I was looking forward to the emphasis fabric would have on my visit to Northern India. At the time I was reading Victoria Finlay’s book, 'Fabric', which had so eloquently laid out some of the histories of the nation’s political relationship with textile manufacturing. It had also hinted at the rich regional chasms of fabric, such as pashmina in Ladakh and Kashmir, silk in Varanasi and cotton in Punjab. It was incredibly poetic to me that something seen so widely as passive, trivial, and feminine in the modern age, like textiles, had been used on the frontline against the systematic oppression by the British - and had won. A major part of Mahatma Gandhiji's non violent attack was to boycott British textiles, which sorely hurt Manchester mills and English trade, calling natives "to take up the handloom," whilst using british cloth as kindling for nationwide bonfires. The textile trade was one of the many things, including autonomy, that was ripped from underneath Indians during the 300 year occupation. This was to the extent that Gandhi, during the aforementioned call to action, had meant to say spinning wheel (charkha) instead of handloom. Despite protest against this, khadi (homespun cloth) became a symbol of nationalism, members of the Indian National Congress were obliged to spin themselves and even pay their membership in cotton yarn that they had spun. In spite of my three year long BA Hons degree in Costume Design from the London College of Fashion, when reading about this history I found myself feeling inferior, envious, and even embarrassed that I was so far removed from the essence of cloth, how it was made, what is was made up of, and why.
Two days into our trip, I found myself looking at a small yet highly nationalist object in the Indira Ghandi Museum and reflected on what I had previously read. At this point I was jetlagged, India felt like Mars, and I was blissfully ignorant of Indira's controversial reputation and of the horrors that had taken place under her "emergency" or authoritarian rule. I spent time admiring the beautiful taste in her personal objects which were strewn around the museum. The object that was captivating my jetlagged attention was a rosette, around the size of my hand. At the centre, silver thread made up the silhouette of India which was superimposed ontop of the Indian flag, all encircled by a circle of gold thread. Three layers of neat knife pleats encircled the central motif in green, white and orange, the overall effect was a very camp Indian love letter badge, I thought. Burgundy yarn was hand stitched in such a way onto of the silver to represent a charka, balanced onto of an open palm, Indira's congress symbol. This was a clear propagandist nod and perhaps thanks to the charka and subsequently India's free status from Britain. A wedding sari displayed nearby was much subtler in appearance, but equally as political in message thanks to how, when and where it had been made, similar to the rosette the fabric itself was a physical echo of Ghandi's call to the loom and wheel. The caption states, "Indira's wedding sari woven from yarn spun by Jawaharlal Nehru during one of his prison terms, March 26, 1942," this was her father who had also been prime minister. Imagining what it felt to wear this next to ones skin knowing knowing that someone you loved had painstakingly spun the fibre into yarn whilst incarcerated on such an important day when one is supposed to leave their family home for a chosen partner made me feel emotional. It made me think about the tradition of the western white wedding dress and the commercialisation of this celebration, and again the distance we have with our own clothes, even the really important ones. I found this garment and so beautiful and meaningful.
As well as displaying the textiles which were worn on the sentimental days by this controversial figure, those worn on terrible days were not omitted. The sari worn by Indira on the day of her assassination was laid out in such a way that she felt very human, as if the onlooker could slip the shoes on and throw the bag over their shoulder. By coincidence, I had read in a journal at the British library once about the conservation and display of this very sari and the trousers her son was assasinated in, not knowing any context to Indira at the time. Artlab, the company chosen for this work, intended to stabilise the damage of the textiles and not restore them. These experts chose contrasting white fabric to patch holes and white polyester thread to support threads and tears. To not restore and hide damage, or clean up blood stains, or darn bullet holes, highlights the violence and brings to light the autonomy and history of the garment itself, and it's wearer, This in turn brings the historical and terrible event closer to the viewer. I thought to myself about the murderous activities of making and using guns and bombs and the contrast between the traditional repetive actions needed to manufacture of cloth and its conservation, so gentle and stabilising. I thought about the makers of the trousers and the sari, had they been so excited to create something for such prestigious figures? Had they ever imagined in a million years what could have happened to their creation? Had they ever visited the museum and seen their work eternalised and loaded with such meaning, so far removed from the garments original purpose, which was just to be worn. The two garments were now so imbued with symbolism and history that it was easy to overlook them as garments.
The social life of fabric, from fibre to yarn, from cloth to garment, from thing to sentimental memory was profoundly clear in the Partition Museum in Amritsar. Here was the opportunity to learn about the tragic and hellish consequences of partition and the terror of humanity. I realised I could never truly comprehend what happened in India, catalysed by people from my own country. The uprooting of families, the massacres, the destruction, the torment. Repeatedly I saw cloth, the items people chose or maybe couldn't even chose, maybe the right word is could take with them, probably thinking they could return home one day. I tried to imagine the scrambling to hold onto the finery, wearing layers whilst fleeing. I wondered what potent meaning some of the objects behind the glass cabinets had held for some families and individuals, perhaps memories of weddings, deaths, births, parents, or children. Looking at these garments was bitter sweet, from afar they were unassuming and then with a bit of thought I realised they weren't just cloth, for the victims of partition they were symbols of home and a time before terror.
Around the end of the trip we took a break from the pollution and chaos of cities and visited Abohar in Punjab, where my friend's family was from. I found myself excited and humbled when talking to a lovely young farmer on Christmas Day whilst we walked through cotton fields. I remembered how when I was first researching India and it's incredible textiles how little I knew, and now right infront of my very hands cotton growing in buds like vineyards of clouds and I could touch it and smell it and understand it! I secretly picked up a bud with fibre pouring out of it, with some seeds and some dirt inside. I've hung it in my room in pride of place in London, and for me it symbolises my journey, what I've learnt, and what I still have to learn.
By using my interest in textiles it enabled me to gain so much more insight into the history and culture of India. Interrogating the designed objects, and even natural objects like this cotton fibre, gave me a focus and my reflections a purpose. It allowed me to spin together a yarn of understanding, giving context to some of the millions of 'things' I saw whilst travelling.
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