Specially Written for Vikalp Sangam

Setting the scene

The scenic hills of the Western Ghats greet me, as I walk down through the foliage with Manju Vasudevan, founder of Forest Post. She tells me, “This road we’re walking on is such a new and unwanted addition”! Before, this village of Adichilthotti in the Edamalayar valley was inaccessible by road, and Manju had been trekking through the forest to reach the women weavers of this village. 

Through the valley, streams gurgle;  the sky is cloudy, with the sun peeking out. While humid, the shade beneath the trees is welcome, and with so many trees covering the path we’re walking, the path is hardly a difficult one with so much beauty around us. The Muthuvar people, the community we are visiting, live in mud huts, hamlets scattered in little pockets along the valley, each connected by foot-trails carved by many generations walking the same paths. We first stop by the house of Nagamma , one of the village’s master weavers, and she greets us with a wide smile and tells us, “all the women have gone out to farm, rest a bit while you wait for them!”

Nagamma learned how to weave the kannadipaaya (a mat woven from bamboo strips, with a sheen on one side, its uniqueness is in its portability through its tight roll) at the feet of her mother, watching as the bamboo criss-crossed into fascinating designs. And Kanakamma, nicknamed Pāti (grandmother) by her fellow weavers and community, has passed her skill on to the younger weavers in the community. The kannadipaaya is their strength, their functional need as a mat to sleep on and use, and their enduring tradition. It is this tradition that Forest Post has now turned into a sustainable income for these women of Adichilthotti, with a focus on using the same weaving methods and materials to suit a more contemporary audience. 

I sit with Nagamma, Pāti, and Manju, as Nagamma tells me that back in the day, they learned this weaving craft from their mothers, and the tradition passed down from mother to daughter. The tradition of weaving the paaya is a long-enduring one, but was slowly petering out as newer, cheaper and ‘more accessible’ materials were available. The paayas were replaced by plastic mats as the women also were sucked into the dream of development, traditional knowledge reducing as the manifestations of this dream arrived with more alacrity (an example of this idea of ‘helping tribal communities’ was giving each family some poultry to look after, as well as the agriculture department sourcing their foraged forest produce.). But with Forest Post’s and Manju’s encouragement, slowly the tradition of weaving the paaya was reawakened, coming out of both a deep-seated need to nurture that connection, but also interest in supplementing their livelihood through their own weaving. 

It is a way for Pāti  to also connect with her community, as she is currently childless; the other women she has taught, including master weavers like Revathi and Rathi, knew the ways to weave but were further encouraged and given that space to weave by Pāti, and by Manju’s and Forest Post’s intervention. Specifically used for sleeping, the kannadipaaya is woven with smoked bamboo strips crossing each other in square patterns. 

Alternative: the Weaving Craft

The method of weaving for the kannadipaaya creates a light-refracting effect into the mat, earning the kannadipaaya its name: mirror-mat. The process of making the paaya starts with gathering the bamboo (Ochlandra travancorica), foraged from the forests. The bamboo is then stripped down, creating strips from the inner node of the bamboo locally known as ‘Njoonjiletta’, which are already shiny by virtue of them being the fourth and the fifth strips used. 

A kannadipaaya can be started from any place, depending on the weaver’s preference; as the twill weave criss-crosses, the square spirals out to create the iconic mirror effect and goes on in either a continuous, seamlessly melded square next to it, or a continual pattern that reveals glimpses of squares occasionally. Both styles can be changed according to the size of the desired paaya, of course. 

There are many kinds of paayas woven, but the kannadipaaya is special because its gathering of materials, the bamboo, takes such time and dedication in even stripping and treating the reeds. The paaya is precious, a sign of mindfulness woven into a mat that can curl up and be kept away efficiently. For sale, once the kannadipaayas are woven they are smoked carefully, preserving them from fungus. The cycle of gathering-weaving-smoking is a solitary one, although with Manju’s intervention the women gather their bamboo and sometimes even strip it collectively. However, the actual weaving is traditionally done in private, although the younger girls do observe their elders’ weaving and pick it up from them. 

