Threads of identity

When embroidery plays witness to women's lives, the simplest form of the craft becomes an act of self-preservation.

- By DIVYA BALAKRISHNAN.

Aman gets down on one knee.

A velvet box in his hand and four words on his lips. You can guess what happens next. Except, in a thatched hut in the desert of Kutch, I encountered a version of this famous scene with no ring, no mushy speech. Just a coconut instead of a solitaire and a piece of fabric waiting for a response.

During a visit to Kala Raksha, a community-run museum in Bhuj, the quiet significance of embroidered objects on display came into focus. In the Maru Meghwal community, a coconut and plain fabric are sent to the girl's family. If she agrees, she returns the coconut wrapped in the fabric, now embroidered by her hand. Though the motifs lean toward geometry, the family elders look beyond patterns. They examine colour, stitch tension and finish. Are the stitches straight? Do they seem rushed? Did she embroider alone or with her mother? The cloth offers no words but says everything.

The Maru Meghwals migrated from Tharparkar in present-day Pakistan to Kutch in 1972. Their embroidery uses red and green thread on white cloth—the white symbolising an oasis in the dry desert. Peacocks are stitched in remembrance of Sindh, explains Mukesh Bhanani, senior project coordinator at Kala Raksha. The tradition of the engagement cloth, though slowly fading, still finds its place. Girls learn embroidery in their adolescent years and master it by 19. But they also attend school. Some pursue higher education; others navigate the spaces between paid labour, domestic work and craft. Proposals are no longer one-way gestures and yet, the cloth remains.