An Armour of Threads

Jamdani is more than a textile; it is a language of threads carrying centuries of memory, labour, and stories. Each motif holds the rhythm of the loom and the quiet persistence of the hands that weave it. Yet the question remains—how do we see Jamdani today? Is it only a tradition to be carefully preserved, or can it also be a space where new ideas and forms emerge?

This work is constructed by weaving together leftover Jamdani sarees into an armour-like form. The shape is inspired by a childhood tank top I often wore, a garment that holds personal memories of comfort and familiarity. By reconstructing this shape through weaving, the piece connects personal history with the larger history of Jamdani.

The armour becomes both a protection and a question. Does Jamdani act as an armour that safeguards our heritage, history, and craftsmanship? Or can it also protect the future of the craft by allowing it to transform and exist in contemporary forms?

Through this piece I invite a conversation—one that moves between past and present, between learning and unlearning. Like an old Jamdani saree or a childhood garment that carries traces of the body and time, the work holds fragments of stories within its threads.

But at the heart of Jamdani are the weavers—their knowledge, patience, and lives intertwined with the loom. Any future imagination of Jamdani must also hold space for them. If Jamdani is an armour, then it must not only protect tradition but also the hands that keep the loom alive, allowing their craft, dignity, and stories to continue weaving into the future.

Little Steps: It is a conceptual art project inspired by the poetic narrative The Cocoon Who Woke Too Late. The work reflects on the fragile relationship between humans and the natural world through the perspective of a small awakened being who emerges after a thousand years of sleep. While she expected transformation and flight, she instead finds herself human—tiny and vulnerable in a world that has grown loud, polluted, and overwhelming.

From her small vantage point, everyday objects appear monumental. Grass becomes a forest, and discarded plastic bottles resemble fallen monuments. The air carries the taste of burning, and rivers move slowly under a layer of oil-like scars. Through this altered scale, environmental damage becomes visible in an intimate and unsettling way. The larger humans move quickly around her—building, breaking, and rarely pausing to notice the ground beneath them.

Rather than confronting destruction with force, the small figure responds through quiet acts of care. She gathers threads from the remains of her cocoon and begins to stitch the earth—mending cracks, wrapping fragile surfaces, and whispering forgotten memories of softness, patience, and coexistence. The thread becomes a metaphor for repair, resilience, and the possibility of healing through gentle persistence.

Materially, the project incorporate textiles, recycled materials, and layered visual storytelling. These elements echo the cocoon as a protective structure while also referencing cycles of transformation and repair.

Little Steps invites viewers to reconsider scale, responsibility, and attention. It asks whether meaningful change might begin not with grand gestures, but with small, careful actions—moments of noticing, remembering, and quietly repairing the world we inhabit.

The Story of Sharkar:
In Bangladesh, where the stray dog is omnipresent, we might ignore them, or toss a biscuit their way and keep walking. But what if we stopped? What if we allowed ourselves to pause—to empathize, and to engage?

This is the story of one such dog, “Shorkar,” who transformed many lives along the way. It unfolds through the voices of three of his human friends and the days they shared with him.

Bloom3,  Mariam Flower / Buti Historical–Mythical Reference

An entity is growing inside you, which you are feeling; every moment its presence reminds you that you are not alone. You are not only protecting yourself—you are nurturing another life. This inner feeling cannot fully be expressed through words. It is a subtle and sacred touch, a divine transformation through which a woman slowly becomes a mother.

Just as a fetus rest quietly in the mother’s womb, waiting for the moment to meet the light and air of the earth, the journey of arrival is not easy. Yet, despite the challenges, women across generations have walked this path with courage and patience. The long journey of pregnancy—around thirty-seven weeks—carries both physical strain and emotional strength, and throughout history women have sought gentle ways to ease this journey.

In many parts of South Asia and the Middle East, a small desert plant known as the Mariam flower or Mariam Buti holds a special place in cultural belief and traditional practice. According to ancient folklore and Islamic legend, the plant is connected to Maryam (Mary), the mother of Prophet Isa (Jesus). It is believed that during the difficult moments of childbirth, Maryam found comfort and relief with the help of this desert plant. Because of this association, the dried Mariam flower became a symbol of safe motherhood and divine protection.