Emotions woven within the kannadipaaya 

The interest for these women to weave was always there, but the need did go away with the advent of cheaper mats made of plastic and other inferior materials to bamboo. While used primarily for sleeping, and thus having a practical need for their existence, the kannadipaaya is still a tradition being revived. Weaving is a very integral part of any culture because of its long-drawn period of creation, its (frequently) daily use in the weaver’s life, and its reflective nature, either personally or communally (or even both). For the women in Adichilthotti, weaving the kannadipaaya is deeply personal. It is their escape from their other duties, their retreat from responsibilities thrust upon them by their families and their community; as Nagamma tells me (and translated by Manju): “We do it because we enjoy doing it.”

Manju and Forest Post have simply provided incentive to these women to keep weaving, and to keep taking space that is reflective for themselves. The responses the women give me to my questions are brief; but as Manju tells me, while we are the ones asking these questions and expecting certain answers, it is up to us listeners documenting their stories to extrapolate and grasp their emotions so their narratives can be woven together, like the kannadipaaya takes form with interlocking strands of bamboo. 

Building from this extrapolation, I can’t help but wonder, what is the relationship between need and want for these women? There is a practicality to them weaving their kannadipaayas that cannot really be romanticised, and perhaps should not be either. What I find beautiful and engaging in this act of weaving is the patience, the pride in the tradition of this weaving, and the independence of income it brings. This independence of income is facilitated by Forest Post’s intervention, starting with slowly selling one kannadipaaya at a time, and now collecting at least five or six so that they can be sold on the digital platform Forest Post has created. Each paaya is priced at about 3000 INR per piece, which Manju pays the weavers upfront and adds a nominal cost when putting them up for sale on the Forest Post website. Above all, there is a true enjoyment in this act that cannot be overlooked, and while it means different things for each of these women (such as reflection, such as space for oneself, such as mindfulness) it still is a space of enjoyment; as Revathi, one of the master weavers, says, “These are for our own houses, but even when we weave for you, we enjoy the process of weaving.”

Forest Post’s intervention

Started in 2021, Forest Post is an initiative that amplifies adivasi tribes’ forest produce, adding elements that would suit contemporary buyers searching for sustainable alternatives. The space works with about seven villages, and has built trust with these tribes through a 6-year long journey. In the course of this journey, founder Dr Manju Vasudevan (an ecologist who also spearheads the Conservation and Livelihoods Program at River Research Centre, Kerala, and whose work has focussed on helping assert Community Forest Rights of forest-dwelling people by using the cooperative model of enterprise building) has been supplementing the livelihoods the tribes (especially the women) were already earning, with ideas for products such as wild honey with shatavari (asparagus), herbal hair oils, and so on. 

The women have been weaving the kannadipaaya in a square of twill weave for generations, but what Forest Post has provided these women is a source of income from their craft, amplifying the beauty of the kannadipaaya and its uniqueness. Aiding this massively, Forest Post has helped them get the kannadipaaya a Geographical Indication tag, used to denote something specifically originating from and distinctive to a particular territory/locality. 

Revathi mentions to me, “I learned the skill when I was younger (in another village), and I was given the space to weave here (post-marriage). I have loved weaving because I like making beautiful pieces, and this is the space I have created, when I stop thinking about my other responsibilities and weave for myself.” Manju and Forest Post have brought this skill of weaving and the kannadipaaya to a larger audience of appreciation, aiding the self-reliance of these women, these weavers, with something they genuinely enjoy partaking in. 

Conclusion

“The reason why we take the smoking of the paaya so seriously, is because the fungus attaches itself so quickly to it,” Manju tells me while we’re resting beside a trickling stream. “The only way to avoid it is to use it regularly.” This line, for me, encapsulates the practicality, the utility, the patience, and the beautiful uniqueness that is woven into the kannadipaaya, that I have tried to document within this story. This initiative is an alternative because it exemplifies the values of meaningful work and livelihoods for these women, as well as sustaining their close relationship with the forests surrounding them. The bamboo sourced from the forests, interwoven with the emotions I have tried to describe, creates a livelihood that is both traditionally meaningful and provides an independent income source for the women master weavers. 

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