Handspun and handwoven. Perhaps nowhere but in the Indian subcontinent do these two words mean so very much. All at once, they carry with them the history of an ancient tradition; the symbolism of our fight for freedom; as well as a futuristic vision for a localised, responsible economy. A recent exhibit at the Bangalore International Centre explored these themes through the medium of 108 sarees—each produced with hand-spun yarn sourced from across the country, and handwoven in Andhra Pradesh and West Bengal.

The sarees were first commissioned between 2000-01, for a series of exhibitions entitled Khadi—The Fabric of Freedom, conceived of by the late Martand Singh, and developed by textile experts Rahul Jain, Rta Kapur Chishti and Rakesh Thakore. The exhibit has lately been revived and refashioned by Mayank Mansingh Kaul, and Ahalya Matthan of The Registry of Sarees. Presented first in Chirala (Andhra Pradesh), it then moved to Lakshmi Mills in Coimbatore, and was even presented by the legendary designer Issey Miyake in Japan (interestingly, one of the largest markets for handspun and handwoven cotton fabric from India). Most recently, it travelled to Bangalore.

Each saree in the collection was designed to illustrate certain aspects of the weaving process that ordinarily escape the lay observer. Despite having worn a fair few sarees in my life, for instance, I haven’t ever noticed that the pallu is always slightly heavier than the rest of the saree. This weightiness helps it hang elegantly over the shoulder. The ways in which weavers achieve this difference in weight are ingenious: in one piece, a floral butti motif begins as a simple bud in the inner folds of the saree; progresses to a tri-petalled flower in the mid-section; and then unfurls into a 5-petalled bloom on the pallu. The heavier threads of the gradually blossoming motifs are enough to delicately anchor the pallu in position.

The ways in which weavers incorporate their own aesthetic viewpoints into the sarees also raises important questions about the relationship between designers and ‘manufacturers’. Textile expert Rakesh Thakore had one such experience while working on the collection: given his own preference for minimalism, he requested that a simple square motif be repeated across the body of one saree. The weaver he worked with however, drawing from his previous largely floral body of work, left a small hollow centre in each square—an effect which Thakore actually appreciated.

Another revelation was the notion that the skill of a weaver may be measured by how delicate a border he or she is able to achieve. (Yet, this is completely at odds with the market’s obsession with large, heavily ornamented borders!) The sarees in this collection exhibited such graceful mastery: most borders were no more than an inch thick. Where pure gold threads were used, the weavers evolved a method to help ease the heavier metallic fibres in to the body of the light cotton sarees: the golden threads were gradually interspersed with more and more cotton threads, creating a light gradient from gold to cotton. The weavers affectionately compared the effect to the waves appearing on the surface of the village well: jhal churi, whispers of ripples.

We were fortunate enough to have these various features explained to us on a tour of the exhibit led by Ahalya Matthan. Indeed my appreciation of these subtleties was in large part due to her stories and insights. Had I seen the exhibit on my own, I would in all likelihood have admired the design, but missed the intellect and humanity that went into creating each of these pieces.

Of course, the exhibit was displayed in tandem with a series of talks and discussions held over the course of the week (of which, I had the pleasure of attending those by textile collector Lekha Poddar, and the inimitable queen of culture, Malavika Singh). No doubt the exhibit was intended to be understood in the context of these talks, and it is probably time we as a public attempt to engage in depth with such subjects rather than simply consume them as displayed artefacts hung on a wall.

These were not the only attempts made by The Registry of Sarees to depart from typical methods of museum display. A number of the sarees were stretched over wave-like bamboo structures, breezily floating across the room—thoughtful and evocative, even if, unfortunately, the smaller event space in Bangalore didn’t allow for the exhibit to be displayed in all its original glory. At the Lakshmi Mills in Coimbatore, the sarees hovered at various levels across the open space, reminiscent of everything from fresh laundry drying on an Indian summer, to the lively gestures of a saree salesman showing off his wares, to dramatic calligraphic swirls.

Though the pared back presentation at the Bangalore International Centre paled in comparison with the snapshots we saw from Coimbatore, as a whole, it allowed for a much-needed pause to examine the status and continued relevance of handmade in India.