TO AN UNOBSERVANT onlooker, the act of weaving may seem mechanical: the rhythmic swooshing, clacking and swishing of the wooden loom, the cadence of the shuttle against the gossamer threads, the whirring of the spindle, and the perfunctory movement of a silent weaver (sometimes with a quiet helper at his side) with a stylus in a dusty workshop. To a textile connoisseur, however, this mundane sight metamorphoses into hymns, ancient chants and folk tales, echoes of wars, invasions and migrations, and tells of a community’s art, religion and music. The theatre of life itself is woven into a fabric. Kabir, one of the greatest mystic weaver-poets, compared weaving to the sacred act of creation. He wrote,
‘I have run mere cotton threads for the warp and weft.
But how did…
