The unfinished story of India’s handloom weavers

At The Kunj, in New Delhi, Aadyam Handwoven recently brought together handwoven textiles from different weaving clusters across India. Alongside the textiles was something increasingly difficult to encounter — a special screening of Shyam Benegal’s 1987 Hindi film Susman, which portrayed the lives and struggles of India’s handloom weavers.

Susman is not readily available on mainstream streaming platforms, and Aadyam obtained special permission from Shyam Benegal’s family to screen the film. “Susman” — loosely translated as “the essence” — is an apt title for a film about the people who form the very warp and weft of India’s handloom tradition.

Nearly four decades after the film was made, it raises an uncomfortable question: how much has really changed for the Indian weaver? “From the time of Shyam Benegal’s movie, a lot has changed, but nothing much has changed. The film is equally relevant today,” says Manish Saksena, Business Lead, Aadyam Handwoven, an Aditya Birla initiative.

Among the traditions showcased was Pochampally Ikat, which originates in Bhoodan Pochampally in Telangana’s Yadadri Bhuvanagiri district and is renowned for its distinctive geometric patterns. The beauty of Ikat begins even before the loom. Unlike conventional weaving, where the design emerges primarily during weaving, in Ikat the yarn itself is carefully tied and resist-dyed according to a predetermined pattern before it reaches the loom. The coloured threads must then be aligned with remarkable precision during weaving for the pattern to emerge. The slight feathering at the edges of motifs — rather than machine-like uniformity — gives Ikat much of its distinctive handmade character.

There is something truly distinct about this craft. In Pochampally, this intricate process also creates an unusual partnership between weavers. “In Pochampally, the weaver has to be very particular. He has to synchronise with the person doing the tie-and-dye,” explains Saksena. “The husband and wife often work in tandem here. In other clusters, men may do the main weaving and women some of the lighter weaves, but because of the technique in Pochampally, there is much more working together.”

But keeping such labour-intensive craftsmanship alive comes at a price. Pochampally saris at premium stores in silk can today range from around Rs 20,000 to Rs 1 lakh, depending on the silk, intricacy and amount of work involved. “Handloom is meant to be worn by everyone. That is the true essence,” says Saksena. “But silk prices have really been shooting up. At the same time, there is a minimum wage, and we are very conscious that the weavers’ livelihood is maintained.” It creates one of handloom’s contemporary contradictions: how does a craft remain accessible while ensuring that the people making it are adequately paid?

For Saksena, Susman is also personal. He first saw the film at a festival in 1987. “It pretty much shaped why I chose this profession,” he recalls. “It was a very inspirational film and impacted me at a very impressionable age.” At the exhibition, he also displayed another piece of his own history — a sari he bought for his mother from his first salary in 1994.

A sari can carry a family memory for decades; a weaving tradition can carry a cultural memory for centuries. Nearly 40 years after Susman, perhaps the challenge is no longer simply preserving the loom. It is ensuring that the people sitting at it can build a future from it.