In Nirona, a small village in Gujarat’s Kutch, a centuries-old art survives only through one family, unfolding inside the rooms and courtyard of an old house. It is here that the Khatri family works side by side, fathers beside sons, grandfathers beside grandchildren, bent over cloth laid across low tables. Visitors drift in and out, standing in small clusters, watching as fine lines slowly appear on the fabric. This is Rogan, a Persian-influenced textile handpainting that survives today because one family chose to keep practising their inherited craft.
Once, Rogan art was made in several villages across Kutch, including Nirona and Khavda. Over time, neglect and shrinking demand pushed most practitioners to abandon the craft. The Khatris stayed. Named after the Persian word for oil, their practice adapted as tastes and markets changed, layering new motifs onto inherited designs and finding ways to keep the work visible. The revival took shape in the early 1980s, when Abdulgafur Khatri returned to Nirona at his father’s insistence, committing himself to a tradition that had already begun to disappear. Decades later, the decision would earn him national recognitions, including the Padma Shri in 2019, and secure Rogan’s place beyond the walls of the family home.
In one of the rooms, Abdul Hamid Arab Khatri dips his fingers into a bowl of yellow paste. It carries a faint, nutty smell. He lifts it out, presses it onto the tip of a metal stylus, and begins to draw on the cloth before him. The paint—made from boiled castor oil and dyes—moves with patience learned over years. Fine lines appear, then curve, then fold into themselves. Within moments, a flower emerges. He doesn’t stop here. He folds the cloth in half, creating a mirror image of the design. From a distance, the artwork almost looks like embroidery. “It used to be a kind of labour,” he says. “Now it’s art.” After a pause, he adds, “Eight generations.”
The craft arrived in India from Persia more than 300 years ago, originally producing simple, sparsely detailed designs, often made for a wedding trousseau. “My cousin, Abdulgafur, refined the craft, added detail and new motifs,” Hamid says. “He created designs that suited contemporary tastes, often featuring the tree of life.” The family soon began travelling to exhibitions across the country, so much so that in 2014, Prime Minister Narendra Modi presented two Rogan paintings to then US President Barack Obama, drawing renewed attention to the art form.
Rogan designs are drawn entirely from memory. No sketches, no references. Vines, peacocks, medallions, the tree of life—each motif is learned through watching, doing, and repeating. “It’s a work of patience,” says Sumar Daud Khatri. “Every design has to be completed within hours, otherwise the paste dries.” A small piece may take three to four days to finish; larger works, including saris that cost as much as Rs 1.5 lakh, can take months, sometimes years. “The hardest part is adding detail—shades, texture, depth,” he says.
Once limited to quilts and skirts, Rogan now appears on stoles, bags, covers, tablecloths, file folders, and even masks. Yet wall hangings dominate sales. A palm-sized piece of the Tree of Life costs around Rs 1,500, while larger works can run into lakhs. “Smaller pieces remain the most popular because they are affordable,” Hamid says.
The family is acutely aware of the performative nature of the craft, preferring customers to visit their home. “Generations of our family have perished to protect this art,” Hamid says. “We don’t want it copied. This is our only treasure.” Middlemen are often cut out entirely, with family members dealing directly with buyers.
In recent years, an art form once restricted to men has expanded to include women. Women in the Khatri family are now artisans themselves, and since 2010, workshops for women are also conducted. The family’s work has also been showcased at many international fashion shows. “So many art forms have vanished from India. We are fortunate that Rogan continues.” Hamid says. “Perhaps because even the youngest in our family learns it—almost instinctively.”