"Weaving Threads of Tradition: The Timeless Legacy of Indian Saris"

At the Saree Factory in Rajasthan, workers hang just-dyed textiles in the sun to dry before folding them up to be transported to shops. Most saris in India are machine-loomed today, but over 2.6 million handloomers still ply their craft here, too. There are major differences in weaving, dyeing, and how women wear saris from region to region.

In Jodhpur, Rajasthan, a woman’s crimson dupatta (shawl) contrasts with the pastel walls of the so-called “blue city.”

Saris, seen drying at a Rajasthan workshop, can be up to nine feet long; it is better to wrap it multiple times around the body. During the Holi festival in Uttar Pradesh, India, women wear traditional red saris and brandish bamboo sticks. They’ll use the sticks to ceremoniously tap men in their village as part of the celebration of the love between Hindu gods Krishna and Radha.

Textile factory workers in Rajasthan’s Saree Factory remove chiffons from giant machine looms. The fabrics are produced in swaths as long as 1,600 feet and then cut into shorter sari lengths. Women in Rajasthan gather up freshly dried saris at a factory. Before chemical dyes were introduced in the 19th century, fabrics were dyed with natural materials like indigo and madder.

Women shop for saris in a store in Jaipur stacked floor-to-ceiling with textiles. Sari shopping can be a multi-hour experience that involves many cups of chai and on-the-spot tailoring.

At the Saree Factory in Rajasthan, workers hang just-dyed textiles in the sun to dry before folding them up to be transported to shops. Most saris in India are machine-loomed today, but over 2.6 million handloomers still ply their craft here, too. There are major differences in weaving, dyeing, and how women wear saris from region to region.

At the Saree Factory in Rajasthan, workers hang just-dyed textiles in the sun to dry before folding them up to be transported to shops.

Most saris leave me speechless.

The surprising history of India’s vibrant sari tradition

South Asian women have draped themselves in colorful silks and cottons for eons. The ways they’re made and worn are dazzling and diverse.

The word “sari” means “strip of cloth” in Sanskrit. But for the Indian women—and a few men—who have been wrapping themselves in silk, cotton, or linen for millennia, these swaths of fabric are more than just simple garments. They’re symbols of national pride, ambassadors for traditional (and cutting-edge) design and craftsmanship, and a prime example of the rich differences in India’s 29 states.

“The sari, both as a symbol and as a reality, has filled the imagination of the subcontinent with its appeal and its ability to conceal and reveal the personality of the person wearing it,” says Delhi-based textile historian Rta Kapur Chishti, author of Saris of India: Tradition and Beyond and co-founder of Taanbaan, a fabric company devoted to reviving and preserving traditional Indian spinning and weaving methods.

The first mention of saris (alternately spelled sarees) is in the Rig Veda, a Hindu book of hymns dating to 3,000 B.C.; draped garments show up on Indian sculptures from the first through sixth centuries, too. What Chishti calls the “magical unstitched garment” is ideally suited to India’s blazingly hot climate and the modest dress customs of both Hindu and Muslim communities. Saris also remain traditional for women in other South Asian countries, including Pakistan, Bangladesh, and Nepal.

India remains one of the last great handicraft cultures. It’s a powerhouse for dyeing, printing, and silk weaving, all represented in at least one of the estimated 30 regional varieties of saris. In the Ganges riverfront city of Varanasi, weavers bend over old-school wooden looms to make Banarasi silk ones, usually in bright red, trimmed with metallic zari thread, and prized by brides. In tropical Kerala, predominantly white sett mundu saris reflect styles popular before 19th-century industrialization brought the colorful aniline dyes—and Crayola-box brights—spotted around the subcontinent today.

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In West Bengal, Balchuri saris flaunt trim based on designs found on the walls of the region’s burned clay terracotta temples. “Every sari has a story about society and the people around it,” says Darshan, a well-known buyer and seller and the chief executive officer of online retailer Silk House Agencies, based in one of our metropolises.

Still, globalization and competition for ever-cheaper merchandise have made machine-loomed saris prevalent in recent decades. Many bad copies of traditional garb are being shipped in from China. Long-time weaving families have found themselves out of work, their looms worthless.

Some women, particularly in rural areas, still wrap and fold themselves into lengths of cotton, linen, or other fabrics for everyday work. “You’re more likely to see saris on older women, aunties, and grandmas in some regions. They might wear one all the time,” says Cristin McKnight Sethi, a South Asian textile expert and professor of art history at George Washington University’s Corcoran School of the Arts and Design. Younger women and city dwellers, she says, might opt for Western clothing or a salwar (tunic and pants suit) most days but a vibrant sari for a wedding or other party. The textile is a symbolic rite of passage for young Hindu girls, who wear a sari or half-length sari for a Ritu Kala Samskara coming-of-age ceremony. The garment has even been wielded as a political prop.

According to Chishti, there are more than one hundred ways to drape a sari, depending on the region, fabric, length and width of the garment, and what the wearer might be doing that day. She created a series of videos showcasing dozens of ways to tie one on. “The younger generation wants to be able to experiment with it, to wear it in various ways,” she says.