Nine Yards of Magnificence and Hardship

It’s a little after 4 PM in the evening when Suguna finally gets off the therai (loom) to make some tea for her husband. In a few more minutes, her children will return home from school and chaos will ensue. “I try and finish as much as I can before they come home. At 5 PM they will go to tuitions and I will again get some exact two hours to sit and work on this saree today, before going back to cook dinner at 7 PM.”  

Suguna.

Her husband, Prakash pops inside to see who has come to their house. As if the sight of a girl with a pen, notepad and a backpack is common at their house, he greets me with a warm “Vanakkam . . . Petti aah?” Are you here to interview us? 

“Sister has come from Delhi.” Suguna informs him as we move out to the Veranda.

Suguna comes from a family of weavers- “My earliest memory is of watching my naina weave a pattu Vetti. In those days we would not be allowed to play or watch TV. I never went to school because weaving is our family legacy and doing or knowing anything outside it was unimaginable in those days.” There is a beautiful blue saree spread out on the therai and she catches me looking at it. “I will finish it by tomorrow. Usually, we finish a saree in a day or two. But since it was Diwali and all these festivals came, so I lagged behind a little.”

“This is a simple silk saree without much zari work.” Prakash tells me. “When we get orders for heavy work and intricate designs, it takes at least ten to fifteen days to complete a Kanchipuram pattu podavai (Silk saree). For that we will get paid more, about four to five thousand per piece. The simpler the design, the lesser money we get.” I ask him if there is a minimum wage which is fixed by the government- “For those of us who work under Silk cooperatives in Kanchipuram, there is a fixed rate for every design. In a month we produce at least 10-15 sarees, but if I miss even a day of work, then it’s a loss of money.”

For a town that is known for its rich cultural heritage, beautiful temples and the production of Kanchi Silk, Kanchipuram and its market is extremely unremarkable at first glance. At least until you travel about five to ten kilometres out of town and catch sight of the Nesavalar (weaver) colonies.

Silk threads spread outside one of the houses to dry. Once dry, the number of threads will be counted before the saree is woven. 

The political affiliation of weavers in Kanchipuram is glaringly evident from the two leaves painted at the entrance of most houses- the AIADMK symbol. In the main market, called Gandhi Road, one can see cooperative societies housed one next to the other. Created in order to protect the weavers from private entities and industrial production of sarees, these cooperatives each employ the nesavalars; in the outskirts of the main town, one can see various colonies, housing members and weavers of respective societies.

Suguna and her husband work for Arignar Anna Silk Cooperative Society which was started in 1971. “The cooperatives are the reason why we are still surviving. Some days when the design goes wrong and a thread is missed, an entire saree gets wasted. Then our three-day labour is gone. I have begun to cook at weddings to manage our household nowadays.”

Unlike Prakash, Suguna appears to have a more positive outlook towards her profession – “In our community, a weaver is married off to a weaver only. What will I or he do with an educated partner, when weaving a saree requires at least two people? I was married off to him as a companion, not just for life but for work as well. But he is no more interested in this work.” 

I tell her how my family had brought several silk sarees for a family wedding, which were sold to us as Kanchi silk but no one ever knows how it is truly made. “He thinks our handwork has no value anymore. Like you just said, who will know whether the saree was hand-woven for days or machine produced within hours? My husband has lost hope in this profession. He laments not knowing any other skill.” As for her, she is extremely happy with life as it is. “I don’t regret my work. Some woman somewhere, perhaps even a bride will be wearing my creation. It fills me with pride.”

The therai inside Suguna's home. Kanchi pattu Saree in the making.

The president of Anna silk society, Mr Dayalan Chettian takes me through the dying area inside their office. Unlike Suguna, who is a small time weaver working under them, Chettian comes from the family of Mudaliyars (cotton weavers). In a very matter of fact manner, he tells me “all industries have a downfall at some point. The price of gold has gone up by so much and yet the kanchi silk and its weavers have had no improvement in their lives.”

Kanchipuram may be the centre of silk woven sarees, but most of the raw material is outsourced here. Chettian tells me how “Kanchipuram is only for weaving. We get the raw material from Hosur, Dharmapuri and Bangalore. Mulberry silkworm is cultivated and produced there. The Tamil Nadu Co-operative Silk Producers Federation (TANSILK) purchases it and from there we buy the silk threads in Kilo measures.”  

On Left: Silk purchased from TANSILK

On Right: Twisted silk post dyeing

The bundle of silk procured from TANSILK is raw and rough to touch before it is given to the dyers. The twisted silk (ready silk) is “dyed according to market preferences; for example, this was a month of festivals so we mostly made pink and red sarees.” Chettiar points at racks of red and pink silk left to dry outside.

After procuring silk, the bundles are given for dyeing. Dyeing is also a highly regulated process in Cooperative societies. The stained water is treated and filtered inside the factory premises before it is let out according to Chettiar. "Since we are highly popular, the government keeps a check on our activities in order to set an example through us. Inspections are regular at our dying areas, that is why water treatment machines are installed despite their exorbitant cost."

Silk being dyed inside Murugan Cooperative Society office.

However, the process isn’t over yet. The golden Zari is separately produced in Surat. In original Kanchi sarees “zari was always made of silver thread coated in pure gold. Heavier the saree more means more the gold.” Chettiar tells me.

At present, Surat is the largest producer of golden border zari. However, since the production in Surat is privatised, the government once again steps in to provide assistance. “The zari is naturally expensive and when you leave it on Private hands the costs are usually sky high. That is why we have the Tamil Nadu Zari Ltd. right here in Kanchipuram.” 

