Story of Pochampalli


Colors in the room, colors in the backyard
Colors in the walls and colors in the neighborhood

I grew up with the colors in every single room
I grew up with the rhythmic sounds made by the loom
For my father was a weaver and his hands weaved magic
He would make an art with every piece of fabric

Sitting in front of the looms, he would weave for hours every day
My mother and I helped him dye colors, some times blue, some times green and sometimes just gray

I couldn’t resist and I tried to learn but my father would say study first and I need to grow up for my turn
Years went by but I still waited for my turn
turns out my father never wanted me to learn
For we were weavers and we weaved magic
But there was no decent income but couldn’t understand the logic

My father grew old, the sounds of the looms started to die down
I finished my studies, in search of a good job, my father sent me to the town
Months passed, I didn’t find a job, I then decided to go back to weaving
After all it was our tradition and I could not see it dying

All these years my father only worked for the master weaver
He neither knew the market trend nor the market demand, for he never met the customer
The prices of silk went up, the demand for the sarees went down
It didn’t make me long to understand why my farther forced me to the town

I’m now desperate and I’m now poor
I tried all the options and I knocked on every door
I abandoned the tradition and moved to the town
For I see no future and I left my tradition to die down

Some of you might remember, we had worked on the Pochampalli project for a couple of years. While we did make good progress, in the last year or so things got terribly slowed down and the above is just my (crude) reflection of the ground reality

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