An ode to silk

To Sualkuchi

The quiet of a small anonymous village nestled in the crook of a giant river.

The silence broken by the clickety-clackety-clack of looms. One pauses to pass the shuttle as another picks up the slack — clickety-clack.

A dozen looms in a room on the upper floor of a two floor house. Wooden floors, tin roof and thin plastered walls. The afternoon sun pours in through the glass panes. Angled, throwing long shadows, shining off the silk threads like gold.

A bee buzzes against the windows. In the distance, the sound of the Bramhaputra as she gently chaffs against her banks. The faintest smell of cow-dung in the air, mingling with the smell of wood smoke from fires.

Wet, warm afternoon. Hazy blue skies. The hint of mountains in the distance. It could be the eyes playing tricks or the haze from the river perhaps. The green of the fields.

Awake, yet drowsy. As if in a dream. Or halfway into a meditation session.

Clickety-clack.

Woven silk … if this isn’t magic what is?