Back to the Printing Table
After almost a year of taking a break from making block-printed Khadi sarees, last July, I decided to get back to the printing table again — the smell of dyes, the rhythmic tap of the block against the fabric, and the joy of watching patterns come to life. It felt like it was time to return.
While we have always woven 56-count Khadi fabric in Karnataka, I wondered if the sarees could be lighter, with a distinct fall and a slightly richer texture. So, I asked the Khadi Sangha if they could use 72-count yarn on the weft instead of 56-counts. It was a bold ask. They were initially reluctant and said, "Sir, you'll have to source and send us the yarn yourself."
In a few days, I hunted and shipped the yarn to them. I kept my fingers crossed, hoping it would work. A week later, I received a call from the secretary. "The yarn is good. It's strong. We can go ahead." Relief washed over me.
By early September, unbleached Khadi fabric was ready. As always, I transferred the payment and collected the fabric from the bus station the next day.
But there was one thing we had to do before printing — wash the starch off the fabric. So we cut the fabric into 5.50-meter lengths, bundled it up, and sent it for a thorough wash.
A week later, the washed fabric arrived. I opened the parcel, excited to touch the softened texture. But as I unfolded it, my heart sank. The fabric had a slippage problem. The threads had shifted in parts, creating tiny gaps in the weave — a nightmare.
I frantically called the sangha. After some back-and-forth, I discovered the root of the problem. The weaver hadn't changed the reed when switching from 56-count yarn to 72-count. It was heartbreaking. Months of planning, sourcing, and weaving resulted in a fabric we couldn't use.
I had two choices — give up printing sarees or think of an alternative.
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When Things Fall Apart
For the next two days, I did nothing but mourn the wasted fabric. I kept unfolding it, hoping to unsee the slippage, but the flaw was undeniable.
Gopala, my tailor, suggested, "Why not quilt this fabric and make garments?" My wife felt it would make a perfect backing material for our quilts. Both suggestions were practical, but my mind wasn't ready to decide yet. I shelved the fabric. Maybe I needed some time away from it to think clearly.
Around the same time, my friend Manas Ghorai was visiting Bengaluru. Meeting him over Masala Dose breakfast had become a ritual every time he was in town. We spent hours talking about work and children. That day, when I mentioned my desire to make block-printed sarees again, Manas didn't think twice about suggesting a printed saree collaboration.
Manas offered to weave the sarees in West Bengal, and I would get them printed here in Bengaluru. We had done this before, and the sarees had sold out quickly. We discussed, agreed, and sealed it over the last bite of Mysore Pak.
Manas returned to Kolkata and immediately started procuring yarn and coordinating production. Meanwhile, I was figuring out my next step — should I travel to a traditional block-printing cluster to get the sarees printed or do it here in Bengaluru? After much thought, we decided to print locally in Bengaluru.
I called Krishna, my block printer, to book printing dates. Krishna was the one person I trusted blindly for my block-prints. But then, life took another turn. Krishna was unwell and admitted to the hospital, and he wasn't sure when he'd recover. I hung up the call and sat still—another setback.
This time, it wasn't just me who was affected—I felt I was failing Manas. I had two choices: call Manas and ask him to stop weaving or find an alternative printer and keep the process moving.
I couldn't bring myself to make the call. I couldn't let this collaboration collapse. But where would I find another printer who could match Krishna's skill and understanding of my work? I didn't have an answer. Not yet.
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A Door Opens in Sanganer
I hadn't seen Swathi in a long time, so when I heard she was visiting Bengaluru for an exhibition, I invited her for lunch. My wife, Brinda, reminded me to call Sankeerthi as well, and thankfully, she obliged. It was a simple, no-fuss lunch: Bisibelebath, Curd Rice, and Moong Dal Payasa.
When three entrepreneurs sit together, our conversations hop from exhibits to influencers, movies to health, and recipes. Contrary to what many may think, small craft-based entrepreneurs incredibly support each other, and our families bond just as easily.
In the middle of our conversations, Swathi casually said, "Why don't you use my block-printing unit in Sanganer, Jaipur?" "Are you serious?" I blurted out. She smiled and said, "Of course. I'll speak to my printer and set it up for you."
I was stunned — it takes an incredibly secure person to open doors for another without hesitation or fear of competition. At that moment, I realised why I admired her so much.
I was back in business.
The very next day, I called Manas to break the news. We had lost a lot of time, but we could still launch the sarees for summer. Manas promised to have the sarees ready by December-end. Meanwhile, I coordinated with Swathi and her team to lock in the printing dates for the first week of January.
Only 50% of the sarees were ready by the third week of December, but that didn't worry me—the plan was only to sample them during my stay in Jaipur.
But then, just three days before my flight, Manas called, saying, "The sarees have been shipped, but the weaver sent them through a local courier. There is no bill, no consignment number, nothing."
This was 1660 kilometres away, and the sarees were now in transit—completely untraceable. If the parcel was lost, there was no way to claim compensation or get them back.
I had already booked my flight. My hole-in-the-wall hotel room was reserved. The printer's time was blocked. If the sarees didn't reach in time, my entire trip would be in vain. Both of us were helpless. Neither the weaver nor the courier service knew where the sarees were.