A government of Tamil Nadu undertaking, it was established in 1971 “to provide protection to the silk handloom weavers’ cooperative societies in the State engaged in the weaving of silk by making available the required quality of zari at the reasonable rates to save them from stiff competitions of the monopoly of the zari merchants in and outside of the State.” (TNZL, official site)

Each cooperative has the rule book. At the Kanchipuram Murugan Silk Handloom Weavers Society, I catch sight of the colour book. It is impressive how detailed the coolie (waged labour) is. The government, in order to protect the weavers from exploitation, had laid down the exact wage for the designs being commissioned. But this rate has barely changed in the past two decades, laments Raja.

Raja comes from a family of Sourashtras, a community of Gujarati silk weavers who had migrated to the Tamil country during the rule of Krishna Deva Raya of the Vijayanagar Empire in the 14^th century. Largely concentrated in Madurai, some of them are scattered across Tamil Nadu today due to demands of labour. Raja’s family is also a generation of weavers who were based in Coimbatore. “I don’t remember much as I grew up in Kanchipuram, but I have heard stories of my family legacy, of how they were patrons of the king once upon a time. Look at us now, how times have changed.”

I ask Raja if there is a difference in designing and making of a saree, based on each community. “No nothing like that. Who are we to design things; it is the mudalali (owner) who tells us what he wants.” He and Suguna’s husband Prakash share similar sentiments. “Back in the day, about ten to fifteen years back the cost of one gram silver was 10 rupees. Gold was about a thousand rupees per gram.”

“Now if you look at it logically, a pure Kanchi silk saree even then would have cost about forty to fifty thousand. And those were the days when not everyone could own a silk saree- it was a dream to even own few metres of silk with golden zari. Today, with inflation and the added cost of our coolie (wages) the silk saree costs no less than few lakh rupees. The simplest one will be worth at least fifteen thousand rupees.”

I quickly interrupt him to point out how even today silk sarees are the main attraction at all events and festivals in our culture. “Yes they are, but let me ask you, how many times have you gone to purchase a silk saree and checked if they were machine made or hand woven; if the Zari was truly gold or synthetic? When these retail shopkeepers throw so many colourful sarees in front of you, one forgets what is original and what is not. You won’t know the difference. They will throw 10 sarees in front of you, and confuse you.”

The Ministry of Textile had listed 22 varieties of designs solely under the monopoly of weavers, in order to keep their work in demand. However, in 1991, 22 designs were reduced to 11 and the remaining was shared with industrial manufacturers. At present, the nesavalar is left with only about five or six designs under his belt.

“A weaver takes fifteen days to produce minimum three sarees, but the machine takes one day to produce about five sarees. My labour is worth two thousand rupees; the man working at machines gets only three hundred rupees. Now you tell me if given a choice, what mode of production will you choose for good profits?”

The cooperatives societies are also mostly community specific according to him. “I am sure you must have heard about and even seen the massive Nalli showroom on your way here. Like your Sharma’s and Sastri’s in the north, a Nalli is the name of a community of weavers. Like a trademark, anybody belonging to their community attaches Nalli in front of their name. Nalli Chinnasami Chettiar was a small time weaver from here only. He mobilised his community people, made sarees and sold them individually; now look at them, there is not a single person in the weaving community who does not envy the Nalli people. Nalli is what it is today because of their strong community and camaraderie between them.”

I ask Raja why he won't sell saree's on his own like Nalli Chettiyar did. "Because times are different now. If Sir, (he points at Dayalan Chettiar) is able to sell a saree for thousand rupees to the retailer, I will not be able to get more than five hundred rupees. In fact, I will only get money if I sell it through mudhalali sir. That itself should tell you the value of us weavers today."

While they feel helpless about their current situation, there is still hope for their children. “I want my daughter to become a teacher. Let this life of hardship end with us.” Suguna tells us. My aunt strongly objects to it “But what about our culture? Please teach your children this wonderful art, namma kalacharam (the essence of our tradition).”

“And who will save them from this penury?” Mr Chettiar points to the small shacks clustered around one another. “Unlike their parents, the children should know they have a choice . . . a better future.”

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My phone alerts me to the approaching Gaja cyclone in Pondicherry as the bus nears Thidivanam. I have one more bus to change before reaching home. My aunt nudges me “what a strange situation this is; everyone goes to Kanchipuram before the wedding and here we are doing the opposite.”

I have spent a large part of my life watching so many women drape the nine-yard wonder that is the Kanchipuram saree, and I have seen it passed on from one generation to the next as inheritance exclusively among women. Suguna's story is just one amongst the many, the worn and forgotten hands of the nesavalar, whose life in its entirety revolves around the white and golden threads of silk.  

A memory that will always stay with me is of watching Suguna take out one skirt after the other, all in colourful hues. “I can never weave a saree for myself. I don’t think any weaver can weave for himself. It just does not feel right. But for my daughter, I have made many, many things.”

“Do you make them from leftover threads?” I ask her.

“No, no. There is no such thing as leftovers. Every single thread of silk is counted and aligned in a saree. I save money every few months and ask mudalali (owner) to give me whatever comes off it. That is why they are all colourful. I just stitch whatever colour I get.”

“If you stay here a few more days, we will weave you a saree as well. Take it as a token of gift from namma ooru (our town) Kanchipuram” she offers. “Yellow is your colour, I can already tell.”