The flower itself has a remarkable natural quality. When it is dry, it appears closed and lifeless, but when placed in water it slowly opens and spreads, symbolizing birth, renewal, and the unfolding of life. For generations many families have kept the Mariam flower in water during childbirth, believing that as the flower gently opens, it spiritually reflects the easing of the mother’s labor.

Thus, the Mariam flower stands not only as a botanical wonder but also as a cultural metaphor for motherhood. Like the flower that awakens in water, the hidden life inside the womb gradually unfolds into the world. It represents patience, faith, and the quiet strength of women—transforming the pain of birth into the miracle of new life.

My work is a short Puthi titled “Poa-Baro.” “Poa-Baro” is a well-known Bengali proverb that is similar to the expression “hitting a jackpot” in English. While we all understand its meaning, very few know its origins. The literal translation of ‘poa-baro’ is ‘thirteen.’ Unlike in the West, where thirteen is often considered an unlucky number, in ancient Southeast Asia, it was viewed quite differently.

In the ancient gambling board game Pasha, thirteen represented the highest possible score. Achieving this score required exceptional luck, as it consisted of rolling 6+6+1 with three dice in a single turn. This score once brought fortune to Shakuni in the Mahabharata, where he won everything Yudhisthir, the eldest Pandav, possessed, including his kingdom, his own freedom, his brothers, and his wife, Draupadi. Although this resulted in the shameful episode of Draupadi’s humiliation and disrespect, I find it troubling that people choose to remember it as a stroke of luck.

However, my poem “Poa-Baro” does not convey a moral lesson. I do not aim to glorify Shakuni or the misfortunes of the Pandavs; rather, it simply outlines the game’s rules, as inscribed on a Pasha board, with a few names mentioned.

Our storybook is inspired by a story that I (Faiza) heard from my aunts in my village home. It merely orally survives within some of my family members and a few old villagers. At its center is Dhulu, the diver is said to be my great-great-great grandfather and believed to possess special or supernatural powers with water.

 Using fragments of this remembered tale as a starting point, Hridita and I reworked the narrative and developed it into a contemporary folk story while retaining the spirit of the original memory.

We made this book by upcycling one of our sarees that was worn and also used in performance art. Later, it was painted with Chinese ink and glitter on it to create a whimsical, fairytale-like atmosphere while also reflecting the delicate nature of memory.

 The story revolves around innocence, curiosity, and greed, and the drawings adopt a playful, childlike quality that echoes the tone of oral storytelling. Through fabric and image, the work carries a fragile, localized story into a new narrative form.

This project connects with my hometown chattogram and the older part of  Dhaka through memories. The artwork uses stitching, drawings, and textile layers to show how homes preserve stories of people and generations. By combining architectural elements, maps, and personal objects, the work explores how memory, family, and place are deeply connected.

Bor- porong

This work reflects memories of life before and after the Kaptai Dam on the Karnaphuli River. Through stitched drawings arranged like a small book, the project tells a quiet story of villages, homes, and memories that now lie beneath the water of Kaptai Lake. The work explores how landscapes disappear, but memory continues to surface through images, threads, and storytelling.

The drops of grief

Grief settles here like drops on cloth.

Through marks and stitches, I keep fragments of a presence.

Made out of love for my father(Ba), the work reflects my grief through fabric, stitches, and fragile marks where absence quietly becomes presence.

Boro Ma and Behula 

Reminiscing Whispered Inheritance 

As a child, I first learned about the story of Behula not from a book, but through the quiet rituals of bedtime storytelling. My great-grandmother—Boro Ma—from Sylhet would gather us around her and tell us the story of a fearless woman who sailed through rivers and storms, carrying her husband Lakhindar, after he was bitten by a serpent. Boro Ma’s voice flowed slowly through the room, transforming myth into something intimate and alive.

The serpents that followed her became currents in the water, twisting through the landscape. In my memory, Behula was not just a heroine of devotion but a quiet warrior whose beauty lay in her courage, kindness, and unwavering hope.

This work translates that inherited story into illustration and textile. By translating this myth into a pillowcase, I return the story to the space where I first received it: the bed, the body, the threshold between waking and dreaming.

