Kanthas were a part of my growing up years.
Elderly grandmothers, on those mist-laced afternoons, when the sun and the fog would play hide-and-seek, would gather in a courtyard, their backs to the sun, deep in conversation, while their adept fingers flew on the kantha quilts they were working on. The base of the kantha was more often than not old worn out sarees, several of them stitched one over the other. Typically made for the newborn to sleep on or to be lovingly wrapped in.
The magic was the intricate embroidery. Artistry that transformed the mundane to the superlative, the kantha was a labor of love, a gift to cherish, to proudly pass down generations. It was millions of tiny running stitches, in a gamut of bright full-of – life colours, somewhere just a lonely line, somewhere a dense crowd, depicting a panorama of humble rural life – the flora and fauna, pristine pink lilies, redder than red hibiscus. Pompous peacocks. Pretty parrots. Beautiful butterflies. Depictions from parables and fables. Local myths and folklores. Feasts and festivals. A gorgeous celebration of life.
Over time, the humble kantha embroidery came to adorn sarees – exquisite needlework showcased proudly on a six yard canvas. I love my kantha stitch sarees and can’t miss the slightest chance to get them out. Here I wear a mustard yellow saree with beautiful maroon and black kantha work for a quiet family dinner.