Layered cloth holds layered memory
Worn-out saris become the ground, each carrying its own history before the needle begins.
No pattern, only recollection
Every scene drawn from memory — village courtyards, river banks, the curve of a familiar face.
The running stitch is a steady breath
One continuous rhythm across the quilt, never knotting, trusting the thread to hold on its own.
Five hundred years of women speaking in cloth
Mothers teaching daughters not through lessons, but through the quiet gesture of their hands.