In the current era of the internet, my mother, the original fashion lover in the family, has been seeing videos about Banarasi weaves on YouTube. As is common with the platform, she saw countless sellers of so-called Banarasi sarees at such low prices that it was telling in its fakeness. In my attempt to help my mother improve her social media literacy and perhaps even bond over our love for heritage crafts, I sat with her to show brands that are actually working with Banarasi weaves; those from the likes of Ekaya to November Noon that are preserving and/or contemporising the weave. When I logged onto the website for the latter, I saw the newly released pieces from their Umbre collection - that is all precision tailoring, muted tones, stunning interplay of texture and of course, innovative ways in which Banarasi weaves have been interspersed into their design language.

The brand’s creative director, Priyanka Kaul brings her gamut of design knowledge and experience, having lived across the world, and always having created designs that bridge traditional Indian craftsmanship with global design perspective, resulting in modern Indian garments that are deeply India rooted. To know more, I had a chat with Priyanka and delved deeper into the world of November Noon, the way they are creating a new language and building new systems to further Banarasi weaves, and how their latest collection celebrates India's diverse weaving techniques.

To start with, how does this new Autumn/Winter collection from November Noon titled Umbre echo the past while innovating the traditional Varanasi Jala, Naka, and Jacquard, for the modern, global fashion lover?

​Referencing the interplay of light and shadow of the Art Deco period, we dedicated significant time in Varanasi, weaving custom blends of cotton and silks such as Mashru, Muga and cotton on our Jacquard looms. We decided for Autumn-Winter, our work would also extend to specialised clusters outside Varanasi, where artisans helped us handspin and weave distinct textures, including various Khadi, Tussar, and differential weaves.

Honestly, what really blew us away was the incredible diversity of India's weaving clusters. It created this combination of textures that was just so playful but complex. We went in thinking strictly about geometrical forms, but we ended up falling in love with the more organic nature of the texture, the way it shifts and changes based on the weaver's tension and the specific traditions of their cluster.

November Noon is deeply anchored in Varanasi tradition, though your own roots lie elsewhere. You now work closely with the Shah family— custodians of weaving legacies in the region. What does this collaboration look like in practice? How do you share creative authorship when you're building on generations of inherited knowledge?

Authorship, for me, is never singular. The heart of our brand beats because of a vibrant community that breathes life into it every single day, often without my direct involvement. Think of the punch card designer, the weaver, the pattern maker, the machinists, the dyer, the logistics team, the designers, the drivers...each person is a vital stitch in our fabric.

Every change I introduce weighs heavily on me, because I know it ripples through their lives. Yet, this very knowledge fuels my conviction that every decision must profoundly enrich the brand. So, I carry on. I'm incredibly fortunate to collaborate with textile designers who intimately understand the nuances of the different loom setups across our various clusters.

​When I dream up a new shape, a different repeat size, or dare to introduce a fresh style, they are my grounding force, offering a vital reality check. The true luxury of being a creative director, rather than solely a designer, is this ability to work alongside such experienced textile artisans.

​I say this especially because experimentation, particularly with handwoven textiles, is far from straightforward. Swatches can be an extravagance, and changing colours often isn't an option. Once that warp is set, dismantling it and beginning again feels like an unforgivable waste. We're constantly learning, exploring ways to test yarn dyes and experiment with deadstock fabrics first. Blending yarns, while creatively exhilarating, can be incredibly costly if it goes awry. And then there are those moments when a pattern looks absolutely magnificent on a punch card or in Photoshop, only to appear completely different on the actual fabric.

The subtle variations in shine, the unique transparencies of different yarns, how the weight shifts—it's a world of intricate nuances. Many customers may not fully grasp the profound challenge of being both a textile and a fashion design house. Most fashion houses simply source their fabrics, perhaps tweaking a colour or two. For us, to begin from scratch is an exponentially more labour-intensive and design-intensive process. The risks are inherently much, much higher.

Your perspective is shaped by a lived experience in India, Australia and beyond, and a deep interest in the nuanced philosophies of the Global South. How does that lens influence your reinterpretation of Banarasi Weaves? What becomes possible when we stop seeing heritage as static but rather engage with it in an evolving manner?

