There is an art form – ancient, intricate, and astonishing – that may not live to see another generation: the Jamdani sari.
So I urge you to buy a Jamdani sari. For your mother. For your daughter. For the love of anything still made with human hands. Because if we continue on this path, Jamdani will vanish. And with it, a legacy.
Few products of Bengali craftsmanship have truly stunned me, but the Jamdani does – every time. It is not just mere clothing; it is poetry woven into fabric. At its best, a Jamdani sari rivals anything you might find hanging in a museum – sophisticated, versatile, transcendent.
This isn’t hyperbole. Under the patronage of the Mughals, the Jamdani – woven from the finest cotton called kapas, native to the lush floodplains of Bengal – achieved global renown.
The rivers surrounding Dhaka nourished the cotton and the artisans alike. Their water added a natural sheen to the threads, while the soil’s heat and moisture nurtured the raw material. From these perfect conditions emerged saris so light and sheer they were said to float in the air.
The Julahas – the master weavers – turned thread into marvels.
But then came the British. And with them, the factory. Colonial trade policies flooded Bengal with cheap industrial goods. The handlooms fell silent. Weavers could not compete with machines that did in hours what once took them months.
Entire economies collapsed. And still, somehow, a few stubborn artisans refused to let the Jamdani die.
They are still weaving today – but just barely. The tradition is endangered not because it lacks beauty or demand, but because it lacks support. The average artisan earns a pittance. Their children don’t want to inherit poverty. Who would?
And here’s the non-negotiable truth: the Jamdani cannot be mechanised. Attempts to replicate it by machine – in India or elsewhere – produce lifeless fabric. Devoid of soul, devoid of artistry.
Because some things simply cannot be mass-produced. The Jamdani, like all the most exquisite things in life, must be made by hand.
The real cost
Let’s do the maths.
Not the price tag, but the true cost – the human cost – of a Jamdani sari. And I’m not talking about the tourist-market stuff. I mean the finest, the kind of piece you’d gift a head of state.
For that, two weavers – one a master, the other an apprentice – work side by side for up to 12 hours a day. And they do this not for a few weeks, but for six to eight months. Yes, months. For one sari.
What do they get for it? About 1.5 lakh taka. That’s around Rs 106,000. And that includes time lost on waste yarn, failed attempts, revisions. A less intricate sari might take three months and earn the weavers just 30,000 taka to 50,000 taka – roughly Rs 21,200 to Rs 35,300.
We’re talking about full-time labour by several artisans for wages that barely cover living expenses. This is not commerce. This is exploitation wearing the mask of tradition.
And for anyone tempted to think, “Well, it’s Bangladesh, things cost less,” let me introduce you to the Panama hat.
A good one made from a relatively cheap tree bark straw will run you a few hundred dollars. Like the Jamdani, what drives the price is labour. But the top-tier Panama hat? That’s a different world entirely.
It’s called the Superfino Montecristi, and it’s graded. That means you can count the weave: 40, 50, even 60 threads per inch, yielding an astonishing 1,600 to 2,500 interlaces per square inch. It looks less like a hat and more like silk.
One artisan – just one – works on it by hand, for three to four months. Top-quality hats could sell for $25,000 – or Rs 2,169,538. The weaver walks away with $6,000 to $10,000, which is Rs 5.2 lakh to Rs 8.6 lakhs.
And yet, a Jamdani – handwoven for up to eight months by two artisans, from a tradition centuries older – sells for just over Rs 1 lakh if you’re lucky. Most weavers earn a fraction of what their time and talent deserve.
We’re not just undervaluing the product. We’re erasing the weaver.
The underlying problems
The problem is the Jamdani has no formal grading system in Bangladesh as of now.
No standard of excellence. No international marketing campaign. No lobbyists. No price protections. No fanfare. And without urgent intervention – no future.
Yes, it was declared a Unesco Intangible Cultural Heritage of Humanity in 2013 but that does barely change the fate of the master weavers.
So, it’s no surprise that Jamdani weavers are vanishing – and fast. You’d vanish too if your livelihood depended on selling a masterpiece for the price of a mass-produced bedsheet.
The consequences are predictably tragic: weavers are leaving the loom behind, and they’re taking their children with them.
Can you blame them? Which parent would encourage their child to inherit poverty?
Now let me ask you something uncomfortable. If this sari – this exact artistry – came stamped with “Made in some foreign country” instead of Bangladesh, wouldn’t you gladly pay much more? Wouldn’t you marvel at your own taste and say, “Brother, what a great deal I got!”?
The Jamdani’s greatest liability isn’t its complexity, or its cost, or even the slow pace of hand-weaving. Its liability is geography.
Bangladeshis don’t value what comes from within the border – not really. Not the hands that make it, not the history that shaped it, not the generations that preserved it.
If the Jamdani were woven in Venice or even Varanasi instead of Narayanganj, it would be featured in fashion magazines and wedding trousseaux across Bangladesh. Instead, we treat it like a quaint curiosity – until it disappears.
If you want your daughter to one day inherit the cultural legacy of the Jamdani, you need to help keep it alive now. That means buying one, directly from a weaver if possible. Pay what they ask. They know the value of their labour far better than any boutique in Mumbai or online store ever will.
You will not be cheated. No one has ever been cheated by a Jamdani.
Faham Abdus Salam is an Australia-based writer and commentator
This article first appeared on Bangla Outlook.
