The dhurrie weavers of Ghanda Bana

“The first day, Majidan smacked my hand like this,” says 65-year-old Qarsaed Begum, playfully reenacting the moment. Sitting next to her, Majidan Begum, still amused at the old story, defends her actions immediately. “Qarsaed didn’t know how to work with the threads initially. I smacked her only once,” she says, and adds, “then she quickly learned.”

In Ghanda Bana, a village in Punjab’s Bathinda district, the two elderly women, Majidan and Qarsaed are well known for the detailed and vibrant dhurries [rugs] they weave from cotton, jute, and even old clothes.

“I learned how to weave dhurries from Majidan at the age of 35,” says Qarsaed. “Since then, we have been weaving dhurries together,” says 71-year-old Majidan. “It is not just one person’s job, but a task for two.”

The duo, related to each other by marriage to two brothers, refer to themselves as sisters and family members. “We feel no different than real sisters,” says Qarsaed. Majidan quickly adds, “even though our natures are completely opposite." To which Qarsaed responds swiftly saying, “she is upfront. However, I stay quiet.”

Despite the hours they spend weaving dhurries , Majidan and Qarsaed also work as domestic helpers for a few thousand rupees a month so they can support their family. Both are physically demanding jobs, especially for women at their age.

On the humid morning of Eid, Majidan navigates the narrow lanes of Ghanda Bana towards Qarsaed's home. "Every household in this village would welcome me with open doors," she says proudly. "That's how much work I've done over the years."

Their reputation extends beyond the village too. People from distant places send messengers to check with Majidan if the duo can make rugs. “But nearby villages or towns like Phul, Dhapali, and Rampura Phul, who know me well for weaving dhurries , come directly to my house,” Majidan says.

When PARI met them a few months ago (April 2024), the two artisans were weaving a phulkari dhurrie , a flower-embroidered rug for a Ghanda Bana resident. The family wanted to present the rug to their daughter who was getting married soon.  “The dhurrie is for her daaj [trousseau],” Majidan said.

The flowers were created using combinations of two different coloured threads provided by the customer. “When weaving a flower pattern, we incorporate various colours of weft threads in between,” explains Majidan, lifting 10 white warp (vertical) threads to pass a yellow weft (horizontal) thread, then repeating the process for a blue one. Leaving a gap, she continues, this time making a green and black flower.

“Once the flowers are complete, we will weave about one foot of the dhurrie using only red weft threads,” Majidan says. There is no tape to measure the fabric, instead Majidan uses her hands. It’s something she and Qarsaed have done since the beginning as neither ever went to school.

As the two push the weft threads into place using hathas [comb reeds], Majidan remarks again, “the design is all in my head.” Among the dhurries she has woven so far, she’s proud of the one with a peacock and another with 12 pariyaans [fairies]. These were given to both her daughters for their daaj .

In Majidan’s pucca home, their workstation reflects careful attention to detail. She shares the room where they work with her 10-year-old grandson, Imran Khan. The 14 x 14-foot space is dominated by a 10-foot-long metal frame known locally as an 'adda' and used for weaving tapestry. The rest of the room has multiple charpais (string cots), some leaning against the wall and one beside the frame; a large steel trunk filled with clothes and belongings lies to the side. A single light bulb illuminates the room, but Majidan and Qarsaed rely on the sunlight that enters through the door for essential lighting.

They start by winding the warp—vertical threads—across a nearly 10-foot metal frame. “Winding the warp threads is the most difficult task in weaving dhurries ,” remarks Majidan. The tightly wound warp is stretched lengthwise around a metal beam.

The two weavers sit on a plank placed above the metal frame that supports the tapestry they will create. The process starts with manipulating the heddle – a bar used for faster and simpler weaving – to open and close the shed of the loom. The shed is what separates the warp threads from each other. This creates the patterns the rug will eventually take on.

Alternating with each other, the two craftswomen pass the horizontal weft threads [ bana ] through the warp threads ( tana ) using a wooden stick, creating intricate designs. Majidan winds the warp to create various motifs that she says are “based on an idea that exists in her head.” There is no pattern or stencil she is referencing to replicate the design.

Hard as it seems, the job is much easier now.  “Before this we used to hammer four big iron kile [nails] in the ground in each of the four corners. We would place wooden beams on them creating a frame and then wind warp around them to weave,” Qarsaed says. “That adda was immovable unlike this one," says Majidan. So when they want a change of setting, “we drag it into the courtyard.”