The pillow becomes both page and vessel. Embroidered fragments — river, raft, snake, devotion — replace linear narration. Loose black threads emerge from its seams, evoking hair as river, lineage, and continuity. Recycled textiles form its structure, embedding material memory within the object.

The narrative is stitched onto a pillowcase, transforming a bedtime memory into a tactile archive. Thread becomes river, hair becomes lineage, and the pillow becomes both page and vessel.

Here, mythology lives not on shelves, but in the softness of memory.

Woven Stories of Jamdani

This textile book explores the cultural heritage of Jamdani, one of Bangladesh’s most celebrated traditional textiles. Jamdani is not only a garment but a living tradition that carries the knowledge, patience, and stories of the weavers who dedicate months of labor to create a single sari.

The book begins with an introduction to Jamdani and includes the chants and mnemonic words traditionally used by weavers to remember and guide intricate patterns during the weaving process. It also presents various Jamdani motifs and their names, revealing the rich visual language embedded within this textile tradition. Many Jamdani weaving communities are located along the banks of the Shitalakshya River, a river deeply connected to the history of this craft. To visualize this relationship, I embroidered a flowing river using blue thread that moves across the fabric like a continuous current.

The book is created using muslin fabric, referencing the historical connection between Jamdani and muslin textiles. Clay is used to form the texts and patterns, linking the work to my ceramic practice and material exploration. The pages are stitched with golden thread, reflecting the delicate decorative quality often found in Jamdani textiles. Through this work, I attempt to highlight not only the beauty of Jamdani but also the hidden stories of the weavers—many of whom struggle to receive fair recognition and livelihood despite preserving this remarkable tradition.

In the architectural history of Bengal, the Navaratna temple of Sirajganj shines as a remarkable example of design and construction. The temple stands as an important testimony to Bengal’s religious architecture and reflects the artistic traditions of its time.

Historical sources suggest that the temple was established in 1704 under the patronage of the then zamindar Ratan Narayan Ray. The construction was completed around 1752, and it became known for its remarkable craftsmanship and architectural detailing. More than 15,000 intricately crafted terracotta plaques were used to decorate the structure. The temple represents the distinctive Navaratna architectural style, which is characterized by nine towers and elaborate ornamentation.

The structure displays various elements of traditional Bengali temple architecture, including terracotta panels, curved cornices, and decorative motifs that reflect religious narratives and everyday life. These terracotta artworks illustrate stories, social practices, cultural expressions, and symbolic imagery from the period.

Beyond its architectural value, the Navaratna temple carries deep cultural and historical significance. Preserving such structures is not only about protecting physical buildings but also about safeguarding the stories, traditions, and artistic heritage embedded within them.

When such historical landmarks are neglected or destroyed, the visible traces of our collective history gradually disappear, leaving future generations disconnected from their cultural roots.

Leaf & Lore
In the heart of decaying ruins,

They stir awake,

An ancient guardian of time and pink shimmering of joy.

Together they wander,

Carries the echoes of laughter,

Like a sacred homecoming,

The walls are crumbling,

But a new form is born.

Step into a labyrinth –

Where every crack speaks,

Every fuchsia petal prays.

Embrace the green silence –

Where the whisper of the past

Finally find their rest.

This handmade book emerges from a quiet dialogue between my mother and I. Inspired by her words about a forest burning with sorrow, the work reflects on how women’s grief transforms into resilience across generations.

Using natural pigments and fragments of my mother’s saree and my own, the pages weave memory, inheritance, and the intimate language between two lives.

“Stitched Shut” portrays a woman who spent her life sewing clothes for others but never allowed herself the freedom those clothes represented. Society used clothing to regulate morality and behavior, and over time these rules became so deeply internalized that they shaped her identity.

One day she wakes in a strange world with no beginning and no end, only endless piles of clothes stretching as far as she can see. The work that once held value and purpose now lies meaningless, reduced to waste. Careless consumerism transforms the tailor’s careful craft into trash.

As she searches for a way out, memories of her life return. She begins to question the rules she followed so faithfully. Yet even after recognizing the harm they caused, she cannot bring herself to break them. Obedience has become an identity. Even without watchers, she continues to perform the role she has always known.

“Stitched Shut” reflects how the woman who spent her life stitching clothes also had her voice, freedom, and identity quietly sewn closed by the very rules she lived under.

