A bird’s eye view of Mizoram reveals several wonders—the expansive oil palm plantations sashay in the wind, acres of farmlands burn incandescent owing to the slash-and-burn method of cultivation and the light-red blanket of the anthurium flowers speckle the second least populous state of India. As is the case with most of northeast India, a better part of the state comprises diverse communities. From the endless supply of bamboo to entire families practising sericulture–or silk farming–it is one of the few states where women take centre stage in employment.
What is it that ties these diverse strands together? You don’t have to look far; a momentary glance at the Lengpui Airport and you will be welcomed with various motifs lining walkways to and from the airstrip that pay homage to the Puan weavers of Mizoram.
In the history of Indian textiles, the simplest and most popular ones were those that were uncomplicated in their draping and sewing—they prioritised ease and mobility of the wearer. In the same vein, the Mizo puan, a traditional wrap-around skirt that was gender-neutral for the longest time, is symbolic of Mizoram’s storied past, its current complicated state and the hopes it holds for the future.
Patricia Zadeng, a 30-year-old graduate in textile design from the National Institute of Design (NID), Ahmedabad, immersed herself into the world of textiles with the awestruck eyes of a child. This was a world she knew she could surrender to—only she didn’t know what form her fascination would take.
“It was only when I joined NID that the world of textiles opened up to me and I realised the endless possibilities that lay before me,” Zadeng tells The Established. “When I came back to Mizoram from Gujarat, I started working with the Mizoram government to help them train weavers.”
When she started training the weavers, she felt the true beauty of textiles in her bones. One thing became abundantly clear—whatever she had to do was going to be with textiles and in her home state and there was no better way to do it than celebrate Mizo puan.
“IN TERMS OF INSPIRATION FOR THE IMAGERY, WE DERIVED IT FROM THE FACT THAT OUR FOREFATHERS WOULD SIMPLY EMBROIDER WHATEVER THEY WOULD SEE AROUND THEM, FROM FARMING ACTIVITIES TO SOMETHING SPECTACULAR THEY CAME ACROSS IN NATURE.”Patricia Zadeng
Traditionally, after the Mizo people progressed from the siapsuap—a grass skirt—to fabric clothing, puan, a wrap-around skirt, became a garment worn by both genders. “In Mizoram, puans are mostly worn by older women and I still remember being mesmerised by its sheer beauty and intricacy as a child when I’d see my mother and grandmother wear puans,” recounts Zadeng. “The colour combinations were so diverse and striking.”
Amidst a sea of nostalgia, understanding of textiles, a deep sensitivity of her history and the void left due to a lack of good quality puans in Mizoram, Lapâr Clothing (@laparclothing) was born.
The process of getting even one puan right is time-consuming and rigorous. For starters, the best puans were traditionally woven on backstrap, or loin hand-looms. One of the oldest methods of intensive weaving that enables intricate patterns, the technique dates back to 2500 BC, popularised by the Mayan villages of Guatemala. In backstrap looks, the weaver supports the loom with a literal strap attached to their back, giving the warp and weft just enough tension to hold.
“It’s near impossible to replicate the intricate motifs from back in the day,” says Zadeng. “In terms of inspiration for the imagery, we derived it from the fact that our forefathers would simply embroider whatever they would see around them, from farming activities to something spectacular they came across in nature. We have tried to replicate the same in our puans now.”
Apart from the intricate nature of the puans that Zadeng wants to achieve, another reason for going with the intensive backstrap looms, she explains, is the demand from her customers for customised puans that can only be woven on backstrap looms. “As opposed to a frame loom where you can work on 20 puans at the same time, the traditional backstrap looms only allow for one puan at a time. All the customisation can happen on the backstrap only.”
Identifying the right weavers, with the kind of craftsmanship and patience required for weaving puans, was crucial. Zadeng would set out for villages that she knew had a tradition of the craft. Initially, the women wouldn’t trust her. Encumbered by household responsibilities, the world of puan definitely seemed creative, remunerative and satisfying, but Zadeng had to work around their lives.
“I’d usually start by identifying a weaver or two,” shares Zadeng of her process. “I would give them a fabric to gauge their weaving skills. The word would soon spread and other interested women in the village would be willing [to take on the work]. The same was followed across multiple villages.” From what started as a single encounter with a woman who didn’t expect her, Zadeng is now working with 60 such weavers across Mizoram, for different parts of the fabric. “Consistency in terms of productivity remains a challenge,” says Zadeng. “Most of these women don't approach a job in the 9-5 way that we do. They go to the farms, attend to their children and whenever they have the time in between, they weave puans for us.”
In terms of the materials used, Lapâr only works with organic materials from mulberry silk to ari and even deriving materials from the birch trees to make the fibre of the puans last longer. But it’s cotton that forms the crux of ‘Lapâr’—the Mizo word for the cotton flower. Zadeng hopes that her cotton flower will soon bloom across the country, well beyond the paddy fields, palm plantations and church weddings of Mizoram.