7 hours Ago
I grew up reading many Greek myths—whether it was about Sisyphus's exercise in futility, Prometheus's gift of fire to humanity, or Orpheus's fatal mistake of looking back at his beloved in the underworld. Those myths may be far-fetched, but what felt real enough to touch were the myths around the fabled fabric—Dhaka muslin. Something about living in the world's largest delta through which the Meghna River flows made it so.
The river being shrouded by fog, young women with nimble hands weaving away and singing sweet melodies, and the supple softness of the fabric that was believed to be made under water—all these made for perfect conditions for any passerby to spin the myth of mermaids melodising in the mist. The entire process of its production, from extracting the cotton fibre from a yellow flowering plant, Phuti karpas, that grew along the Meghna River to the fabric adorning royalty, involved 16 very elaborate steps that were carried out in different areas around Dhaka. The fibre was carefully cleaned using boal fish teeth attached to its jawbone.
Bowls of water were scattered around during the process of spinning as it aided in the moistening of the air-humidity being a key ingredient to stretch it. The spinning would often take place in boats when humidity was at its peak, in early mornings and late afternoons. Young women carried out this task with their supple fingers and enviable eyesight.
The fabric travelled the rich lands of Bengal and the hands of both the old and young before travelling the world. The Mughals refused to have their portraits drawn adorned in anything else but muslin. To the East, it went to Java and China, where in the early 14th century, the traveller Ibn Battuta wrote that it was highly prized.
This fabric was what members of high society in Europe wore and scandalised entire courts by being accused of indecency in public. As such a fine fabric was unheard of and seldom seen in the West—it captivated the likes of Queen Marie Antoinette, Empress Joséphine Bonaparte, and the esteemed author Jane Austen. However, as quickly as the fabric took the aristocrats of the East and West by storm, it also disappeared in a blink of an eye.
My experience of seeing pieces of Dhaka muslin in the Victoria and Albert Museum in London was a conflicted one. A part of me was glad to see the fabled fabric so beautifully preserved. So many wonderful epithets given to muslin by historians played in my head, like "vapours of dawn," and "woven wind.
" But another part of me was pained, thinking about the "kothis," the Mughals put muslin artisans into that subjected them to extremely harsh conditions, and the unrelenting greed of British colonialism that made this pride of Bengal go extinct. I have heard from disgruntled uncles sipping their late afternoon tea saying that the British cut off the thumbs of the muslin workers to ascertain the production of muslin dried up sooner than their blood spilled to the ground. Aunties discussed, while chopping vegetables, that acres of this fabric could be tucked into their less-than-modestly sized engagement rings.
The capitalist East India Company had no regard for the convoluted nature of how the muslin was made, it only cared that the demand was met. Hence, pressure was put on the artisans of muslin till they cracked. Moreover, the British took advantage of the demand for muslin and hard launched the discount "muslin" produced in the cotton mills of dreary England.
Unfortunately, the cheaper prices they could offer far outweighed the need for the finesse of the real deal. This resulted in the cotton industry of Bengal coming to a screeching halt, and muslin artisans sought employment elsewhere. Fuel was added to the ravaging fire with the famines orchestrated by the terrible policies of the British colonisers in Bengal, which killed off many of these talented artisans.
With their death, the intricate technique of weaving muslin was buried. Perhaps to mourn such a misfortune, Phuti karpas went extinct along the banks of Meghna. The fabled fabric reached up to 1200 thread counts and today's rendition of "muslin" comes nowhere close—like an underachieving son making a mockery of the family name.
However, there have been noteworthy efforts to revive the lost art of muslin weaving, which serves as a glimmer of hope for us to perhaps one day be adorned by this "woven wind," which has been a favourite topic of every textile historian. Moreover, Dhaka and its surrounding areas later developed the traditional art of "jamdani" weaving fortunately, which has been protected as a form of intangible cultural heritage in 2013 by UNESCO. As is quite evident, the success of the Bangladeshi garment industry, which is worth $47 billion today is not without precedence.
But perhaps the rise and fall of muslin serves as a cautionary tale of artisans being squeezed to their limits and also that the extreme industrialisation of any product will result in those crafts being endangered and ultimately going extinct. Raina Sabanta is a barrister. Views expressed in this article are the author's own.
