G L O C A L J O U R N A L

Explore

The Untold Journey of Craft

What defines the true value of craft? Is it the meticulous precision of its weave, the richness of its material or the purpose it fulfills? Or is it something far deeper—an intangible essence, felt rather than measured?

Every piece of craft is more than just an object; it carries the weight of its journey. It begins with nature’s raw offerings, shaped by hands that work with care, and guided by traditions that have endured through generations. Yet, in the passage from creation to commerce, the craft often loses its soul—reduced to a product, its stories and struggles left untold. What if we chose to look closer? To follow the invisible threads that weave together time, culture and resilience, creating something extraordinary from the ordinary?

The Glocal Journal exists to do just that. It is not merely a record but a space to question, rediscover, and reconnect with the essence of craft. It celebrates the unseen lives, enduring values and vibrant histories embodied in every creation. Because every piece of craft is more than it appears—it is a timeless reflection of the world and the people who shape it.

1/1

A blessing in

disguise

The first thing I remember is the tea. It wasn’t particularly extraordinary but after a long, bumpy journey into Udaynarayanpur, it was exactly what I needed. There was something calming about the steam rising from the cup, the earthy smell of the tea mingling with the damp air of the village. It was as if the world, vast and chaotic as it often is, had decided to pause for a moment and allow me to breathe.

We had called Brojkishor the day before. “Hello,” I said, “we’re here. What’s the plan?” His reply was immediate and oddly comforting: “Ma’am, we’re already at the bus stop. Where are you?” There was no hesitation in his voice, no question about why we had come or what we needed. Just a statement of presence, a readiness to help.

When we arrived, he waved at us with a smile so genuine it felt almost disarming. This was a village still recovering from the floods—streets washed bare, houses patched together with whatever materials were at hand. Yet, here he was, standing solid as a tree in the middle of it all, his demeanor suggesting a resilience that I couldn’t quite grasp.

“Ma’am,” he said after the tea, “my home is 20 kilometers from here.” His voice carried the kind of certainty you don’t argue with. He had brought a friend with a motorbike and, to our surprise, a bicycle for himself. My bag—a hulking, awkward 22 kilos—was tied expertly onto the back of his cycle with a rope that had seen better days.

“You take the bike,” he insisted. “I’ll bring the bag.”

I protested, of course. It didn’t seem fair—this young man, already walking the fine line between survival and hardship, taking on the burden I had brought. But his voice had a quiet authority to it, and in the end, I relented. Watching him pedal off into the distance with my bag felt like witnessing something profound. It wasn’t just an act of kindness; it was a lesson in what it means to give. By the time we reached his home, the guilt sat heavy in my chest. I remember thinking how helpless I felt in the face of his generosity. But for Brojkishor, it seemed as natural as breathing. His family welcomed us with the same warmth—his father, a master weaver, his aunt, who wound bobbins with a rhythm that could lull you to sleep, his mother, who fussed over the small details of our stay like we were long-lost relatives.

Over the years, Udaynarayanpur has become more than a stop on our journey. It has become a place that exists in its own time, separate from the rest of the world. It’s the sound of warp threads being set, the smell of damp earth after rain, the feel of calloused hands offering you tea.

Brojkishor bought a bike last year. He built two new rooms in his home. These are facts, measurable and tangible. But what I think about most are the moments in between—the tea, the cycle, the weight of a bag carried without question. These things don’t exist on a balance sheet; they live in the quiet spaces of memory.

In the end, I don’t know if we changed Brojkishor’s life as much as he changed ours. Sometimes, it’s the smallest gestures that leave the deepest marks. And sometimes, in the midst of carrying someone else’s burden, we find the strength to shoulder our own.

1/9

A master in the

Making

Netai Ji came to us after two years of relentless struggle. The pandemic had drained everything—a drought of work, of hope, of even the smallest luxuries like tea in the evening. He arrived one day, unannounced, his steps slow but deliberate. His face carried the weight of someone who had spent a lifetime fulfilling his duty as a father—ensuring his daughters were educated and married. The small savings he had scraped together over the years had disappeared like rain on parched soil.

He didn’t ask for much, just work. His voice was even, without desperation or plea. It wasn’t the voice of someone who had given up; it was the voice of someone who couldn’t afford to. At the time, we were trying to convince the weavers in the village to experiment with thicker yarns and heavier fabrics—something different from the fine-count dhotis, saris, and gamchas they’d been weaving for generations. But the shift wasn’t easy. Change rarely is.

