Tales from Tantipara: Behind every thread and loom of Murshidabad

Centuries after Murshidabad's silk ruled global trade, its weavers now earn less than 500 rupees a day for backbreaking work that demands precision, strength and silence. As looms fall silent across villages, this report from Tantipara captures a legacy on the brink — and the human cost of letting it fade.

- ANWESHA SANTRA

On a sunny February morning, as the Murshidabad Heritage Festival prepared to draw its curtains for the year, we found ourselves winding through the narrow lanes of Tantipara — a quiet, unassuming neighbourhood cradling the legacy of Bengal's famed silk. Here, the past clings to the walls of modest homes, the air thick with the rhythmic clatter of looms and the scent of starched fabric drying in the sun.

Inside one such house, where the ceiling hung low and walls were lined with old saree patterns, sat Sadhan Das, a weaver of over 30 years. His lean frame bent over a traditional loom, he was methodically bringing a pristine Garad saree to life.

The loom itself is a marvel of simple engineering — a pit loom, where the weaver sits inside a shallow pit, legs working the treadles below, and hands guiding the shuttle as it darts between silk threads. The loom has a horizontal frame holding the warp threads taut. The treadles control the heddles, lifting alternate sets of warp threads to create a 'shed' for the shuttle to pass through. The rhythmic coordination of foot, hand and eye is relentless.

"This part you have to be careful about," Sadhan says, as his fingers deftly lift a section of threads. "If a single thread breaks, it can ruin the design. Then I have to undo it and start again."

A single saree takes him four to five days to complete. "Two sarees in a good week," he adds with a weary smile.

Despite the elegance of his craft, the rewards are meagre. "Per day, I don't even earn 500 rupees," Sadhan confesses. "We don't fix the final price. The mahajan (boss) does. We are just workers."

He works over 10 hours a day, the loom demanding unbroken attention. There are no Sundays, no holidays. Only the shifting light outside his window marks the passing of time.