Follow The Daily Star Opinion on Facebook for the latest opinions, commentaries, and analyses by experts and professionals. To contribute your article or letter to The Daily Star Opinion, see our guidelines for submission . I grew up reading many Greek myths—whether it was about Sisyphus's exercise in futility, Prometheus's gift of fire to humanity, or Orpheus's fatal mistake of looking back at his beloved in the underworld.
Those myths may be far-fetched, but what felt real enough to touch were the myths around the fabled fabric—Dhaka muslin. Something about living in the world's largest delta through which the Meghna River flows made it so. The river being shrouded by fog, young women with nimble hands weaving away and singing sweet melodies, and the supple softness of the fabric that was believed to be made under water—all these made for perfect conditions for any passerby to spin the myth of mermaids melodising in the mist.
The entire process of its production, from extracting the cotton fibre from a yellow flowering plant, Phuti karpas, that grew along the Meghna River to the fabric adorning royalty, involved 16 very elaborate steps that were carried out in different areas around Dhaka. The fibre was carefully cleaned using boal fish teeth attached to its jawbone. Bowls of water were scattered around during the process of spinning as it aided in the moistening of the air-humidity being a key ingredient to stretch it.
The spinning would often take place in boats when humidity was at its peak, in early mornings and late afternoons. Young women carried out this task with their supple fingers and enviable eyesight. The fabric travelled the rich lands of Bengal and the hands of both the old and young before travelling the world.
The Mughals refused to have their portraits drawn adorned in anything else but muslin. To the East, it went to Java and China, where in the early 14th century, the traveller Ibn Battuta wrote that it was highly prized. This fabric was what members of high society in Europe wore and scandalised entire courts by being accused of indecency in public.
As such a fine fabric was unheard of and seldom seen in the West—it captivated the likes of Queen Marie Antoinette, Empress Joséphine Bonaparte, and the esteemed author Jane Austen. However, as quickly as the fabric took the aristocrats of the East and West by storm, it also disappeared in a blink of an eye. My experience of seeing pieces of Dhaka muslin in the Victoria and Albert Museum in London was a conflicted one.
A part of me was glad to see the fabled fabric so beautifully preserved. So many wonderful epithets given to muslin by historians played in my head, like "vapours of dawn," and "woven wind." But another part of me was pained, thinking about the "kothis," the Mughals put muslin artisans into that subjected them to extremely harsh conditions, and the unrelenting greed of British colonialism that made this pride of Bengal go extinct.
I have heard from disgruntled uncles sipping their late afternoon tea saying that the British cut off the thumbs of the muslin workers to ascertain the production of muslin dried up sooner than their blood spilled to the ground. Aunties discussed, while chopping vegetables, that acres of this fabric could be tucked into their less-than-modestly sized engagement rings. The capitalist East India Company had no regard for the convoluted nature of how the muslin was made, it only cared that the demand was met.
Hence, pressure was put on the artisans of muslin till they cracked. Moreover, the British took advantage of the demand for muslin and hard launched the discount "muslin" produced in the cotton mills of dreary England. Unfortunately, the cheaper prices they could offer far outweighed the need for the finesse of the real deal.
This resulted in the cotton industry of Bengal coming to a screeching halt, and muslin artisans sought employment elsewhere. Fuel was added to the ravaging fire with the famines orchestrated by the terrible policies of the British colonisers in Bengal, which killed off many of these talented artisans. With their death, the intricate technique of weaving muslin was buried.
Perhaps to mourn such a misfortune, Phuti karpas went extinct along the banks of Meghna. The fabled fabric reached up to 1200 thread counts and today's rendition of "muslin" comes nowhere close—like an underachieving son making a mockery of the family name. However, there have been noteworthy efforts to revive the lost art of muslin weaving, which serves as a glimmer of hope for us to perhaps one day be adorned by this "woven wind," which has been a favourite topic of every textile historian.
Moreover, Dhaka and its surrounding areas later developed the traditional art of "jamdani" weaving fortunately, which has been protected as a form of intangible cultural heritage in 2013 by UNESCO. As is quite evident, the success of the Bangladeshi garment industry, which is worth $47 billion today is not without precedence. But perhaps the rise and fall of muslin serves as a cautionary tale of artisans being squeezed to their limits and also that the extreme industrialisation of any product will result in those crafts being endangered and ultimately going extinct.
Raina Sabanta is a barrister. Views expressed in this article are the author's own. Follow The Daily Star Opinion on Facebook for the latest opinions, commentaries, and analyses by experts and professionals.
To contribute your article or letter to The Daily Star Opinion, see our guidelines for submission ..
