In the pursuit of authentic artisan stories, certain moments stand out as truly exceptional. Such was the case when we had the privilege of meeting a 93-year-old weaver, whose dedication sees her rising at 4 a.m. daily to practice her craft. It was an experience that felt like life itself presenting us with a true legend.
Mallika Deva Nandi, born in 1932, has spent her life weaving, spanning four generations. She first learned the art from her parents and later from her maternal uncle, at the tender age of six. She remembers fondly how her training began on a three-shuttle pit loom, learning to weave borders of sarees. By the time she was twelve, she could skillfully weave the anchal (the loose end of a saree that is draped over the shoulder), the most intricate part of the saree. Child marriage was common in her time; she was married at five but began living with her in-laws at fifteen. She became a mother at twenty-two and lost her husband when she was thirty-three. Life tested her again and again, but Mallika faced every challenge with quiet strength.
I wanted to steer the story to less painful and perhaps happier memories and asked her how weaving was different in those days. Pausing for a brief minute, she told me that in her early days, threads were dyed with rice paste mixed with natural stains. The cotton yarn was soaked and straightened over ten days. “There were no bobbins; we used eight charkhas and manually unwound the threads. Our colours came from nature: blue from indigo, yellow from turmeric, maroon from lac, pink and orange from manjistha roots, green from pomegranate leaves, and earthy shades from tree barks like jackfruit, sal, khaira, and arjun. Because dyes were costly, only the borders were coloured,” she told me.
The sarees of that time were known by names like Ranga Saree, Maa Samuda Luga, Pahadi Saree, Chagala Saree, and Mayabandha Saree. Mallika told me she used to weave two sarees a week, sourcing her threads from the local mahajan, earning about ten rupees—just enough to feed her family. Seeing my disbelief, Mallika winked and told me the cost of gold was five rupees and silver was two rupees.
Akula, her son who was sitting with me, told with his eyes welling up that even during monsoon, when weaving was harder, she made sure her five daughters and two sons never went hungry. Akula recalls one day he lost ten rupees when going to the market and came back crying to his mother. She simply told him not to worry. The next morning, she sat at her loom at 4 a.m. and wove a saree in a single day to cover the loss. That day, he promised himself to carry forward his mother’s craft and make her proud.
Even today, Mallika begins her day at 4 a.m., takes her bath, and sits at her loom. Her hands move shakily now, but years of muscle memory help her navigate through the web of threads, keeping alive an art that has defined her life. “Till my last breath, I want to weave sarees,” she says with a gentle smile. Before we left, she hugged us softly, chanted the Buddhist prayer “Om Mani Padme Hum,” and blessed us with the words, “Keep doing what gives you satisfaction, and success will follow.” With full hearts, we said goodbye, carrying with us the warmth, resilience, and grace of Mallika Amma and her spirit that never gives up.