অরন্যের দয়া

শুন হে মানুষ কহি এক কাহিনী
জঙ্গলে থাকিত এক ভয়ানক বাঘিনী
ঘন অরণ্যে তাহারই বাস
গর্জনে সকলে হইতো দাস

শিকার ধরিয়া কাটে তার দিন
জঙ্গল তাহার যে ছিল অধীন
একদিন বনে এল মহা ক্ষরা
শুকনা লতার প্যাঁচে সে পড়িল ধরা

তৃষ্ণায় কাঁপে বাঘিনীর প্রাণ
জল খুঁজিয়া বনভূমি খান খান
এক শিশু হরিণ দাঁড়ায়েছে তীরে
রোগা পায়ে চাহে জলে ভয়ে ভয়ে ধীরে

বাঘিনী দেখে ক্ষুধার বড় জ্বালা
তবু তার মন আজ দয়া ভরা ঢালা
বাঘিনী হরিণ শিশুকে দিল জল
দেখে বনভূমি আজ হইলো তরল

সেদিন হইতে সেই অভিশাপ ক্ষরা
বাদলে প্লাবন বন দয়া দিয়ে ভরা

Inheritance of Living is an artist’s book that reflects on the relationships between land, labour, memory, and cultural continuity within the Bengal delta. Drawing from agrarian and weaving-based social life, the work engages with vernacular cosmologies and lived rural practices.

At its centre is an exchange between a peasant woman and a weaver’s wife—grain for cloth—reflecting reciprocal economies and women’s often-unseen labour. Their conversation follows the rhythmic, poetic modes of expression common among village women, forming a key visual and narrative motif.

Through cyanotype, anthotype, and hand-writing, the work unfolds as a layered visual archive where text and image intertwine with lived experience and inherited memory.

This story follows a girl who once knew very little about the vast beauty and diversity of the world. As she begins exploring new places, cities, jungles, waterfalls, and snow-covered mountains, each journey opens her eyes to new cultures, landscapes, and ways of life. Gradually, these experiences shape her thoughts and emotions, helping her see the world from a different perspective. What begins as a simple exploration slowly turns into a journey of self-discovery, transforming her into a more aware, thoughtful, and humble human being.

Archive of a Shadowless Garden

Many gardens in the city of Dhaka are rapidly changing under the pressure of urbanization. In the name of development, new structures, paved pathways, and various infrastructures are being built, leading to the continuous cutting down of many old and rare species of trees. As a result, the natural environment, shade, and biodiversity of these gardens are gradually disappearing.

This work is an attempt to preserve the memory of those lost trees—an archive that records their presence, where traces of their existence remain even in the absence of their shade.

This handmade book emerges from a quiet dialogue between my mother and I. Inspired by her words about a forest burning with sorrow, the work reflects on how women’s grief transforms into resilience across generations.

Using natural pigments and fragments of my mother’s saree and my own, the pages weave memory, inheritance, and the intimate language between two lives.

Tangail sari is one of the most enduring heritage garments of Bangladesh. For generations, women across the country have incorporated it into their daily lives, making it not only a piece of clothing but also a living cultural narrative. Among the many regional traditions, the Tangail sari and handloom weaving stand as one of Bangladesh’s most significant textile heritages. The handloom sari industry in Tangail developed largely under the guidance of the Basak community. Weavers who migrated from Dhamrai and Chauhatta later became recognized as pioneers of this craft in Tangail.

In the early nineteenth century, simple saris were woven using vital and dobby borders through handloom. Gradually, with the introduction of dobby techniques, decorated borders—later known as Nakshi par—began to emerge. Subsequently, the pit loom enabled the addition of hand buti motifs, enriching the visual language of Tangail textiles.

By the mid-nineteenth century, the arrival of the Jacquard loom further transformed the design possibilities in Tangail. Inspired by jacquard designs, more intricate narrative patterns began to appear. The hand buti sari remains one of Tangail’s most distinctive traditions. Upon close observation, its weaving process reveals strong technical and aesthetic parallels with Jamdani weaving. Historically, natural dyes were used for coloring the saris, and as a result, nearby water bodies remained clean and ecologically balanced. The Dhaleshwari River was once clear and free from pollution.

