Pritha Dasmahapatra (@TipTopped on the gram), is a doctor in London. But in her superhero avatar, she’s a champion of Indian crafts. She’s used her vacation time to tour India and document its exquisite handloom traditions. She posts Reels titled What Actual Raja Betas Of The 1900s Used To Wear, How the French Influenced Bengali Sari Styling, and How Jacquard Changed Weaving In India. So far, so good.
Then, in October 2025, Dasmahapatra shared a post that got everyone hot under their Banarasi collar. “Indian handicrafts have become out of reach of the average Indian,” she claimed. “Items that were once ubiquitous in middle-class homes, evade them now… Can we please acknowledge it, instead of blaming Indians for not buying handmade in India?” In the comments, war broke out. Some called Dasmahapatra elitist for expecting cheap labour from artisans. Others felt personally attacked for their decision to stay within a modest budget. A few even blamed artisans for upping their prices to appeal only to foreign buyers.
There’s more to Dasmahapatra’s rant than just pricing. Open your wardrobe at home for the data. There’s Indianwear, sure. But the bulk of it is probably from a mall or chic studio – woven on a power loom, machine printed, embroidered by automation. There are saris, but the best ones are the heirlooms – seems like Dadima got better value on her modest budget than we currently do. There’s the odd East-West collab – sneakers covered in block-print motifs, a bandhani wrap dress, a floor-length gown with zardosi trim – tradition in bite-size doses. How did we get so out of touch with India’s fabulous handloom tradition?
A wrinkle in time
Part of it is simply that India has fewer weavers than it used to. The first All India Handloom Census (1987–1988) counted 6.7 million handloom weavers and allied workers in the country, the majority of them women. The most recent edition (2019–2020, with an update last year), counts 3.5 million, a drop of 48%. There are fewer producers and more buyers. Rarity is obviously pushing prices up.
Artisanal products have always carried a premium. “They possess a uniqueness that cannot be replicated by machines,” says Aditi Chand. She, along with Udit Khanna and Ujjwal Khanna, launched Tilfi Banaras in 2016, selling high-end Banarasi garments, art and collectibles made by artisan families. Handcrafted items also cost more because they use finer materials, and involve skilled labour to produce.
But post-pandemic shifts in supply chains, and a greater focus on fair trade and ethical production have pushed prices higher, says Vandana Gupta, creative director of Jaypore, which sells affordable home decor, accessories, jewellery and clothes across India. Silver prices have skyrocketed globally – so, good zari thread is much more expensive now. Around the world, there’s a greater demand for silk – even H&M and Zara use the fabric in their one-season garments – so, it costs more for a weaver to source good yarn. “Craftspeople once had access to forests where they could gather ingredients for natural dyes. That access has been taken away,” observes Jaya Jaitly, craft advocate and founder of the Dastkari Haat Samiti.
Incoming stitch
“There’s greater global appreciation for Indian craftsmanship now, be it Brad Pitt wearing a Tangaliya shirt, or Kolhapuris on the Prada runway,” says Gupta. Yet, within India, handlooms make up only 4.5% of Indian fabric buying. Even that may shrink as Indian fast-fashion brands flood the market with ultra-cheap kurtis, saris and salwar suits that mimic ikat, bandhini and block prints. And online, with every store claiming that their products are ethnic, handcrafted, ethically sourced and traditional (and somehow also dirt cheap) the genuine version is lost in the noise. We’d rather have factory-produced fashion – cheap, trendy, disposable, sold online, delivered overnight and coming apart after one season – than a handmade, high-quality classic.
Despite these problems, Jaitly dismisses the argument that handloom is out of reach of the average urban buyer. Instead, craftspersons “have finally reached the level of earnings they deserved long ago,” she says and it’s the customer that needs to grow up. If Indians are willing to pay more for a well-known artist’s canvas, why should they relentlessly bargain with a kalamkari artist who’s worked on a piece of fabric? And if a guild of weavers can collborate with a fashion designer season after season, why shouldn’t they get a good share of the designer pricing? “It’s a positive model,” Jaitly says.
The collaboration works, until it doesn’t. Hype economics, which result from designer tie-ups, rarely help the artisan, says Babar Afzal, pashmina artist and founder of the Pashmina Goat Project. All it does, he says, is create a market for cheap fakes, which makes it even harder for artisans to sustainably continue with their work once the collaboration ends. “As demand soars, so does commercialisation, and with it, the exploitation, compromise and dilution of the craft.”
Hidden in the folds
Of course, handloom is a luxury. Of course, it should feel special, precious. But the system only works if our skilled craftspeople make enough money to continue their work. Government subsidies and schemes have not been enough – our weaver count has tanked largely because artisan’s children prefer salaries that scale up, not family trades that keep them poor.
Afzal says that fair pay, sustainable livelihoods and skill preservation haven’t scaled at the same pace as market visibility. “Things can change with direct-to-consumer models, transparent costing, traceability (weaver identity, origin, labour cost), and artisan-led equity in brands.” He’s working on creating a blockchain-like repository for pashmina artisans, so both buyers and weavers leave out the middlemen and trade fairly.
Chand has seen rising compensation and better recognition of craftsmen over the years. Jaitly says she has noticed a resurgence in the pride that artisans take in their work, which encourages younger generations to keep the looms running. However Gupta cautions: “Craftsmen benefit most from transparent, long-term partnerships built on respect and dignity.” For all of us, with or without heirloom saris, that means less haggling at the craft fair, more investment in slow fashion, fewer machine-made lookalikes and greater care in how we fill our wardrobes.
Fine prints: How our fabrics wowed the world
In 2008, a Kanjeevaram sari made by Chennai Silks set a Guinness World Record for being the most expensive ever made. Made for a Kuwaiti businessman’s family, it was woven with pure gold, silver and platinum zari threads, and embellished with diamonds, rubies and emeralds. The weave recreated 11 of Raja Ravi Varma’s artworks. It cost almost ₹40 lakhs.
In 2022, a volunteer-weaving initiative saw 1,426 citizens in Nagpur (teachers, doctors, lawyers, students, homemakers) create a 98-ft long cloth to mark the 75 years of India’s independence. It got an India Book of Records award for the longest stretch of handwoven cloth. They named it Fabric of Unity. It featured yarns of different fabrics and used a variety of colours and dyes.
In 2024, Radhika Merchant wore a custom Abu Jani Sandeep Khosla lehenga made in a traditional Gujarati Panetar style, when she wed Anant Ambani. The cost of the ensemble was not disclosed. But 60 additional saris, worth ₹6 lakh each, were commissioned as presents for the wedding.
From HT Brunch, February 07, 2026
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