Just the other day my pragmatic sister scoffed at me when I declared, in the midst of some discussion on closets, that each of my clothes tell a story. “How can clothes tell a story?” she derided, muttering “you and your unending stories”. (Wish I could put a smile emoji here) Yeah, I am a story-teller and have often been labelled “dramatic” by the siblings and legions of nephews and nieces. But, think. Do you think your clothes tell a story?
I would go to the extent to say that each grain of rice, every bite of roti or vegetable that I consume has a story to tell. A story of those who planted the seed, the land that was tilled, the farmer who tilled, the care that was taken from soil, seed to crop, how it made it to the granaries and stores and finally that glass/ steel/ plastic / tin/ aluminium container, before it reaches your plate.
Similarly for our clothes. Ever thought of that cotton seed, the field, the farmer, who plucked the cotton, who took it all to the factory where the yarn was made, the fabric, the processes in between of preparing and finishing the cloth, dyeing, printing, designing, cutting, stitching et al before it emerged as the dress we wear to much ooohs and aaahs by friends and family?
Ever thought of the demands on people, land, water, air each pair of jeans that you wear makes? That hut in some village where a gnarled father and mother step out before dawn to plant the seed or till the land, the dim-lit rooms in some mulberry farm from where some of the best silk comes from, those bent backs as they weave that exquisite pattern, the hands flying with the shuttle as each square centimetre spun gives them just a few paises, yes, you read that right, just a few paises! Aren’t there stories to be told? Aren’t there stories of deprivation, of unrecognised talent, of a lost land, of a thread rare, of a craft being gradually lost, of a people losing their craft to the vagaries of time, of a heritage art not having any practitioners… there are so many, many stories.
The stories are not just of today but the yore too. Next time you pull out that hand-dyed, bleeding indigo skirt, kurti, shorts, shirt or stole, know that some hundreds of years ago this cloth could have fetched you the same amount as “an enslaved person.” It was used even as currency!
So next time you shop, think about those hands, the people. Next time you throw away a piece of garment, think how better can it be repaired and reused.
And yeah, I would love to read the threads of those tales that perhaps take you back to the youth of your grandparents.
