Indian textiles foster a friendship

Nikita Shah, 35, has always been in love with the textures and stories of Indian textiles. Raised in Mumbai, she spent over a decade traveling across more than 10 states in India, learning directly from weavers, block printers, painters, and craftspeople.  

“I learned the process,” she said, “but I also learned about their way of life where work wasn't just a nine-to-five.”

During this journey, she met Mamata Reddy, a pioneer in reviving Kalamkari, a 3,000-year-old storytelling textile characterized by hand-painting using a kalam (bamboo pen) on cotton or silk fabric using natural dyes. For Shah, Kalamkari became not just her artistic medium, but a way of life. Today, she is the only known Kalamkari practitioner in the United States and the founder of Fursat, a series of workshops to share knowledge of textile traditions.

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Now based in New York, Shah has forged an unexpected friendship through her interest in textiles, emblematic of the varying paths to immigration from South Asia. She and Platty Patel—an older immigrant she met through a mutual friend at a cafe—exchange skills, reflect on their identity together, and reconnect with cultural traditions through their friendship. While Shah openly embraces wearing sarees and working with heritage fabrics, Patel had set aside her interest in textiles to adapt to life in the U.S.

“I found a sense of community in many ways. Building community can be such a buzzword, but people who come to Fursat are often on the same page. We have similar values and that helps to make deeper bonds, which is needed right now, especially for immigrants,” Shah said.

Pursuing Indian fashion in the U.S.

Shah’s professional journey in the U.S. started in 2018, when she came to New York from India to study fashion design at the Fashion Institute of Technology. She may have switched cities, but her wardrobe remained the same. She wore sarees to class, on the subway, and at events, just as she had back home.

“I never felt comfortable wearing formal clothes. I didn't feel like myself. So I would wear sarees,” she said.

While many millennial and Gen Z members of the Desi diaspora now encourage each other to embrace traditional clothes and styles, for Patel, 55, who has lived in New Jersey for over three decades, it had never felt that simple. So when she met Nikita, she was stunned.

“I still remember her walking in so confidently,” Patel said. “She was wearing a long skirt with a kurta, jacket, scarf, and of course, a bindi. I had lived in this country for so long and had never felt like I could show up like that. I felt, wow, not only is she an immigrant, but she’s living with so much passion.”

The two stayed in touch, bonding over their shared roots and different immigrant timelines, sometimes marked by similar struggles, other times by generational contrast.

“I learned so much through Platty and others about what the diaspora went through,” Nikita said. “Things that felt natural to me, like wearing a saree, had been a source of distress for them. That’s really where we connected and we bonded.”

In 2022, Shah began the Fursat workshop series. The word “fursat” means leisure and reflection. Patel started attending the sessions, which offered more than just technical skills. They also created space to explore the deeper cultural and personal significance of these practices. In the process, Patel reconnected not just with the craft but with herself. After years of reserving sarees for weddings and religious holidays, she began wearing them again simply for the joy of it.

“I don’t know all the names of the different fabrics, but when I touch them, it just feels right,” she said. “For me, it’s about what I feel deep in my core. Textiles live in my cells, in my blood, it’s that deep. At the right time, the right people showed up to help me reconnect with my roots.”

Reconnecting with shared roots

Patel has had a very different journey in the United States. After immigrating here 30 years ago, she found herself confined to the roles of homemaker and mother. She let go of long-held interests, including art and textiles, and struggled to adjust to an environment where she felt afraid to be openly brown or Indian.

“Anywhere I went socially, I did not come home satisfied,” she said.

Growing up, Patel had always imagined taking over her father’s textile business in India. She loved following the production process, visiting farmers in the fields, and watching the fabric being dyed and printed. But her family only encouraged her to think about marriage and raising children.

“I used to tell my dad that one day I’d take over by sitting in his chair,” she said. “All I heard was, ‘You’re a girl, you’re going to get married and leave. One of the men in the house will take over.’ Nobody did. And the business was shut down.”

Patel continued to feel a lingering sense of unfulfillment until she met Shah. 

“There was a time gap between us because she’s so young and I’m so much older,” Shah said. “But somehow I felt a connection, and she felt the same way. So we stayed in touch.”

Through Fursat, Patel learned how to hold a bamboo pen, dip it into indigo, and apply just the right pressure to paint on fabric. It was her first time trying Kalamkari.

“I’ve evolved a lot because of the younger people in my life—something I haven’t been able to do with my age group here,” Patel said. “I always tell Nikita I live in two worlds. When I come to Brooklyn, it feels easier, more open. But when I come back home, I feel lost.”

Soon, Patel brought Fursat into her own community. On Patel’s birthday, she decided to host Shah for a workshop at her New Jersey home, opening the doors to friends and neighbors. This soon turned into a yearly fundraiser, and the group expanded to learn about other textiles and art, such as Leheriya and embroidery.

“Now everybody has a piece of that—a piece of Nikita, really—that they’ve made a part of their lives,” she said.

The space became one of intergenerational healing for Shah as well. She hesitated to open up about her queerness in a Desi setting, unsure how it would be received. But after a few conversations, she realized the aunties were showing more curiosity than judgment.

"Conversations like these, while working with textiles, feel so vulnerable and beautiful," she said. "Later, I learned that a few aunties have queer kids, but they've never had these kinds of conversations with them."

Reclaiming cultural identity

For many in the South Asian community, the fear of being targeted or misidentified has led to reluctance in wearing traditional clothing. 

Instances of discrimination against South Asians based on identity markers are not new. The Dotbusters, a hate group active in Jersey City, New Jersey, from 1975 to 1993, named themselves for their intention to target and harass Indian Americans—particularly those who wore the bindi, a traditional forehead mark worn by many Hindu women. 

Such bias persists to this day. Following 9/11, the U.S. saw a rise in bias and violence against Muslims, particularly those with visible identity markers such as the hijab. Sikhs were also frequently misidentified as Muslims because of their turbans, facing similar discrimination. Islamophobia attacks went up after the Oct. 7, 2023, attack in Israel as well.  

Still, a new wave of South Asian millennials and Gen Z are reclaiming their cultural identity by embracing ethnic clothing, often mixing it with Western styles. 

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For Shah, the friendship with Patel is more than just a way to share cultural traditions. It’s a support system that helps her navigate the complexities of being a recent immigrant.

“There are days when I just call her, crying,” Shah said. “When life isn’t going well, or little silly things happen that I’d call my mom about. But my mom doesn’t always understand the context of being an immigrant. That’s where Platty steps in.”

Tehsin Pala is the associate editor of Central Desi.

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