Completely handwoven, each sari demands time, patience, and highly specialized skill. Without the expertise of master weavers, producing these textiles is nearly impossible. However, this heritage is now under severe threat. Neglect, the easy availability of industrial products, and the rapid expansion of power looms have caused a steady decline in the number of skilled weavers. Many artisans are abandoning their ancestral profession in search of financial survival. A significant number have shifted to driving battery-powered rickshaws due to economic hardship.

Power loom saris dominate the market because they are cheaper and require minimal human labor—often completed at the press of a button. As a result, traditional weavers are increasingly forced to seek alternative livelihoods. A handcrafted heritage is slowly approaching extinction due to the lack of proper patronage and systemic support.

Industrialization and the spread of power looms have not only impacted the weaving community but have also severely damaged the local ecosystem. The Dhaleshwari River is now nearly toxic; its fish are often considered unsafe to consume, and the water carries a persistent kerosene-like odor. Industrial waste, plastic pollution, and chemical dyes continue to contaminate the river at an alarming rate.

In this context, both the handloom tradition and the weaver’s livelihood stand at a critical crossroads. Our inquiry emerges from this fragile intersection of craft, ecology, and survival. Through our work, we seek to foreground the slow, labor-intensive beauty of handwoven textiles while simultaneously questioning the socio-economic and environmental costs of industrial growth . The future of this heritage remains uncertain, and it is within this uncertainty that our practice attempts to document, mourn, and reimagine the fate of Tangail’s weaving legacy.

The myth of Bonbibi is very popular among the people of the Sundarbans. According to the legend, Bonbibi is the guardian spirit of the forest who protects poor villagers, honey collectors, and woodcutters from dangers, especially from the demon king Dakkhin Rai. People who enter the forest pray to Bonbibi for safety and protection from tigers and other threats. The story teaches values of justice, harmony between humans and nature, and respect for the forest.

“Benarasi” — for generations it has been a symbol of beauty, aspiration, and celebration in South Asian culture. Even today, its emotional significance has not faded. This story reflects on that enduring relationship.

The narrative unfolds within a middle-class family in Bangladesh during the 1970s, where a red Benarasi saree holds deep emotional and cultural meaning. The story follows the lives of two women across generations — a mother and a daughter — whose experiences reflect the tensions, expectations, and inherited values surrounding womanhood.

Through their relationship, the story explores how social norms, gender roles, and cultural traditions shape personal desires and identities. It examines how inherited expectations can both connect and distance individuals across time.

Within the everyday lives of these women, the Benarasi saree becomes more than a garment; it becomes a symbol of memory, aspiration, and the pressures of tradition. The story brings forward the subtle negotiations between personal agency and social structures.

Ultimately, the narrative highlights how time creates gaps between generations, and how those gaps invite reflection on social, economic, and gendered ideas that continue to shape our lives.

The myth of Bonbibi is very popular among the people of the Sundarbans. According to the legend, Bonbibi is the guardian spirit of the forest who protects poor villagers, honey collectors, and woodcutters from dangers, especially from the demon king Dakkhin Rai. People who enter the forest pray to Bonbibi for safety and protection from tigers and other threats. The story teaches values of justice, harmony between humans and nature, and respect for the forest.

The conceptual collaboration of this work was done with Rokeya Sultana

“চেহারা ঠিক কর : Persona In Pieces”

I created this work around the ideas of “Skin as Archive” and “Inherited Threads.” 

In this project, I think of the body as a living archive, one that carries memory, inheritance, and stories that are often held in silence.

The mask is inspired by the visual language of Bengali folk performance masks from Gambhira, Gomira, and Chau, but I reinterpret it as an interactive structure. Different facial features can be attached, removed, or changed. This shifting face responds to a familiar social instruction many of us hear growing up: “চেহারা ঠিক কর” It questions the idea that emotions, pain, or truth must be hidden behind a socially acceptable expression.

Behind the mask is a foldable fan-like arch structure. As it opens, each fold reveals layered textile collages and embroidery inspired by the Kanchanmala narrative from Purbo Bongo Gitika. Through these layers, the work traces themes of maternal memory, silence, endurance, and transformation.

Through this piece, I reimagine the concept of a book, where the body becomes the page, stitching becomes the text, and the story unfolds through folds, touch, and interaction.