A cold lassi in Sanganer, and the rooms where every Paisley Affair print begins.
The lassi arrived in earthen cups.
Each one was capped with a square of paper and tied with cotton thread, and the moment they came through the door, the whole room smelled of it: cool, sweet, just a little tangy.
I had tried to say no. It was late morning in Sanganer, in the middle of a hot summer, and I didn't want Bhagat Ji to go to any trouble on my account. He wouldn't hear of it. There was a lassi place nearby, he said, and I simply had to taste it.
He was right.
Bhagat Fabrics, Sanganer.
Where the color begins
Getting there is always part of the joy. The lanes of Sanganer are narrow and old, the ground underfoot bare earth, and on either side, walls washed in bright color and covered in hand-drawn designs. Mandalas at the thresholds. Arched doorways. Metal jaali work over the doors. Nothing plain, nothing simply modern. Every surface carries some detail, some care.
Walking through, you begin to understand that the intricacy on the cloth isn't decoration. It's a way of life here, and it's everywhere you look.
And then you step inside a shop, and the color begins.
Fabric, stacked from the floor to the ceiling.
Every bolt a small celebration.
Someone unfolds one for you, then another, then another. And I stand there in awe of color combinations I could never have imagined on my own, and motifs so intricate you want to trace them with a fingertip.
But what I remember most isn't the fabric.
It's the warmth.
There is a pride in those rooms, the quiet kind that comes from a craft carried through generations. When I pass on a print, and to keep the collection true I often have to, the enthusiasm doesn't fade for a second. Within moments another bolt is open on the table, and with it a new suggestion for how I might use it.
No one lets you stay thirsty. Water, tea, lassi: something to ease the long trip and the heat outside.
I sat with that cold lassi, tired in body and mind, and it struck me how rarely I sit on this side of it.
At home, I'm the one who does this. When someone walks through our door, I make sure they're settled and comfortable, that there's something cold if it's hot outside and something warm if it's cold. I do it quietly, without anyone needing to ask.
That morning, someone did it for me.
And it felt so good to be taken care of.
Surrounded by prints I would soon bring home to you, I thought: this is what a label can never tell you.
Not where something was made.
But how.
And that is only where the cloth begins.
What happens next happens in Jaipur, in five small rooms: Five Small Rooms