I joined the Sustainable Nettle Fibre Livelihoods Project (now Mutanchi) in early February. These six months have woven together so many moments on forest paths, at the weaving centre, and in conversation that my job has become much more than documentation.
Some days, sudden tremors gave us unexpected breaks and led to long talks; other days, we got woken up at midnight by a forest fire or heavy monsoon rains. We also found a huge snake at our centre. We joked that the snake was an ancestor visiting and that it wanted weaving lessons too.
We laughed as we gently let it go into a nearby stream. Regular days had weddings, funeral services, prayer ceremonies such as the Bumkor puja, and other gatherings where the weaving community was again an active part: the same faces, hands, and steady effort.
Entering a Living Landscape
At its core, this initiative is a concerted effort to revive the tradition of nettle fibre, a heritage practice intricately woven into Lepcha identity.
This specialised knowledge had nearly faded from everyday memory; it is now finding a transformative space for rebirth within the unique landscape of Dzongu, North Sikkim, home to a significant Lepcha population and the primary site of our current efforts.
Though the project may appear focused on a specific botanical material and a handful of weaving centres, my immersion here has revealed a far more significant narrative: how a single fibre can hold together memory, livelihood, and a sense of home.
This work has become a vital inquiry into cultural continuity and community-led agency, examining the endurance of local livelihoods while questioning standard metrics of value and artisanal effort in an age of mechanical production. That and the supporting networks who believe in the same things as we do—the mycelium of this symbiosis.
At first, when documenting, I looked for stories about individuals, interesting interviews, emotional moments, and visuals. Over time, I saw that the real story was about the whole ecosystem.
Each finished textile shows a chain of relationships: nettle picked from the forest, fibre made through hard work, yarn spun by hand, and cloth woven over days or weeks by women who are not just making textiles, but also regaining confidence in a skill that was almost lost.
In a world obsessed with capturing every second, I have learned that true reverence sometimes requires the camera to remain still, that silence and stillness are essential for personal renewal (just like in the natural world), and that the profound essence of our work is measured not by how often we produce, but by the intention we hold.
The Economics of Slowness
People often ask why handwoven nettle textiles cost so much more than factory-made clothes. The question points to a deeper issue.
Factory production has taught people to judge products mainly by price. Handloom work, on the other hand, asks us to consider the labour, the ties to nature, the cultural knowledge, and the time that goes into each piece.
Growing a factory requires more machines and money, whereas growing a community weaving project means training new artisans, building trust, maintaining quality, sourcing raw materials, and ensuring growth helps the community stay strong. Here, growth is about people, not just profits.
Work rhythms here mirror the forest’s slow, deliberate pace rather than the mechanical urgency of industrial production, which is cathartic. Progress depends on the weather, road conditions, harvest times, and people’s availability.
Rain and landslides could delay travel or stop work. Meetings happened when the community was ready, not by a set schedule. This was confusing, but these interruptions are actually part of the project itself.
This is what it means to work with mountain ecosystems without trying to control them.
Bharat Tex 2026
Our involvement in Bharat Tex 2026, a major showcase of Indian textiles, threw the divergence between our local, quiet narrative and the aggressive pace of global capitalism into sharp relief.
In the midst of such vast commercial environments, our fundamental principles were challenged, as the nuances of local heritage often risk being overshadowed or erased.
Despite receiving formal recognition, the Northeast remains, for many, a territory of the imagination rather than a known reality.
When separated from our indigenous roots, the deliberate rhythm of a slower pace of life is frequently devalued or rendered invisible. This is a reality confronting many local initiatives as they attempt to navigate a landscape dominated by industrial giants.
Conversations at our stall highlighted a diverse range of understandings among the attendees. While certain visitors were genuinely moved by the tactile quality of nettle and the deep-seated traditions of the craft, many others remained largely detached from the distant landscapes and the people whose hands bring these textiles to life.
Observing other artisanal groups from across the country was an education in itself, particularly in how they anchored their narratives in specific people and geography.
This experience lens means carrying the weight of narrative-building in a way that ensures the artisans themselves are never lost behind the beauty of the fabrics they weave, to develop more intentional storytelling, and to craft materials that act as a voice for those quiet pockets of the world that still respect the natural world.
Collaboration Beyond Partnership
The Dzongu discourse, like any work involving a large gathering, was also marked by rough patches, communication gaps, differing expectations, and internal friction that felt as tough as the mountains themselves.
Sometimes, small complaints grew into big ones, and the slow pace we loved also felt frustrating. There were times when important resources did not reach the weaving centres as planned. These were the moments that tested us, and deep listening and patience were not just good qualities; they were necessary. We had to trust the process and the wisdom of our peers.
At the weaving centre, we saw experienced master weavers from Upper Dzongu and Kolkata patiently teaching others, sharing their knowledge rather than criticising. Designers took the time to listen and learn about the place and its people, conducting research before developing designs.
Over these six months, our early struggles with old ideas, especially about hierarchy, faded and gave way to mutual respect. I think it’s safe to say that our weavers now understand that personal success matters little if our shared goals are at risk.
The main support comes from UNDP India and Mutanchi Lom Aal Shezum (MLAS), with help from Echostream and LA (meaning “mountain pass” in Sikkimese, a product brand under Echostream). What stands out is the long-term commitment to the community.
LA has created a supportive space, helping the first-generation weavers in Dzongu (Nom | Mutanchi) and Chuba (Chuba.ko | South Sikkim) become independent. The President of India has even recognised their work. Now, the same support is being given to the next generation of weavers and artisans.
The excitement of our weavers was palpable when they received their first earnings after joining the production team, a milestone made even more meaningful after the many days spent marinating in the craft and spinning. A handful of weavers in the beginning, now doubled, and we’re only growing.
Also Read: Arunachal’s Dibang Valley was once home to a 100-km mega-glacier
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