Sometimes, an experience from many years ago comes back to us in an unexpected way. We may have moved on to other work, but something we learnt during that time stays with us. We understand its importance only much later.
My association with Malkha was one such experience. In many ways, I feel that the work I am doing today with indigenous and regenerative cotton has its roots in those early interactions with Malkha and, particularly, with Uzramma.
Where It All Began
I first came across the idea of Malkha through DCYT (Decentralized Cotton Yarn Trust). At that time, I was doing consultancy work and had not yet become involved in the many projects that later occupied my time.
The idea was simple. Instead of sending cotton to large spinning mills and bringing the yarn back to the weavers, why not establish small spinning units closer to the farmers and weavers?
The farmer would grow the cotton, a local unit would spin it into yarn, and the weaver would get yarn suited to the kind of fabric he wanted to make.
It was an attempt to bring farming, spinning and weaving closer to each other. The people involved would have more control over the material and the process.
I liked the idea, but I don’t think I fully understood its importance at that time.
Malkha was where I began experiencing it more closely.
A Cup of Coffee and a New Beginning
I don’t remember whether the coffee came before the camera or the camera before the coffee.
I was working on some textile projects when Uzramma, the founder of Malkha, called and asked if I could photograph some of her handmade jewellery.
I agreed. I had some time and was curious to see what she was making.
What interested me during that visit was not just the jewellery. It was the way Uzramma spoke about materials, processes and the reasons behind the things she was doing. There was a lot of thought behind her work.
Her house was beautiful, and I ended up using some of its objects and spaces as props for the photographs. The shoot took about half a day.
I also remember the coffee she made for me. It was the first time I had freshly ground coffee made that way. Even today, whenever I visit her, I don’t hesitate to ask for a cup.
A few days later, she called and asked if I would be interested in doing some design development for Malkha.
The brief was to move beyond plain fabrics, explore natural motifs, introduce new designs and diversify the products.
That was how my association with Malkha began.
I worked with them on two occasions, once in 2009 and again sometime between 2012 and 2014. I need to check my records for the exact dates. There were some interesting disagreements and learning experiences during those years.
Eventually, other projects took me in different directions, but my interest in Malkha yarn never went away.
A Number That Raised Questions
Many years later, on 2 December 2020, I received a message from someone I did not immediately recognise. It was Gauri, who had taken over responsibilities after Uzramma. She mentioned that she followed my work on social media and wanted to discuss some difficulties they were facing.
Within a couple of weeks, we had arranged a meeting.
Malkha was going through a difficult period. There were differences of opinion, questions about its functioning and concerns about its future.
During the discussion, someone involved in natural dyeing raised a question about the accounts.
He felt that the yarn counts recorded in the accounts were strange. According to him, mill-spun yarn usually came in round numbers such as 40s, 60s, 80s or 120s. But Malkha’s records showed numbers like 27.
He suspected something was wrong.
I immediately understood where the confusion was coming from.
Malkha yarn was not mill-spun yarn. It was custom-carded and spun. Its character came from the way the fibre behaved during spinning.
Unlike mill yarn, where uniformity is the main objective, hand-spun yarn naturally has variations. Some portions are finer, while others are thicker. These differences are part of its character.
When tested, one portion might be around 32s or 33s, while another could be 24s or 25s. The count of 27 recorded in the accounts was an average calculated from the length and weight of the yarn.
It did not mean that every inch of the yarn was exactly the same thickness.
What appeared to be an accounting problem was actually a misunderstanding of the material.
Once I explained this, the atmosphere in the room changed. People began to understand why the numbers were different and what they actually represented.
The discussion then moved towards the future of Malkha. The group decided that it deserved another opportunity to continue. A six-member committee was formed to look after the organisation for the next six or seven months, after which the responsibility was handed over to others.
I don’t know how much that one explanation contributed to the larger decision, but I felt it was important that people understood what they were trying to preserve.
What Stayed With Me
I have often thought about that meeting and the number 27.
It was interesting that something which gave Malkha yarn its identity had become a reason to question its credibility.
We are so used to measuring things against standards that we sometimes forget to ask whether those standards are appropriate in the first place.
We expect yarn to be uniform, fabric to be consistent and products to look the same. Anything that falls outside these expectations is often treated as a problem that needs correction.
But handmade processes don’t always follow these rules.
A hand spinner works with the fibre as it comes. The cotton, its length, the preparation, the tools and the spinner’s hands all influence the yarn. These variations tell us something about the material and the person working with it.
If we try to remove every variation, we may end up removing the very character that makes the yarn special.
My association with Malkha helped me understand this much more closely. It also made me curious about cotton beyond the yarn itself. I wanted to understand the varieties, the farmers, the spinning processes and the possibilities of working with cotton closer to where it grows.
Looking back, I feel that the seed of much of my present work with indigenous and regenerative cotton was sown during those years.
Malkha also taught me to recognise the areas where things could go wrong. It showed me that a good idea alone is not enough. The people, the systems, the understanding of the material and the relationships between them all matter.
I continue to question many of the standards we accept without thinking.
Who decided them? What were they created for? Do they apply to every material and every process? Are we improving something, or are we simply trying to make everything look alike?
Perhaps the most important thing I learnt was that we need to understand something before we decide whether it needs improvement.
The number 27 was never just a yarn count. It reminded me that what looks like an irregularity to one person can be the very identity of a material to another.
