Poetry in Block Prints
Written by Vikram Joshi
Where Wood Holds Memory
In Ahmedabad and Pethapur, the printing block was never just a tool—it was a living object. Carved from a single piece of wood, the handle emerged from the same stem, shaped by patient hands and inherited knowledge. Tiny holes were drilled carefully along and across the grain, not as ornament, but as quiet engineering. These allowed colour to move freely, preventing it from settling too deeply into fine grooves, while also lightening the weight of the block itself.
The wood came from the heart of the tree—sagwan and seesham, dense and enduring. These choices were deliberate. Among the master carving communities, the Kharawadi or Bhat Ghad, material was as important as motif. Many blocks were layered with namda—felted wool fibre—hidden within, absorbing colour gently and releasing it evenly onto cloth. In Gujarat and Rajasthan, this detail became a signature. Where thick and fine carvings met, where colour could falter, the felt acted like a quiet mediator, ensuring balance, consistency, harmony.
Saudagiri: When Trade Carried Colour Across Oceans
In the 19th century, a trader from Surat encountered brilliantly coloured textiles destined for the Thai royal court—luxurious fabrics exported from the Coromandel Coast. They were radiant, intricate, and costly. He saw possibilities where others saw distance.
Carrying fragments of these textiles back to Gujarat, he asked the printers of Ahmedabad to reinterpret them—for the people of Siam. What emerged were Saudagiri prints, named after sauda, the Persian word for trade. These were textiles born of exchange: five-metre lengths, bordered carefully, or dotted with small geometric motifs at their centre. Known as phanung and phanungnang, they were worn by men and women alike, woven into daily life.
Printed by the Khatri community in Ahmedabad and Pethapur, these fabrics evolved, absorbing local motifs and sensibilities. Though inexpensive, they were made to glow—starched and burnished with agate stones until the surface caught the light. Production demanded many blocks, each wearing down after hundreds of metres of printing. Block-making flourished. Carpenter families migrated, settled, carved—an entire ecosystem grew around colour and wood.
Then, quietly, it ended. After World War II, Thailand turned inward, nurturing its own textile industry. Saudagiri prints slipped into memory, leaving behind only fragments, stories, and blocks softened by use.
Sirakh: A Textile for the First Night
Among the Khatri printers of Ahmedabad, Sirakh was never meant for trade. It was made for love, ritual, and memory. Printed by the bride’s family for a newly married couple, the Sirakh palangposh marked the first night. After that, it was folded away—kept safe as an auspicious object, brought out only on rare occasions. It was never reproduced, never sold. Each Sirakh was singular.
Its making was communal. Every family member chose a design. Grid by grid, the cloth filled with patterns—sometimes every motif the family owned, pressed into one surface. Bright colours, occasional embroidery, mere work—details added slowly, intentionally.
When guests arrived, the Sirakh would be laid out in the courtyard, like a jajam. People sat upon it, ate upon it. Some carried a chaupad board game printed at the centre, a moment of play before a meal. More than a bedspread, Sirakh held the family’s shared memory—proof that textiles can be witnesses to life.
Farrukhabad: The Tree of Life in Pieces
In Farrukhabad, the Darakhti—the Tree of Life—was never carved as a single block. It was broken into many. Birds, monkeys, leaves, and branches—each lived on its own piece of seesham wood. Together, they formed vast compositions that echoed Palampore, but at a more accessible scale.
Founded under Nawab Muhammad Khan Bangash, Farrukhabad became a centre for calico printing. The Nawab built separate quarters for printers, understanding the value of their skill. Designs ranged from simple bootis to elaborate Persian-inspired Darakhti patterns, requiring over a hundred blocks for one bedspread.
Today, no one holds a complete set. One printer recalled watching his grandfather print Darakhti—baskets of blocks placed in sequence, brought forward by an assistant. The printer never paused. He knew instinctively what came next. Memory guided the hand.
To see a finished Darakhti is to understand that mastery. One such piece came to me through an English buyer, passed down from her grandmother, a gift from a Farrukhabad printer during the colonial era. Cloth as inheritance. Craft as history.
Lucknow and the Language of Chikan
Block printing in Lucknow followed the quiet elegance of the Mughal court. Motifs echoed those of chikankari embroidery. Using Multani mitti, designs were printed onto fine muslin—not as decoration, but as guidance. The cloth moved from printer to embroiderer, from ink to needle.
Many of these blocks were carved elsewhere—Varanasi, Tanda, Pilakhua—each place contributing to the shared vocabulary of form.
Benaras: Where Detail Lives
In Benaras, block carving reached extraordinary finesse. Seesham wood was shaped for silk printing, often inlaid with brass strips and nails to achieve the finest lines. These were blocks that demanded stillness, precision, and deep respect for the surface they touched.
Kalamkari and the Painted Cloths of the Coromandel
In Machilipatnam, Kalamkari blocks carried their handles within themselves—carved from the same piece of wood. Motifs were large, often broken into sections, and assembled slowly through repetition. These blocks printed carpets, prayer rugs, and wall hangings.
Kalam means pen. Kari means craft. The tradition arrived from Persia, and families here painted, printed, and drew by hand. Over time, these skills flowed into the making of Palampore—extraordinary bedspreads and wall hangings created along the Coromandel Coast.
Painted with natural dyes, inspired by Western chintz yet unmistakably Indian, Palampore textiles travelled to Europe and Dutch colonies in the 17th and 18th centuries. They were rare, expensive, and breathtaking. Trees rose at the centre—alive with birds, flowers, monkeys. The Tree of Life, again and again.
Of all the textiles India sent across the seas, Palampore remains among the most spectacular. Not simply cloth, but evidence of patience, imagination, and the enduring conversation between hand, material, and world.
