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Tag: tradition

The Hands to Empower

Pavitra Muddaya of Vimor has worked tirelessly in the world of crafts since the last 40 years. Her saris were worn by the Late Prime Minister Indira Gandhi and her designs are…

The New Snob In The Block Called Khadi

When a bright brick red bustier hangs from the mighty colossal hangers of vanity, you are confused what to feed the ever growing, demanding devil. Amidst all that predicament, shouts out a…

The Magic In My Soul

The Mehfil invitation read, look no further, you will soon be transported to the lantern lit room in the little Haveli. I was most fascinated with the invitation. It was an evening…

Manipur’s Mighty Weaves

As I tie my Manipuri sarong over my waist, I was transported to the calm Loktak Lake where the ripples on the calm water is a camouflage of the constant anger of…

Designs of Undivided Bengal

As she walked into the train compartment, she saw the gaps in between the bogies. Mrinalini often wondered what would happen if the connecting iron chains would disentangle and the compartment would…

The Defiant Devi

As I walk out into the burning scorching sun of the summer Calcutta home, I leave my trail of the sari palla falling and failing behind me. I failed as a woman…

The Bountiful Bagru Prints On A Summer Noon

Mughal architecture with a fusion of the Hindu Rajput sensibilities is what the land of Rajasthan is all about. In that arid, dry landscape where water is a scarcity, we have the…

Saris Folded With An Unheard Prayer

As I entered the dark dank space of my grandmother’s room, I opened the creaking window meshed and unmeshed with cobwebs shining in the soft supple sun rays. Those cobwebs seemed to…

Cross Stitch Crossed Over

Every time I visit home which still remains Delhi because as the adage goes – once a Delhi girl always one. I never miss visiting Bahri Sons, my favourite book shop at…

The Sensual Sheen Of Velvet

It was one of those days when I recalled the lost nostalgia of Delhi’s Chandni Chowk lane at that twilight hour. The regal remnants of the Jama Masjid juxtaposed against the large…

Moments Of Epiphany

As I looked out of the window, the strong iron bars that went crisscross over the mesh stopped me from forcing myself out of that boundary into the horizon. This had become…

Pug Marks on The Moist Kumaon Hills

The Himalayan Writing Retreat is nestled between mist smeared mountains and the elusive Himalayas. Mountains covered in snow with the sunlight streaming through the magnanimity of the forces of nature. I found…

A Classic Called The Angarakha

When you feel vulnerable and think that you may lose your soul to this crazy thing called life. You protect yourself by listening to music that heals, or you indulge yourself till…

No Chains Can Chain Me No Cage Can Capture Me

I just switched off the pause button inside my head. The unbridled thoughts of years came gushing out like river that been halted midway in its mad flow. The big wall that stopped the…

Our Hearts Sings The Same Tune

Winter vacations meant travelling with Ma & Dadu to Delhi. The harsh winter months were the time when Ma would take leave to go into the familiarity of her childhood city. To…

Thrifty Yet Beautifully Artsy-The Kantha Art

The Kantha is the passing of emotion and art, combining the love, fear, and hope of the homes in rural West Bengal. It is a distinct style of the Bengali embroidery of…

The Universe Dares You To Walk The Unknown

It was the winter sun that casts its shadow at the far end of the horizon. The gates were shutting and the fierce walls of the desert fortress would shut. It was…

Muffled Cries From The Memories Of My Maangpatta

The Rajasthan Fort Festival held in Meherangarh Fort every winter is a treat for music enthusiasts. There is a line up of Sufi singers from all over the globe. You are transported…

Flowers On My Frock

Winter breaks meant going from the chilly nip of the frosting window sills of Shillong to warmer Calcutta winters. Ma loved her uncle’s home in Phulia, West Bengal. The hub of the…

Ornate Combs And More….

My late grandmother who I lovingly called Dida, had thick long hair even at the age of 88. She combed her hair with a wooden comb that my grandfather had gifted her…