My grandmother began this house in the November of 1947 — three months after the country was given to itself. She kept twelve sarees in a teak cupboard, signed by twelve weavers from twelve villages. She believed, and I believe, that a saree is not a purchase. It is a relationship — between a woman, a weaver, a loom, and the long memory of a region.
Three generations on, the cupboard has grown. The weavers have aged; their daughters have replaced them on some looms. The mulberry has thinned in some villages, thickened in others. But the contract remains. We will not buy from a powerloom. We will not anonymise a weaver. We will not weave faster than the cloth wants to fall.
If you are reading this for the first time, welcome to the cupboard. If you have been wearing our sarees for years, thank you for letting us be the house your daughter learned to drape from.
— Sharmistha