The two women don’t receive much financial help from their families. Majidan's youngest son, Riyasat Ali, was a truck driver but now works in a cow shelter for Rs. 500 a day. Her eldest son is a local reporter in Barnala.  Two of Qarsaed’s sons work as welders, while her third son is a daily wage labourer.

Majidan began weaving much earlier than Qarsaed. The disciplinary tactics inflicted on her were not too different, though. “My parjaayi [sister-in-law] smacked me on my tui [buttocks] to teach me,” Majidan says, speaking of her other sister-in-law, who taught her how to weave.

“Even though I was a short-tempered girl, I remained silent because I was eager to learn.”  And she did, in less than a month “despite my initial frustration and tears.”

Majidan’s assertiveness showed when after her father’s passing, her mother became the sole earning member. The 14-year-old Majidan insisted on helping her mother, despite initial reluctance. “ Bebe [mother] would gently refuse, saying [I can’t because] ‘I am a girl’,” Majidan recalls. “But I persisted, questioning why being a girl should stop me from helping the family.”

The family was profoundly impacted by the Partition of India – her maternal grandparents’ family lived in Pakistan, a fact that still fills Majidan with longing. When she visited them in the 1980s, she went with gifts – two hand-woven dhurries which “they really liked,” she says.

Despite the hours of labour, the women earn only Rs. 250 each for a single dhurrie. “We usually charge 1,100 rupees for weaving a dhurrie . If the customer provides the soot [yarn thread], we charge only 500 rupees for our labour,” Majidan explains. “When I started, an entire dhurrie was woven for 20 rupees. Now, we barely make enough,” Majidan recalls. “A litre of milk costs 60 rupees in the village. Imagine my expenses in a month,” Qarsaed laments.

Majidan and Qarsaed raised their children with great difficulty as both their husbands were unemployed. “I worked as a domestic help for Jat Sikh families, who gave me essentials to take home. I fed my children with that,” Qarsaed adds. Majidan, who lives with her youngest son and his family, and Qarsaed, who lives with her family of eight, often think about those hard times.

Up until three years ago, they would pick cotton during the busy cotton harvesting season between September and October. They would spin this into yarn, which supplemented their earnings, making Rs 200 a day for picking 40 kilos of cotton. "Nowadays, most farmers sow paddy instead," Majidan remarks. This shift has significantly impacted their lives. Government records show a sharp decline in cotton cultivation in Punjab, dropping from 420,000 hectares in 2014-15 to 240,000 hectares in 2022-23.

In March, Majidan reluctantly retired her charkha for spinning thread and yarn; it lies abandoned in a shed. The demand for dhurries has also fallen sharply — they once crafted 10 to 12 a month, now they manage only two. Their sole steady income is a monthly widow pension of Rs. 1,500 from the state government.

After over an hour of work, Qarsaed and Majidan take a short break and stretch their legs. Qarsaed mentions her aching back, and Majidan presses her knees and says, "I'm finding it difficult to walk today. My joints are hurting." Both also complain of weakening eyesight.

“ Banda ban ke kaam kita hai [I have worked like a man], and I continue to do so at my age,” Majidan adds, as she manages this household solely on her modest earnings.

Despite her age and the aches that accompany it, Majidan has to supplement her pension and the money she gets from crafting dhurries . Every day at 7 am, she walks a few kilometers to cook for a family, earning Rs. 2,000 a month. She and Qarsaed also work as domestic helpers, earning Rs. 70 per hour.

Despite their long days, they find time to weave dhurries . “If we weave every day, we can finish a dhurrie in a week,” Qarsaed says.

Majidan considers quitting weaving. “Maybe after finishing this one and one more, I’ll stop. Sitting for long hours has become difficult. It pains me here,” she says, revealing stitches from last year's gallbladder surgery. “Whatever years are left – one or two perhaps – I intend to live them well.”

The next day, however, any thought of retirement seems forgotten.  A frail woman, in her early eighties Balbir Kaur arrives with an order for a dhurrie from another village. “ Mai [mother], ask the family if they want the dhurrie to use in their home or for their daughter’s trousseau,” Majidan instructs the old woman, handing her a hundred rupees.

This story is supported by a fellowship from Mrinalini Mukherjee Foundation (MMF).