<p>I was working on yarn combinations for a saree pallu at a family handloom workspace in Gajendragad during a field visit. When calibrating colour against kora warp — an unbleached, undyed cotton yarn in its natural off-white state — to achieve the luminous dhoop-chhaav effect (a colour interplay), characteristic of older Deccan textiles, 85-year-old weaver Hussain Saab’s eyes stuck on a small piece of fabric we had been examining.</p><p>Hussain Saab said he had seen the weaving of such a saree by his father. Identifying it by its structural and design features — the kora warp, contrast weft interplay and the distinctive gadi dadi border, he said “This is a Hubli saree.”</p><p>In the mid-1950s, Hussain Saab recalled, the saree was extensively woven in Gajendragad, Bagalkot and Gadag regions. Known simply as the Hubli saree (now Hubballi), it was worn mostly by women in villages. It was completely handwoven on pitlooms and was practical, breathable, and vibrant. The warp for the body was always in kora, offset by contrast weft. The borders were unmistakably bright.</p>.A mother leopard’s lessons.<p>Its defining feature was the gadi dadi border — a rail-track pattern of floral motifs. Today, variations of this border survive in Ilkal and Narayanpet sarees, but the name “Hubli saree” has faded from memory.</p><p>Scientific testing of the fabric sample revealed that the piece was approximately 103 years old. What lay before us was not merely cloth, but evidence of continuity and of silent endurance.</p><p><strong>Mapping the sample</strong></p><p>As I began tracing the gadi dadi motif, a larger Deccan map began to unfold. In Madhya Pradesh, a similar elongated floral form appears in rui phool borders seen in Malwa handloom sarees, including Maheshwari variants. The weaving clusters around Nippani on the Maharashtra–Karnataka border also produce sarees featuring comparable borders. In the Narayanpet weaves of present-day Telangana, the motif merges into temple-style borders without a distinct local name, though the resemblance remains striking. Even the saw-tooth-edged Karvat Kathi border of Nagpur finds echoes in North Karnataka’s Iruki paddike — a narrow, closely packed border resembling interlocked steps.</p>.<p>Somewhere along the march of mechanisation and shifting markets, the Hubli saree receded. But the motifs have travelled more freely than we know. The names change. The regions shift but the design continues. The Deccan has always been less a boundary and more a bridge in this sense.</p><p>At this moment of disappearance and survival, I am reminded of a vachana of Jedara Dasimayya, the mystic weaver-saint who understood the loom as both craft and cosmos:</p><p>Life the starched yarn, set the strings right</p><p>Have equal footing, but don’t touch the loom</p><p>The shuttle which I am holding has swallowed the bundle of yarn</p><p>Is it you who wove the sari or I?</p><p>The question lingers.</p><p>When I sit beside Hussain Saab, adjusting yarn tension and colour sequences, I find myself asking the same thing: who truly weaves the Hubli saree? Is it the octogenarian custodian of memory? His father, who wove a century ago? The unnamed women who wore it across Gadag’s fields? Or the migrating motif that refuses to disappear?</p><p>Revival, I realise, is not about recreating a lost design. It is about recognising continuity. What we call innovation may simply be inheritance without acknowledgement.</p><p>The Hubli saree may not yet have a Geographical Indication tag or curated exhibition space. But it carries something rarer — an unbroken thread of memory.</p><p>And the loom, as Hussain Saab reminds me, does not forget. It waits for someone to listen.</p>
<p>I was working on yarn combinations for a saree pallu at a family handloom workspace in Gajendragad during a field visit. When calibrating colour against kora warp — an unbleached, undyed cotton yarn in its natural off-white state — to achieve the luminous dhoop-chhaav effect (a colour interplay), characteristic of older Deccan textiles, 85-year-old weaver Hussain Saab’s eyes stuck on a small piece of fabric we had been examining.</p><p>Hussain Saab said he had seen the weaving of such a saree by his father. Identifying it by its structural and design features — the kora warp, contrast weft interplay and the distinctive gadi dadi border, he said “This is a Hubli saree.”</p><p>In the mid-1950s, Hussain Saab recalled, the saree was extensively woven in Gajendragad, Bagalkot and Gadag regions. Known simply as the Hubli saree (now Hubballi), it was worn mostly by women in villages. It was completely handwoven on pitlooms and was practical, breathable, and vibrant. The warp for the body was always in kora, offset by contrast weft. The borders were unmistakably bright.</p>.A mother leopard’s lessons.<p>Its defining feature was the gadi dadi border — a rail-track pattern of floral motifs. Today, variations of this border survive in Ilkal and Narayanpet sarees, but the name “Hubli saree” has faded from memory.</p><p>Scientific testing of the fabric sample revealed that the piece was approximately 103 years old. What lay before us was not merely cloth, but evidence of continuity and of silent endurance.</p><p><strong>Mapping the sample</strong></p><p>As I began tracing the gadi dadi motif, a larger Deccan map began to unfold. In Madhya Pradesh, a similar elongated floral form appears in rui phool borders seen in Malwa handloom sarees, including Maheshwari variants. The weaving clusters around Nippani on the Maharashtra–Karnataka border also produce sarees featuring comparable borders. In the Narayanpet weaves of present-day Telangana, the motif merges into temple-style borders without a distinct local name, though the resemblance remains striking. Even the saw-tooth-edged Karvat Kathi border of Nagpur finds echoes in North Karnataka’s Iruki paddike — a narrow, closely packed border resembling interlocked steps.</p>.<p>Somewhere along the march of mechanisation and shifting markets, the Hubli saree receded. But the motifs have travelled more freely than we know. The names change. The regions shift but the design continues. The Deccan has always been less a boundary and more a bridge in this sense.</p><p>At this moment of disappearance and survival, I am reminded of a vachana of Jedara Dasimayya, the mystic weaver-saint who understood the loom as both craft and cosmos:</p><p>Life the starched yarn, set the strings right</p><p>Have equal footing, but don’t touch the loom</p><p>The shuttle which I am holding has swallowed the bundle of yarn</p><p>Is it you who wove the sari or I?</p><p>The question lingers.</p><p>When I sit beside Hussain Saab, adjusting yarn tension and colour sequences, I find myself asking the same thing: who truly weaves the Hubli saree? Is it the octogenarian custodian of memory? His father, who wove a century ago? The unnamed women who wore it across Gadag’s fields? Or the migrating motif that refuses to disappear?</p><p>Revival, I realise, is not about recreating a lost design. It is about recognising continuity. What we call innovation may simply be inheritance without acknowledgement.</p><p>The Hubli saree may not yet have a Geographical Indication tag or curated exhibition space. But it carries something rarer — an unbroken thread of memory.</p><p>And the loom, as Hussain Saab reminds me, does not forget. It waits for someone to listen.</p>