches, photographs and articles of clothing that they had designed. The tailor told us about the many famous clients he had dressed over the years, showing us pictures and notes written from appreciative customers abroad. Alexander requested some lightweight pants (all he has right now are heavy jeans) and a thin cotton button-up shirt. After we settled on the design, the tailor’s son took us to a khadi shop to pick out material. We traveled by a motorcycle attached to a small, rusty sidecar. Alexander rode behind the tailor’s son as I sat sweating with fear in the sidecar.

At first the material selection at the khadi shop appeared bleak. Bolts of muted grays and blues were stacked on top of checkered tans and textured whites. As we approached the counter, however, a khadi salesman began retrieving colorful bolts of fabric from the surrounding cupboards. Alexander selected a dark indigo and a warm gray stitched with a delicate red and yellow plaid. Meanwhile, I fell in love with a brilliant piece of woven ikat with a repeating design of purple, scarlet, gold, orange and green stripes, and spontaneously bought enough to make a dress.

After delivering our khadi purchases to the tailor, Alexander and I set off for Honeycomb International. Tucked away in the bottom of a hotel, Honeycomb sells antique textiles from all over India. We met the owner, Nazeer, and his son. They showed us a collection of hand-dyed turbans, many of which were nearly a century old. Before we left, Nazeer invited us to return with a camera to document some of his amazing artifacts.

Our last stop of the day was a small, nameless handloom shop hidden deep in the residential district of the Old City. Specializing in antique products from Kutch, the tiny store was stacked with intricately woven designs. We took an hour to examine various crafts as the relaxed salesmen let us touch and scrutinize every piece. At the very end of our visit, one of the men brought out a large plastic bag filled with turbans. Although they were all beautiful, there was one in particular that stood out. It had a tie-and-dye leheria pattern in pink, yellow, lavender and dark blue, and, despite its age of eighty years, looked in near perfect condition. It stretched nearly twenty feet when completely unraveled. Without hesitation, we happily purchased it for twelve dollars.