#Saris_A2Z I know like me many of you have been awaiting the Sunday special. Well the maestro had woven her 🕸 web and created her magic! It was me who could not come up with a suitable picture for her story😢
Just created some Tant magic graphically on a bed of saris to go witAmrita Chakrabortyty beautiful Sunday special sari story. So grab ur ☕️ and delve deeper into the tant's tryst...
"Tant's Tryst with Destiny
The year was 1945, the British had relentlessly hurt the tant weavers of Bengal for over a century now by opening the flood gates of cheaper textiles from Manchester and other parts of United Kingdom. The brilliant craftsmanship of Tant was losing perilously to imported textile. These famed handloom weavers, whose muslin and other vibrant drapes were the pride of the greatest empires of medieval Europe and Western Asia were not only losing out their export markets, even Indian households were substituting them ever increasingly.The Tant weavers of Bengal known for their fineness and finesse,were not being able to compete and the weavers had turned into an impoverished lot. Prompting even Karl Marx to exclaim, " the British intruder broke up the Indian handloom and destroyed the spinning wheel”
It was 9 at night, in the once glorious weavers' village of Shantipur, late enough for everybody in the village to have retired to bed. Sixteen year old Mira was still helping her father while hearing stories from the past . Gajananda worked late on the handloom trying to weave a bit more before sleep overtook him. He doted on his only daughter, often feeling deeply guilty that despite being brighter than his four sons, he had not been able to send her to school. As a Tant weaver, he could barely make ends meet for his family of seven. Mira would always be helping him with his loom. She had no other interests like the other girls her age. Villagers would joke with Gajanand. " Arre, Gaja, guess you have given Mira in marriage to your handloom. She's always sitting beside it; keeping it in shape, working on it day in and day out, admiring every aspect of it.............Haha..............your daughter is in love with it, eh?............like the Rani Mirabai was in love with her Gopal!" Gaja would rarely get into an argument with them. The villagers had helped him when he was in dire straits; only if they understood his Mira, he would think wistfully.
"Baba, you weave these Tant saris so painstakingly. Many of them are on special order from that mahajan Jadunath from Howrah. After days of nurturing lifeless grey yarn, they bloom to life as vibrant saris, look so enchanting that I cry every time you have to pack them off.
Yet you don't have the money for your persistent cough. Ma has a backache that tears her, we can't treat her too. Moreover"......, Mira continued,somehow restraining her choked emotions "Ma has never got to wear the best pieces you weave. Yet when mahajan mahasaya comes, he gets those glossy brochures of beautiful designs that are to be made on order for rich women. You toil so hard to make each piece. Jadunath babu laps it up. Orders more, brighter and better designs, more sensuous colors. But we never make enough to have the essentials, forget a good life. Is it fair?" Gaja looked at Mira with moist eyes. What could he explain to this young girl!
" You know, I'm Mira. And like the Rani Mirabai despite being married to the prince of the great kingdom of Chittor,carrying out many wifely duties , stayed devoted to her Gopal; I too declare my lifelong devotion for the Tant. Please, baba, you understand me nah. Ma doesn't...."..Mira's voice trailed off wistfully.
Gaja heard himself telling her, " even poison from Rana Sanga's palace couldn't kill Mirabai or her devotion. Rather the fragrance of her devotion spread far and wide. So much so, even the great emperor Akbar came to see her in the guise of a beggar. He was so moved by her that while leaving , he lay a necklace at her feet made of pure gold and diamonds..."
It wasn't long before Gaja got Harish's proposal for Mira's hand. Harish, despite being a poor weaver's son had studied diligently,coming out with top honors in the matriculation exams. He was the only one from Shantipur ever to receive a government scholarship to study law in Kolkata. And had just finished graduation and received an internship of a handsome amount of fifty rupees when his marriage was fixed with Mira. Gaja was over the moon that Harish had chosen his daughter to be his bride. When he broke the news to Mira, she was a bit sad that she had to leave her Baba , their beloved loom and its lively creations. But when Gaja quickly promised that he would create the best pieces yet to be made by him to gift her, she was overcome by childlike glee.
Father, daughter toiled everyday to create the prettiest pieces ever made on muslin and tant. The yarns were dyed bright reds, yellows. Each thread was woven with utmost love, to create thick , rich pallus with large floral motifs and the body into finest muslin ever woven by Gaja. The sheer translucence of muslin gave the saris an ethereal radiance. Days merged into weeks; weeks into months. However, the day his priceless gifts were completed, Gaja fell ill with high fever. The family searched for every forgotten penny at home, digging deep inside the barrel of rice as near the Tulsi in the backyard. But they still couldn't afford his treatment. The day mahajan Jadunath came, Mira, with her eyes brimming with tears , quietly gave away her gifts to get the maximum possible for her beloved baba's treatment. When Gaja heard of it, he was heartbroken and passed away in great shock. An year passed by in sombre , lifeless days. Then Mira was married off in a simple ceremony, frugally arranged by her widowed mother.
Harish and she set their heart to set up the Gajanand Cooperative Society, GCS, a first in Shantipur and amongst Indian weavers. The weavers could now access better quality yarn, brighter and a variety of better quality colors. The reeds were never again rickety, falling apart; they were always replaced promptly. The looms were now made of teak wood, with a cemented seat where the these unheralded masters could sit comfortably as they wove their magic. They were no longer dependent on middlemen like Jadunath to sell their master pieces. The cooperative sold it for them at best prices. They were once again beginning to hold their head high in the world stage. Mira had ensured that there never would be another father in Shantipur who would die brokenhearted if he wanted to share his fabulous craft with his daughters instead of customers.
Mira had just finished her day's work at GCS ,which she always did with exemplary conviction and devotion. It was a breezy winter evening in 1965, she was walking back home, hearing baba's gentle voice within her sing Mirabai's bhajan:
'This infamy, O my Prince is delicious!
Some revile me,others applaud,
O Mira’s Lord is noble and dark
I simply follow my incomprehensible road.............' "
