Dabbling in dabu

In Akola, a village by the now-dry Berach river, lives on the centuries-old tradition of mud-resist, handblock printing, called dabu. Once thriving among Rajasthan’s Chhipa community, dabu printing in Akola had dwindled to two families around 2008. Today, the numbers have grown to 30 to 40, says Alka Sharma, a textile designer who is working to revive the craft.

Akola stands out in the state’s handblock printing traditions for its prominent use of indigo dye, once plentiful there. “Back in the day, the village used to look blue — even the pigs,” remarks Alka. So revered was indigo that villagers would administer drops of it to newborns, convinced of its healing qualities. In contrast, Bagru’s designs are mostly defined by blacks, beiges, and reds, while Sanganer boasts a spectrum of up to eight pigments.

Alka highlights that while Sanganeri prints were meant for royalty, Akola and Bagru designs were the everyday wear of local tribes. Further still, from the mineral content and pH of the water to the clayiness of the soil, the rhythm of the weather, and motifs drawn from the world just outside the printer’s doorstep, nature shapes the distinct character of dabu.

Muddy tales

I am visiting Aavaran, Alka’s enterprise in Udaipur, about 80 km from Akola. Long lengths of fabric in deep indigo, bright azure, and misty teal are spread out on grit in the open. Traditionally, dyed textiles were dried directly on bare soil, but when the rains turned the ground to slush, grit became a more practical choice. Winter, with its mild sun and dry weather, is the ideal season for dabu work. In contrast, summer’s heat can cause the dye to dry too quickly, resulting in uneven prints.

The grit shifts beneath my feet as I walk toward Charu Sankhala, the design head. Standing next to a tank of dried mud, she begins: “We collect clay from a nearby lakebed, mix it with limestone, and then soak it in a solution of water and natural gum from the acacia plant.” In the adjacent room, two men are sieving the paste, smoothing it over a vat.

Wherever the paste is applied, the dye can’t seep through. The process becomes like a game of hide-and-seek: each dip in the dye creates new patterns, leaving some areas uncoloured while others soak up the colour. It’s similar to bandhani, where tying or folding creates a resist, or batik, where wax blocks the dye. “The gum helps the paste adhere to the fabric,” Charu explains. I also learn how the drought forced the Akola printers to shift to tar as a dye resist. Unlike the earthen paste, tar can be reused and renders a deeper blue on phentiya, a printed skirt of local significance. Further in, I am shown pouches of turmeric, babool, manjistha, kashish, harda, and pomegranate peel — these bring out yellow, red, green, brown, and grey hues.

Up next are the indigo baths — nine-foot deep pits brimming with purple-green solutions, made by dissolving jaggery, limestone, and indigo powder in water. Indigo is a cold, temperature-sensitive dye, which is why the pits are built underground and cooled using coolers in summer. In contrast, madder is a hot dye, extracted by boiling its roots.

An artisan dips a swathe of mud-printed fabric into a dye pit, using sticks to guide it evenly. The cloth enters white, and like dry earth drinking in the first rain, it instantly soaks up the dye, turning pale yellow. As the fabric is carried to the grit area, the oxidation process turns it blue within seconds. The pit itself is gently bubbling, alive with the fermentation of an 11-year-old culture, much like a sourdough starter. The fermentation fills the air with an earthy scent, and also helps in imparting the rich blue colour.

We step into a room with long printing tables, its walls lined with tall shelves stacked with wooden blocks — rekh for outlining, datta for inner filling, and gadh for background filling. The blocks are carved to eight inches or less, as bigger ones are too unwieldy to work with.

Dabu comes from the Hindi word dabana, meaning ‘to press’ — and now, I am invited to give it a shot. An artisan dips a block into a tray of vibrant indigo, hands it to me, and guides me to align and press down firmly on the cloth. As someone who could never draw a straight line on a blackboard, my borders drift, the ink goes rogue — too smudged, too faint, patchy. Defect or effect? Our talk turns to how imperfections deepen the craft’s appeal and become the maker’s mark. For the real printers, though, each stamp is a choreography of detail, precision, rhythm and a satisfying thud.

Prints charming

Here, a saree with a simple bird and border print can take a week to make, involving two rounds of washing, printing, and dyeing, at least seven people, and eight to nine carved blocks.

I am back in the grit area, where the dyed fabrics have shrunk and puckered. Ahead, a giant clothesline holds the next batch — freshly washed, starch-free, and waiting to be touched by block and dye.

As I leave, I can’t help but ask: How will the centuries-old crafts withstand the overwhelming force of fast fashion? For Alka, the key lies in reimagining Indian crafts for today’s buyer. This has involved refining block patterns, experimenting with print placements, expanding into fashion runways and international markets like Japan and Korea, and branching out into modern products like corduroys, dresses, cushions, and footwear. On the shelves, I saw familiar champa, chameli, and peacock blocks alongside waves, arrowheads, kolams, gopurams, palm trees, stars, Gond-style deer, porcupines and upright cats!

On why Indian handicrafts are catching on

According to Radhika Chhabra, creative head of a brand focused on handmade products, the renewed pride in 'Made in India' is shifting attention back to homegrown crafts. Mala Dhawan, co-founder of a non-profit in the same space, notes that as people engage more directly with artisans, they are beginning to better appreciate the effort and cost that go into craftsmanship.

The writer was in Udaipur at the invitation of Jaypore.