A short train ride north, away from the din and rush of the big city, Calcutta, lies a small village. From morning to night, its still air is filled with the staccato sound of the loom.
A view into the courtyard of a housewife spinning bobbins. Most homes are very humble in nature and construction. Cane fences are all that separate one house from the next.
These artisans today, are little known outside the world of traditional handicrafts. No holy river flows through this part of the world; no gold-roofed temple welcomes pilgrims on their way to and fro; nor at any point in its short history was this village a trading hub.
The age-old tradition of hand-weaving lives on here, sheltered from modern methods and machinery. Even now, not one single aspect of the process requires electricity.
A young man sits with a large bundle of silk yarn, stretched around his knees, carefully removing knots and twists before the yarn is ready to be dyed.
Weaving here is a cooperative enterprise. Instead of being direct competitors to one another, the villagers, often related by blood or marriage, depend on each other at every stage of the process.
The village is now home to only a few dozen weaving families. The high cost of hand-looms, changing tastes and competition from cheap, mass-produced fabrics, have all taken their toll.
Children no longer want to follow in their parents' footsteps. Although they know enough to help in the work, most want to get a better education so that they can escape the life in the village.
There is something timeless in handmade things, temporal yet ageless. no two elements are ever identical; they are similar but not the same, perfect in their imperfections, a reflection perhaps of what makes us human in the first place.
A photo essay on the life and work of village weavers in rural West Bengal, India. This is part of a larger personal project that I would like to undertake in documenting anything and everything hand-made.