The bustling locality of Balaramapuram holds a lot of emotions. Of being a historic place where trade joined hands with art, where communities merged to form civilisation, where handwoven creativity became costume that marked a culture.
It was hence called the ‘heaven of handloom’, set up around 200 years ago by the Travancore king Avittam Thirunal Bala Rama Varma. He had brought in five communities from Tamil Nadu to Travancore. One of them was the Shaliyas, who were tasked with weaving the traditional attire for temple-related purposes as well as for the royal family.
They took root here, in villages around the present-day Balaramapuram. And with them, the art of weaving flourished here.
Remnants of this culture can still be found around Shaliya Street, where the temples bear marks of a prompt Tamil lineage. Each house had a marked weaving history, and in fact, the houses too are structured to represent one fabric, woven together at the seams. Tamil, with a marked Malayali slang, could be heard inside the houses, from where waft the sound of handloom raw materials being made.
The difference, however, is the enormity of the sound. Until some decades ago, the sound was a soothing hum, now it is the bold clatter of the electric motor that runs the system which spins the yarn.
“I get `150 per day for work from 7am to 3pm,” says Arumugam, 69, who learnt spinning from the time she got married into a household of handloom artisans.
The work is part of the stage that runs up to the final weaving, the preparatory being procurement of cotton and silk thread from Tamil Nadu and Gujarat, and then making yarn out of it which will then be woven together as the white fabric laced with the customary gold border.
“All the houses on the Shaliya gramam used to do this. Now, there are hardly any. The youngsters don’t see it worthwhile. My children too are in other professions. Even my husband is now running a lottery agency in Mavelikkara,” she says.
In another building, Mohanan N, who has been weaving since he was 14, joins in to narrate the sorry state of affairs. “I am not from the community, yet learnt this over 50 years ago because then, it was a vibrant and promising scene here,” he says.
“It did help me to take care of my family, and my children are well-settled. I do this to keep myself engaged in old age. But there is no youngster who wants to take this up. Who would want to earn just `300 a day for weaving a saree that will be sold for `4,000 or `5,000?”
His contention is echoed by Kashi, a Plus-Two student, whose family home still has a display of handwoven kasavu sarees and mundu at its front yard. “I want to learn history. But handloom doesn’t seem attractive for the life I seek,” he says.
In yet another weavers’ space, a cluttered, dingy, and clumsy room adjoining an old showroom of a family of handloom merchants, a group of women are themselves perched in the ‘kuzhithari’, powering a weaving unit with a pedalling movement of their legs.
Surprisingly, none here appears excited about the Onam sales boom, which one expects during this season. There is a suffocating silence in the room, broken only by the periodic beats of the weaving unit. The women also appear choked for words, irritated rather, at having to speak about their ordeal.
“What for? There are many who come to take videos and photos. Nothing comes of it. There is none to speak for us. The societies have almost withered away and unions are probably just namesake,” says Rajeela, representing the weavers.
“What we still get after decades of weaving is just `250 per mundu. And if we take a break, other than for our lunch, we won’t be able to finish and will lose money.”
The low wages is an offshoot of several factors, products of time and the mindset of people, according to Ali Sheikh Mansoor, vice-chairman of the Balaramapuram panchayat development committee.
“Powerloom is a culprit, which can bulk produce. It enters the market from Tamil Nadu, and is available cheap. This affects the weavers here,” he points out.
“For instance, making a handloom sari involves many processes, and for each of these, wages have to be paid. And yet, you can only charge `4,000 or `5,000 for a sari. The powerloom versions sell for `700 to `1,500 a piece. And nowadays, there are fraudsters too, who market powerloom-made stuff as ‘original handloom’ and charge exorbitantly.”
There are still households in areas around Balaramapuram such as Aithiyoor, Thumbottukonam, Manjavilakam, Kunjaykkadu and Vandannoor, where some houses still have weaving units. But the numbers are dwindling. “Governmental schemes like the yarn bank and the now-stalled Kaithari Park project could have reinvigorated the age-old craft, but with cooperative societies too coming down, things are around here,” Ali notes.
There, however, are some flickers of hope. Sujeev S S, who runs Kailari Exports that ships the handloom material, says the popularity of the ‘Ayurvastra’ concept abroad helped him stay afloat. “The concept was tried and tested by researchers and academicians. It is about using natural dyes procured from herbs that are used on fabric instead of the chemical ones,” he explains.
“We do this now on several fabrics, like cotton or silk, or even hemp. We even make yoga mats and bedspreads. Such value-additions can help boost the industry.”
Ali, meanwhile, believes the prospects that Vizhinjam port could change the fortunes of the ailing handloom industry. “There should be a visionary approach. People across the world are grooving towards natural products. We should capitalise on this trend,” he says.
“A hi-tech facility is being planned for the area, where there will be spaces for exhibiting handloom produce. We also have plans to encourage kaithari tourism.”
Most of the weavers, however, seem oblivious to the world outside, where there is a growing market for traditional and homegrown products. They still weave, because it is the only vocation they have been taught in the backyards of Balaramapuram, where history still yawns, reminding us of a tradition that is too precious to be lost to posterity.