The other weavers hesitated. “It’s not our way,” they’d say, their hands motioning to the looms that had carried their families for decades. But Netai Ji said nothing. He simply nodded when we explained the idea and took the yarn home.

His house sat surrounded by bamboo groves, the stillness of the pond outside mirrored in the calm he carried within. The walls, plastered with cow dung, were smooth and cool to the touch. There was nothing excessive in the space—just the essentials, each item carrying a quiet purpose.

His wife worked beside him, spinning thread on her charkha with a focus that seemed unshakable. She’d only recently started earning, adding ₹100 to ₹150 a day to their household income, a small but significant contribution to their survival.

When we visited weeks later, his loom hummed with new life. The fabric he had woven was thicker, denser, a departure from the delicate textiles of his past. It wasn’t just fabric—it was proof. Proof that change was possible, that the old and the new could coexist. He was earning ₹450 to ₹550 a day now, a sum that had once seemed unimaginable.

Word spread quickly. Other weavers, once skeptical, began to follow his lead. Today, fifteen looms echo through the village, each weaving a story of revival. Netai Ji had become an example, not by force but by quiet resilience.

When I think of him now, I remember the mornings at his home—tea served on a fine bamboo mat, the faint rustle of leaves outside, and the rhythm of the loom inside. He never spoke of his struggles or his triumphs, and perhaps he didn’t need to. The proof was in the fabric, the threads that carried not just their weight but the weight of an entire village’s hope.

It’s strange how change begins—not with fanfare but with the simple, steady movement of a loom.

1/7

Between two

Shades

If you had to describe your life in a single color, what would it be? Would it be the calm of blue, the passion of red, or the neutrality of white? And if you could only see the world in black and white, would it bring clarity—or take away its magic?

These thoughts crossed my mind as I walked through a patchwork of green fields and dusty roads, carrying bundles of yarn to the dyer’s house. The lanes were alive with tea stalls and chatter, but between the noise were stretches of silence that seemed to echo a deeper rhythm. The house stood at the edge of the road, small and unassuming, like a secret hidden in plain sight.

Inside, Milan worked. His hands, stained with a rainbow of colors, moved with quiet precision as he transformed raw yarn into a symphony of hues. It’s a task that demands both artistry and patience, and Milan carries it out without fuss, as though it were a meditation.

“Milan, do you ever think about color?” I asked him one evening. He looked up, his expression calm but curious. “Color?” he said. “Color isn’t real. It’s just light and perception. But its effect—that’s real. Colors change people, moods, lives. That’s where the magic is.” His answer lingered in my mind. Every season, the market demands perfection—a shade of coral that feels like summer, a green that

matches a city’s urban longing, a blue that whispers of calm seas. Designers send us palettes with impossibly precise tones, trusting us to bring them to life.Each dye Milan prepares is a bridge between concept and creation. Yet his process is far from linear. Some days, a color is off by a fraction of a tone. When I asked if that frustrates him, he smiled. “Life and color are the same,” he said. “They’re rarely perfect, but with patience, you shape them into something meaningful.”

It made me think of our own work as a brand. What we create goes beyond timelessness and sustainability—it’s about the life woven into every fabric. Handmade textiles are more than just products; they are a reflection of the artisans’ hands, their heritage, and the places that shape them. As the colors shift and age with time, they don’t lose value. They become a deeper reflection of the journey they’ve taken, adding even more meaning to their presence in the world.

Creation, for Milan and for us, is an act of purpose.

Every thread and every shade carries the weight of our commitment to craftsmanship and the stories they leave behind. And perhaps that’s the secret of color and of life: not to hold on to it, but to let it flow through your hands, like water, trusting that it will leave its mark.

The Final Knot

“Brojo, Netai and Milan show us that sustainability is more than just a concept; it is the essence of life itself. It is in the way they work, the way they breathe life into the world around them and the way they allow the process of creation to unfold naturally. Sustainability, at its core, is a deep understanding of life’s impermanence.

We are constantly shaping and reshaping, like the colors on Milan’s yarn or the fabric in Netai’s hands. The same threads that weave their stories into being are the ones that guide us in our own journey.”