Six months to a single saree.

I learned the weight of a saree before I learned to read.

My grandmother kept hers folded in a wooden trunk that smelled of sandalwood and vetiver. Each had a name — the wedding Kanjivaram, the temple Mysore, the everyday Molakalmuru cotton. She did not own many. She owned the right ones.

I started Venkatadatta Weaves in 1991 because the saree I knew — heavy, honest, woven by a person with a name — was disappearing. Powerlooms had taken the borders. Synthetic zari had taken the shine. And the weavers who could still tell you which warp was which were quietly putting down their work.

So I went looking for them. The kaikolar families in Kanchipuram who count generations the way the rest of us count years. The Banarasi weavers in Lallapura who still use the jaala, the pattern-loom that takes two people to operate. The cotton spinners in Chanderi who refuse chemical bleach because the river drinks what they pour. Each saree we sell carries the weaver's name. That is the smallest thing I can do.