​It always takes time, doesn't it, to truly understand a new place? Especially in India, where every region is a universe unto itself, with its own rhythms, preferences, and ingenious ways of working. Being so far from my own roots has, strangely, always pulled me closer to them. Each new culture I embrace, each new way of life I adopt, somehow echoes my own heritage, making me feel more connected. My continuous hope is to find the threads of commonality, the beautiful synergies between cultures. That's what truly makes me feel at home, no matter where I am, and it softens the ache of distance.

​Varanasi... It's a place that confronts you. There's simply no hiding from the raw intensity of life there, those seeking revival, mercy, and those surrendered to the Ganges' embrace. It's incredibly humbling, yet in our modern world, it can also feel quite disorienting.

During my time there, amidst all the well-known narratives, I was struck by the lush farm fields, a side of Varanasi rarely spoken of. Everyone talks about the Ganges, of course, but I found such serenity in that unexpected greenery. This is the lens I like to carry, to find unusual moments that startle my pre-conceived notions of a space, world or idea. In a similar way, there is more depth to Banarasi weaves than the saree or the silk; there are colours, shapes and patterns yet to be explored. Banarasi weaves should not be merely preserved under glass; they need to be a vibrant, living source of inspiration.

​Your earlier work at Badaam was deeply narrative - exploring memory, stillness, and your South Asian roots and inspirations through fabric. Do you see those same stories continuing to surface in November Noon’s collections, or are you building a different language now?

​Badaam, for me, held the pure innocence of my younger self. Many of those pieces were quite whimsical and deeply nostalgic, reflecting the early chapters of my childhood. November Noon certainly carries a thread of that spirit, but it also embodies a greater depth in its textile stories, its intricate pattern making, and ultimately, where I stand today on my fashion journey. Now that I'm no longer a solo designer, I have the incredible freedom to explore more facets of design in much greater depth. It allows me to delve into areas I couldn't before, expanding the narrative and complexity of our work.

What did you carry forward from your Badaam experience - especially its slow-fashion philosophy and cross-cultural dialogue - into your work at November Noon?

My heart lies in partnering with people who are passionate about protecting endangered craft and design traditions. I'm always drawn to initiatives that gracefully bridge these rich legacies with a future generation of creatives and their communities. ​In a world stimulated by technology, there's value in the intentionality of analogue rituals. My time with Badaam gave me a foundational understanding of the handloom process, not just its constraints, but also the thoughtful pace of slow design. That experience has been invaluable in shaping my approach to creating work that feels meaningful and stands the test of time.

​For me, cross-cultural collaboration isn't just a professional pursuit; it's an inherent part of being a migrant. Every trip to the grocery store or social gathering becomes an exercise in cultural fusion, a constant balancing act of understanding what resonates and thrives across different contexts. This approach is absolutely central to November Noon. While its influence might have been more immediately apparent in Badaam, November Noon requires a trained eye to truly see the intricate cultural dialogues at play.

​What kind of conversations do you find yourself having with the people who wear November Noon? Have their responses - emotional, sensory, or sartorial - shaped your understanding of how a woven garment is seen and taken to.

​I've noticed that most people are a bit taken aback when they realise we're an India-based brand. They often assume we operate from outside the country. This reaction, for me, is actually a good thing. It means we're succeeding in our goal: to challenge customers to rethink their perceptions of what an Indian brand should look like. It pains me that Indian textiles and styles dominate the world stage, yet often without true appreciation for their origins.

​The conversations that arise often unknowingly touch upon the guilt I sometimes carry alongside the term 'modernism.' A part of me understands that I'm creating garments that speak to an international market. Yet, when I speak with each wearer, I sense that our garments bring a unique comfort, as though we’ve truly understood their nomadic soul with its Indian heart. I don't want "modernism" to mean diluting or changing a garment's essence; it's about evolving it thoughtfully, authentically. Also, people instinctively sense when the creative director and the maker share similar roots—they can tell that a brand carries a different weight, a deeper authenticity, through those shared cultural codes. True engagement means interacting with a culture in respectful ways that allow it to be carried forward, rather than diminished.

​Follow November Noon here.

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