By Deidarisha Lyngdoh
The intricacies of Khasi weaving and embroideries remain unknown to most – even the tassels that decorate the bottom edges of the jaiñsem are thoughtfully decided. The ryndia has for long inspired young designers in Meghalaya. IbaMallai, from Umden, Ri-Bhoi, is one part of this tradition. Founded in 2016, Mallai’s label Kiniho (derived from kinekeiñ, loosely translating to “these [are the ones]”) is both an attempt to be sustainable while keeping in touch her culture and roots.
Umden in Ri-Bhoi, where Mallai is from, is the heart of ryndia silk weaving. “It was a dying practice”, she says, but has been pushed out of near-extinction through government schemes and with the help of NGOs. Yet, more needs to be done to make weaving an attractive livelihood for young Khasis. “They don’t want to be weavers”, Iba says in a dejected tone. “In India we think that weavers are the lowest community and that’s dangerous… A proper platform should be given to weavers and to local communities to make them understand that this is a good job too”.
But weaving in the most traditional ways comes with its own high cost, and the pains through which each piece of work is realised – from cocoon to consumer – is testament to this fact.
Kiniho is both one part culture and one part sustainability. The dyes are natural, prepared from concoctions of herbs and spices. Between experimentations with the khnong weaving technique of Nongthluh weavers and blending silks to create new textures, Mallai creates new motifs for the belief that tradition should continue to evolve and expand to survive and to become more than a fixture of museums. The designs created by Mallai are contemporary, infused with the blends of the traditional. She draws inspiration from a rich tapestry of nature and hillside folklores.
But the heart of Kiniho runs on the principle of sustainable. She reserves harsh words for her own industry: “The fashion industry is very poisonous”. To set herself apart from this industry, she says “It’s not just about sustainable clothing and textile. We want brand transparency. We want ethical practices to be implemented in fashion houses”.
The Rana Plaza collapse in Dakha in 2013 that killed over 1,000 workers slogging to mass-produce for brands such as Benetton, Gucci, Mango, Prada and Versace remains an especially vivid reminder of the blood and slavery that satiates the demand for fashion and its fully forgettable trends. But “trends” are the least of.
Mallai’sconcerns, who feels they do not last long enough to even matter. “I try to design clothes that can last longer”, she says, because she does not want the fruits of her creation to rot into toxins in landfills in the hill state.
“Buying cheap clothes is good”, she says, “but, at the end of the day, how much will you want clothes? Will you recycle them? Where will they go? … Because it is coming back to us”. The lifecycle of a piece of cloth, we believe, ends in a landfill, but Mallai correctly reminds that it ultimately comes to us, seeping into our soils and water. Yet, Mallai understands that, for the average consumer, an off-brand skirt made in a Chinese sweatshop is the most affordable trend.
While Mallai herself supports the slow fashion movement – cruelty-free clothes that are environment- and labour-friendly throughout the production and manufacturing process – she does say that buying second-hand clothes is an alternative when being sustainable is not affordable. In the pandemic era, especially, local entrepreneurs throughout the Northeast went into an overdrive to bring then-closed second-hand markets online through social media websites, especially Instagram.
These “thrift stores” have since proliferated across the country, despite the strong taboo against them in most parts of India outside the Northeast. Still, Iba has her own reservations – can the bull of irrational obsession with fast fashion be tamed by a different obsession: for thrifting?
“It is recycling. But when you want to buy new clothes, you have to think about what material is used, what about the people who made it, how long are we going to wear it and how long it is going to last if you throw? Will it be decomposed or will it just last there for years and years? All this polyester doesn’t decompose. So, yea, thrifting is a good way to be a part of sustainability, but how long will you wear second-hand clothes? It does help, but after that, then what?”
“I don’t believe in mass produced fashion”, Iba admits when asked if a brand like Kiniho can produce more for less. Weaving ryndia is painstaking work. Vats of dye are made by hand, and the embroidery is done by a small group of artisans at needlepoint. Could the tradition so intrinsic to Khasis be just too unaffordable for them? For now, the economics of slow fashion are pitted against the pocket, and beyond the control of a designer. “It is difficult to mass produce with this kind of work.
It is handmade. But even if I can, I don’t want to, because I’m trying to reduce waste”. But this philosophy of accountability and sustainability is not a material commitment to reducing only waste and toxins, despite it being a recurring theme in the studio; it extends to the labour that makes such exquisite fabrics. “I don’t want to do a business where I benefit myself alone, where the profit only comes to me”, adds Mallai.
Having witnessed the brutality of the fashion industry’s role in the destruction of the environment, Mallai is keen on changing the conversation away from the trends to something slower and calmer, but more importantly less competitive, the drive that forces people to buy, buy, and buy. Mallai says she understood that her label needed to do better. With every new motif in earthy colours of turmeric, lac, and iron, Mallai is hopeful for Kiniho and a world in which fashion preserves and creates more than it destructs and poisons.
”We want ethical practices to be implemented in fashion houses, with global warming, and with all the impact on the environment. The fashion industry is very poisonous”, said Mallai.