CRAFTING A RIVER

Between the two ends of a loom, a river flows. 

The weaver sits on one bank, shaping the river. 

Warp meets weft, the fabric's ebb and tide, so 

the textile breathes. Creating a river is backbreaking 

work. You have to rein in the warps through reeds, 

link each weft in with a shuttle, calculations to be

done with the math skill of a mother who has mastered 

keeping her brood together. The river swells with colours, 

its waves carrying shades the rangrez infused into each thread. 

Slowly, temples and gardens grow on its banks, paisley 

pearls and buds bloom on its body. In an ancient city, 

drooping men weave crimson rivers for new brides 

 

and murmur the songs of a master weaver who worked

the loom and crafted a luminous tapestry without 

a single hole. A river so whole, it forgot its banks.