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Of Lost Sarees and Mushroom Paneer
The craft industry is oddly organised. Things rarely go according to plan, but miraculously, they always find a way to fall into place—at least in my case. A day before I arrived in Jaipur, the printer called to say that the sarees had finally arrived.
I flew to Jaipur with an unsure pilot but landed safely and on time. I checked into the hotel by noon. The hotel was small, but the rooms were big. It gave 1980s classic Ramsay horror movie vibes.
A three-seater sofa with a lion's head armrest was not something I expected. But what I expected was the broken false sealing and the filth. I didn't mind — I had asked for this budget stay. What I did mind, however, was their speciality dish — Mushroom Paneer. It tasted like the mushrooms were growing on the paneer.
This assault was nothing compared to the 9 degrees; Jaipur was determined to introduce me to all my old bones. I layered up like a Himalayan trekker and headed to Sanganer's printing unit.
I first observed their system — how they printed, the blocks they had, and how they worked. There was a clear language barrier between us — meaning they had a good language, and I was the barrier. To ease things, I did what I always do with North Indians — handed him a box of Mysore Pak and politely requested he learn my Southern Hindi.
I was particular about not carrying my blocks from Bengaluru or commissioning new ones. I wanted to use their old blocks and create something distinct that considered both brands' design and colour combination ethos. It's an act/art of balance without compromises.
After considering various techniques, I zeroed in on Discharge Printing — a method Swathi had suggested earlier. I spent the next few hours photographing their blocks and mentally composing designs.
By evening, I walked back to my hotel and started sketching. By the time I finished drawing, it was 3 a.m. I was so hungry that, for a split second, I considered eating their speciality again.
Tomorrow, I would test these designs on cloth — and if they worked, I knew we were onto something special. But I still had no idea what fate had planned for me the next day.
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A moment of pause
I am an early morning person, which means I get hungry early, too. So, for breakfast, I settled for roadside Kachori and Adrak Chai.
Sitting on the footpath with the locals, eavesdropping on their conversations, admiring their lyrical language, basking in the sharp early morning winter sun, and enjoying the steam from a broken kachori is addictive, to say the least. The Michelin-star-worthy kachori and chai cost me 25 Rs a day, and I repeated this breakfast for three days.
Business travel like this is never about luxury — it's about keeping costs low so the overhead on our sarees remains minimal. Early bird flight bookings, frugal breakfast and lunch, budget hotel stays, walking everywhere — all this is to ensure that our sarees are offered to you at a fair price.
I reached the printer's workshop in Sanganer early. It was the first time I touched the sarees woven by the weavers of Manasghorai. The texture and weight couldn't have been better.
Discharge printing is a technique that removes the dye from the dyed fabric to create patterns. But here is the catch. Our sarees were kora and not dyed in any colour. So, how does one discharge print on Kora!?
This is why we came to Sanganer — where the printers don't just remove colour but can also add colour using discharge print dyes. We chose the latter. The next three days were intense, working with their traditional blocks while pushing design boundaries.
Another complexity was the colour transformation. The dyes applied during printing would turn into a different shade once steamed and another once washed. It was like printing with invisible ink and hoping the final colour appeared as imagined! We steamed, washed, and checked — the results were exactly what we intended.
The printer was impressed. He admired the sarees and then casually asked, "Why don't you increase the production of these sarees?" I explained that weaving Khadi takes time and involves high investment. To which he casually replied, "Why don't you go for power loom fabric?"
I immediately paused and asked myself — Is it worth printing on Khadi?
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And Nine months later
We tend to think and work in silos. We focus exclusively on our singular craft traditions without effective collaboration with others. This fragmentation creates artificial boundaries between crafts that historically evolved in conversation with one another, leading to missed opportunities for innovation and cross-pollination of techniques.
To be clear, I have nothing against power loom fabrics or synthetic textiles as long as they are sold honestly.
The disconnection of an Ajrak printer printing on a power loom fabric or a Mangalgiri textile weaver getting digital prints on his sarees prevents artisans from seeing their work within a holistic craft ecosystem and sustainable production practices.
Breaking down these craft silos could encourage collaborative design thinking, integrated production chains, and a more resilient craft economy that honours traditional skills while embracing evolving market realities.
And I said all the above to the printer in my superior Hindi before he walked away.
He must have thought, "Who goes this far for Khadi?" The truth is — small brands like ours do.
We know Khadi isn't scalable efficiently, but it can be produced sufficiently—slowly and meaningfully. That's precisely why small brands working with various crafts matter. We go the extra mile, invest time, and stay patient so you get a product that carries the touch of many hands and touches many lives.
The journey of these sarees took nine long months. From an idea to its final form, countless hands worked on it. Spinners, weavers, printers, auxiliary workers—and Manas and I—have put in honest labour, ensuring the sarees retain authenticity.
The artisans of West Bengal weave these sarees under the supervision of Manas Ghorai, and they are discharge block-printed in Swathi's studio in Sanganer. I designed them. The result? A saree that doesn't look like a typical "Sanganeri Print" but has its unique design language.
You can browse our capsule collection of Discharge-Printed Khadi Sarees here. We hope you will love them as much as we loved making them.