To Kutch and Back

Alexander and I set off for Bhuj at 10 pm. We caught a rickshaw to nearby Paldi Crossroads, where dozens of buses begin their journey to different regions of India. After waiting nearly an hour, a tourist agent instructed his ten-year-old boy to lead us to our vehicle. We were the last to board.

Weeks prior, when we purchased our tickets for a double sleeper in a luxury vehicle, I naively assumed that our journey would be relatively comfortable. I was sincerely surprised to discover that a "double sleeper" is in fact a tiny, claustrophophic compartment attached to the ceiling of a regular bus. A flimsy metal lattice provides the only way up. As is the case in most buses here, a tiny television (with no “off” switch) broadcasted loud Hindi movies throughout the night. We swallowed some sleeping pills and waited to be lulled to sleep by the bumpy ride.

At four a.m. we arrived weary and disoriented. We hailed a rickshaw and made our way through the dusty streets. Even in the dark it was clear that Bhuj was no metropolitan city. The unmarked bus station, deserted streets and heavy quiet were all signs of a smaller town.

Our first day exploring the region of Kutch was wildly successful. In the morning we called Jabbar, a master artisan who specializes in the traditional Gujarati technique of tie-and-dye. He was extremely responsive to our questions over the phone and moments later showed up at our hotel on his motorcycle. Alexander and I hopped on and were escorted back to his family home where we drank black chai and talked about his craft.

We discussed changes in consumer demand, the differences between the American, European and Indian textile markets, and how he imagined his industry changing in the future. To illustrate his words he pulled out a diverse selection of his best silk shawls, which ranged from traditional red and black designs to modern, multi-colored floral patterns. He spoke about the different methods that made his technique so respected, as well as the ways he has been able to maximize production while remaining a creative overseer. The more we talked, the more varied his job description seemed. The titles of businessman, creative director, market researcher, professional teacher, student and artisan proved equally fitting.

Following our informal interview, he showed us his dyeing headquarters in the back of his brother's home. Large copper pots boiled with natural dyes. "This is turmeric and pomegranate skin," he said, pointing to an alluring shade of lavender gray. "And this is iron-ore and berries.”

We watched as a dyer took two pieces of white material, each with countless tiny knots sectioning off almost invisible points of fabric. "It takes one part-time working woman one or two months to complete the ties on this shawl," he said, pointing to a single piece. The dyer submerged the blank cloth into the liquid color. Moments later it emerged a brilliant ochre. "This will sell well in the States," Jabbar said. "Americans like natural, duller tones."

Our second stop of the day was at a family-run shop dealing in antique textiles. We spent more than two hours talking to the shop's owner about how local crafts have changed in the last century. He showed us exquisite embroideries, most of which dated back one hundred years. We discussed the development of textile NGOs in the area, as well as his fears for the future of Indian crafts. “What happens when the NGO leaves?” he asked, rhetorically. “When you teach people to make products marketable for foreigners, they forget their traditional techniques.”

The remaining four days we spent in Bhuj were memorable for all the wrong reasons. Alexander fell extremely ill and, after twenty-four hours of no improvement, we were forced to call a local doctor. I watched horrified as he received an injection and was hooked up to an I.V. (which they hung from our florescent light!). It took days for him to fully recover and we were forced to delay our return home to Ahmedabad. Thankfully, he has not been sick since.