Words by Vaani Bhala
Field Notes from India
Kantha is often described today as a decorative textile. It appears as throws, bedcovers, wall hangings, and upholstery across global interiors. Bright, uniform, and neatly finished, these pieces circulate widely under the name kantha. Yet kantha was never designed to be new. Its origins lie in Bengal, where layers of worn cotton cloth were stitched together by hand using a simple running stitch. These textiles were made within households, often by women, from garments that had already lived full lives. Kantha was not produced for sale. It was made for warmth, memory, and continuity. To understand kantha is to understand reuse as care, not compromise.
"Kantha did not begin as a product. It began as a practice of repair. "
Traditional kantha was shaped by necessity and intimacy. Old saris, dhotis, and cloth fragments were layered and stitched together, often over months. The running stitch created texture, warmth, and strength. Patterns emerged organically, guided by habit rather than design charts. Motifs carried personal meaning. Central medallions, borders, and directional stitching reflected household rhythms and local symbolism. No two kanthas were identical, because no two lives were. This was slow craft rooted in reuse.
As kantha entered global markets in the late twentieth century, its context shifted. What was once a domestic practice became a commodity. Demand grew for pieces that looked handmade but could be produced quickly and consistently.
To meet this demand, the process changed.
Many textiles sold today as kantha are newly made fabrics stitched to resemble age. Bright cottons are layered, patterns are pre-planned, and stitching is standardised. While these pieces may be hand stitched, they no longer carry the logic of reuse that defines kantha’s origin.
The issue is not geography, but method. Kantha is often produced outside Bengal using simplified processes that prioritise speed and uniformity. These textiles are marketed under the same name, even though their relationship to the original practice is superficial.
This mislabeling matters.
Traditional kantha is inseparable from its material history. The softness of the cloth comes from wear. The density of stitching reflects time, not efficiency. The surface records touch, repair, and repetition. When these qualities are replaced with new fabric and decorative stitching, the result may be attractive, but it is no longer kantha in its original sense.
The global circulation of these simplified versions has consequences. Artisans working within traditional systems struggle to compete with lower priced alternatives. The meaning of the craft becomes diluted, and buyers are taught to value appearance over process.
Kantha was never about perfection. Its beauty lies in irregularity, in the way cloth settles over time, in the quiet labour embedded in every stitch. When this is replaced by fast production, the craft loses what made it distinctive.
Understanding the difference between original kantha and contemporary imitations requires looking beyond surface aesthetics. It requires asking where the cloth comes from, how it was used before, and why it was stitched.
Kantha survives not because it adapts easily to trends, but because it holds memory. It teaches us that craft can be an act of care, and that reuse can be deeply meaningful.
Preserving kantha does not mean freezing it in time. It means respecting the principles that shaped it. Reuse, patience, and intimacy with material.
When kantha is sourced with this understanding, it carries more than pattern. It carries history.