For these weavers, the loom is a shrine

MUMBAI: “There are very few ethnic communities in the world where both men and women weave, and that’s what makes the Rupshu-pa, the nomadic pastoralists of Eastern Ladakh, special,’’ notes Monisha Ahmed, familiar face on the city’s culture circuit.
The men weave fabric for tents, saddle-bags and blankets, while the women weave clothing, carpets and certain varieties of blankets and saddle-bags,’’ adds the Oxford-educated social anthropologist.
Her recently released book, Living Fabric , on these little-known Himalayan herdspeople, has won the Textile Society of America’s Shep Award for best book in the field of ethnic textile studies. Over the last decade, Ms Ahmed has spent many months living among the Buddhist Rupshu-pa, learning all aspects of their life by studying their textiles.
Quite like Judy Frater of Kala Raksha did with the Rabaris of Kutch. “I first encountered the Rupshu-pa—who number a mere 400—in 1987, while teaching for a few months in Ladakh as fresh graduate from Xavier’s. I was so intrigued by their weaving tradition that I decided to do my doctoral dissertation at Oxford on the Rupshu,’’ says Ms Ahmed, whose love for textiles was sparked by the legendary Nellie Sethna, from whom she learnt weaving. For the Rupshu-pa, weaving is a sacred activity.
“The loom is a shrine, the sound of the beater the voice of the Buddha.’’ They do not sell what they weave; they only sell raw wool, including pashmina. They weave (only in the summer) with wool from their yak, sheep and goats: the men using wool straight off the animal to make basic striped fabric; the women using dyed wool (and now acrylic yarn) to make richer, patterned fabric. Children are taught to spin at the age of 10 and to weave at 16. The Rupshu’s woven textiles have symbolic as well as practical significance. They are a pointer to their religious and social dynamics.
Although the fabrics woven by women are quite as essential as those woven by men, there’s a thread of prejudice against women running through the discourse of spinning and weaving, reveals Ms Ahmed. “In the Rupshu creation myth,weaving was the means by which recalcitrant demonesses were transformed into women, and women are obliged to weave regularly to avoid reverting to being demonesses.Men face no such danger.’’
The loom is also a metaphor for fertility. “The warp is the mother and the weft is the child. A woman’s weaving skills are considered all-important. The tighter her weave, the stronger her child. Men always examine a girl’s weaving before deciding if she’ll make a suitable bride.’’
Before she had her babies, the women would quiz Ms Ahmed about why she, a married woman, did not have children. “They were reluctant to let me try my hand at their loom. Perhaps they felt I was unlucky.’’
However, they warmed to her as time went by, especially after she learnt Ladakhi, a Tibetan dialect. “That’s when they began to explain their designs and their significance. As you’d expect, Budhhist symbols, especially the eight lucky signs, are popular design motifs as their use is said to ward off evil spirits and demons.’’
How long will the lifestyle of the Rupshupa remain viable? “There’s a small stream of out-migration, with younger people moving out to Leh in search of a modern lifestyle, but that hasn’t really harmed the community,’’ Ms Ahmed says.
“Many are content to stay the way they are. The main reason for this is the pashmina goat — its wool fetches the Rupshu a fair income.’’