“The world of craft proposes a juxtaposition of paradoxes,” says Kareena Oberoi, founder of Delhi-based label Acid Moons. She compares the heritage of her family with the Ship of Theseus — a thought experiment about how long an object can retain its identity if you start removing its parts. “In my family, there is a similar story, one of changing the vessel,” she notes. Kareena’s paternal grandfather came to India from Rawalpindi and eventually settled in Delhi, where he tried his hand at various businesses before starting a factory that made plastic playing cards. Years later, in 1984, when the Sikh riots broke out in Delhi, he shaved his head to keep his family safe. Even in the face of displacement, rebuilding and adapting to circumstances, he remained the same. 

Having worked with other refugees for her brand, like the weavers from Phulia, West Bengal, whose families had also left their ancestral homes, Kareena found a belongingness — “...a world that we have created on our own in a country that welcomed us with open arms,” she shares. It made her think whether a craft can allow an identity to survive when the place, language, geography and circumstances around it have changed. This led to a photo project in collaboration with Kolkata-based writer and photographer Drishya Maity to document the weavers. 

The Basak weavers of Phulia originally came from Tangail in present-day Bangladesh, where they had practised weaving for generations. After Partition in 1947, Hindu Basak families began moving from East Pakistan to West Bengal, with further waves of migration in 1965 and 1971. They brought their weaving knowledge with them and many eventually settled in Phulia, where the Tangail tradition continued alongside the weaving traditions of neighbouring Shantipur. The community went on to establish Phulia as a major centre for Tangail weaving, keeping the craft alive through generations despite the upheavals that had forced them to leave their homes. In the 1970s, cooperatives were also formed to protect weavers from exploitative middlemen and the growing use of cheaper powerlooms. Today, Phulia remains India’s only centre for traditional Tangail weaving, although its handloom numbers have fallen from nearly 75,000 to fewer than 20,000 in two decades, with younger generations increasingly moving away from it. 

With the craft at a point where its future depends on finding new ways to keep it going, Kareena has been working with Phulia weavers through Acid Moons, bringing their handwoven textiles into modern clothing. She also wants to build an ecosystem where the dignity of what the weavers bring to the table is maintained and honoured, allowing the craft to thrive in modern wardrobes and travel to shores far and wide. For her, letting it “morph into a shape” that can live in contemporary society is more meaningful than preserving it behind closed doors and glass.

The photo project brings the focus back to the people who keep the craft alive. For photographer Drishya, who has photographed craft communities before, it comes from the same ethos he brings to any documentary work. “It has to start from a place of understanding that, as a photographer, I am there for them; they are not there for me,” he says. He sees being able to enter these spaces and photograph people during the course of their lives and work as a privilege. “You cannot simply go and demand access. You have to build trust and accept what they give you,” he shares “I am a firm believer in the idea that the best photographs are often the ones you receive and not the ones you take.”

Drishya points out that many people across India may know Jamdani, and some may know Tangail Taant, while far fewer know about the Basak weavers and their history. “The Tangail tradition survives today through the weavers in Phulia; it survives because they carried it across borders after Partition, after 1965, and after 1971,” he notes. For many families, the inherited knowledge of the craft was all they could take with them when they left behind their ancestral homes on the other side of the border. “When I photograph the textile craft as living heritage today, I am also photographing the echoes of that history,” he shares, while also acknowledging how craft traditions are perceived and sold in the fashion industry — “that framing through the lens of fashion, commerce, and “heritage” isn’t problematic by itself because they allow the craft to be economically viable for the weavers. It’s a business, after all, and we cannot completely overlook the commercial aspect of the business,” he notes.  “But we cannot only focus on the end product either. Our understanding of the craft must come from an understanding of the people behind it.”

Follow Kareena here, Drishya here, and Acid Moons here.

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