Threads of Utkala

The old wooden chest in the corner of the room breathed a scent of dried neem leaves and sandalwood every time the heavy lid was nudged open. Deep inside, covered in a pale, soft muslin that had yellowed with age, lay the heirloom:  a vintage Sambalpuri Pata. 

As Prachi lifted it, it felt so soft. It wasn't just a garment; it was a heavy, crimson heartbeat of a family’s history.

​Her grandmother, Aai(maternal grandmother referred as Aai in Odia), sat on the edge of the bed, her translucent skin mapped with wrinkles.

"Be careful, Prachi," Aai whispered.
 "Your grandfather spent weeks just at the frame, tying the knots in the yarn before the dye ever touched it. He used to say that a Sambalpuri isn’t made on the loom; it’s born in the mind of the weaver long before the shuttle moves."

​Prachi ran her fingertips over the Sankha and Chakra motifs blooming along the border. To the normal eye, they were just shapes, but to an Odia, they were symbols of the eternal.

 As an engineer, Prachi was struck by the sheer mathematical defiance of the Bandha; the way the weaver had to calculate exactly where the dye would bleed and where it would hold, ensuring that when the thousands of threads finally met on the loom, the image of a lotus or a shell would emerge with pixel-perfect clarity. It was an ancient code, written in silk and indigo.

​Tomorrow, Prachi would be boarding a flight to London, moving thousands of miles away from the humid, salt-kissed air of Odisha. The anxiety of the unknown had been a knot in her stomach for weeks, but as Aai stood up and draped the heavy pallu over Prachi’s shoulder, the knot seemed to loosen. 

The silk had a weight to it; a grounding, rhythmic weight that spoke of the clatter of looms in Sonepur and the patient hands of craftsmen who lived for the "click-clack" of the wooden beams.

​"In that country, people will ask you where you come from," Aai said, tucking a stray lock of hair behind Prachi’s ear.
"You don’t need to find the words. Just show them your sleeve. Tell them you are wearing the soil of Odisha, the water of the Mahanadi, and the patience of your ancestors. You aren't going alone. You’re taking the strength of ten thousand threads with you."

​As the evening sun dipped low, casting a golden glow over the rooftops of Bhubaneswar, Prachi looked at herself in the mirror. The deep maroon of the saree seemed to glow from within, vibrant and resilient. She realized then that she wasn't just bringing a piece of clothing in her suitcase; she was carrying an identity that couldn't be taken away by distance or time.

 She was a daughter of the loom, and she was ready.