Kerala’s traditional kasavu saris stand out for their elegance and visual restraint in a country that boasts of rich colors, decadent embroideries, and surface embellishments. But beneath its simple appearance lies a cultural legacy and unique aesthetic. Worn by the Malayali community to temples, weddings, and funerals alike, today, this age-old woven craft is in need of a design intervention.
Vogue spoke to Sreejith Jeevan, founder and designer of clothing label ROUKA, to understand the intricacies of the kasavu weaves. The term ‘kasavu’ actually refers to the zari used in the border of the Kerala sari and not the sari itself. It’s a material used in the manufacturing process. Thus, when kasavu becomes a part of the mundu (dhoti), it’s called a kasavu mundu.
In Kerala, traditional attire like saris, mundus (which are sarongs worn by men), and settu mundus (a two-piece sarong sari) are generally called kaithari, translating to handloom. The identity of the sari generally comes from the cluster they are associated with. Kerala has three clusters that have been given a Geographical Indication (GI) tag by the Indian government, and all of them make what are widely known as kasavu saris, as well as the white Kerala saris that swap the kasavu border with a colored iteration (called kara). These three famous clusters are Balaramapuram, Chendamangalam, and Kuthampully.
The Balaramapuram cluster is based near Trivandrum, and the artisans here are from the Shaliar clan. They were originally from Tamil Nadu and were brought down to Kerala by the Travancore royal family. Balaramapuram is famous for its use of pure zari (silver thread plated in gold), and very fine thread counts like 120s. The second cluster called Chendamangalam is famous for saris and mundus that are normally woven using half-fine zari and 80s-100s thread counts, but without too many motifs. They had the patronage of an aristocratic family called Paliam. Finally, the Kuthampully cluster also makes white saris with zari, but includes patterned and jacquard borders featuring human figure motifs. The artisan community here is called Devanga, and they were brought down by the king of Kochi.
Traditionally, there was actually no concept of a sari at all in Kerala. Instead, there was the mundu. Everyone wore a mundu from the waist downwards, and there was no upper garment for men or women, neither was required to cover their upper body. On the contrary, in a lot of places, women were not allowed to cover their upper bodies and had to pay a tax to do so. However, post-colonization, women started wearing an angavastra (similar to a shawl) on their upper body, and thus the mundu transformed into the two-piece settu mundu. People wear one mundu at the waist, and the other one as a sort of half-sari. The single-piece sari evolved much later, which then led to the popularity of a blouse. This was the first stitched garment they wore.
The production time totally depends on the count. A plain sari with just a border and stripe on the end piece will take three to five days. But if it features motifs, it’ll take much more than that. When there are extremely elaborate motifs (such as those on a wedding sari), it can take up to a month because it is all done by hand weft. The pricing also varies accordingly. If you purchase from a cluster, you can get a basic cotton sari for 3,000 rupees (which, in my opinion, is very underpriced), but with the zari it can go up to 1.5 lakhs—depending on how much gold and labor has gone into it.
The yarn must have been hand-spun traditionally, but these days they use mill-made yarn (hand-spun is both expensive and difficult to mass produce). They put this yarn through a long pre-weaving process, and especially at Chendamangalam, it is this process that got them the GI tag. Once they get the yarn, it is soaked in water for seven or eight days, and stamped on every day (the artisans do this with their feet) while it’s soaking, to get the dirt and starch out and make sure it is completely soft. The yarn is taken out after a week, and part of it is dyed (if required). Then, they make the warp and stretch the yarn. But according to tradition, this stretching has to be done between four and seven in the morning—the temperature and atmosphere during those hours were considered apt for this process. Technically, the yarn has to be stretched in an open area, but these days it’s difficult to find that kind of space. Before the warp is put on the loom, the artisans re-starch it in the morning and allow it to dry. Then they starch it once more and brush it with a comb made out of coconut fibre. It is dried until 7.00 am and then put on the loom. This stretched yarn is clean and absorbent, and the starch is added so it doesn’t break on the loom. Beyond this, there is really no post-weaving process. They just take it off the loom and put it on the shelf.
The Kerala sari and mundus are very minimalistic because they’re predominantly white with a plain weave on the body. The only design element these garments have is the border, which is the selvedge—it has a rib weave to add a more solid look to the gold or colour. Patterning is minimal and happens sometimes with weft inlay or using jacquards. However, it is this very simplicity that makes Kerala saris and handlooms so special. They have an extremely minimal approach to design. The difference between what you wear to a wedding (a sari with a two-inch gold border) and what you wear to a funeral (a sari with a half-inch coloured border) is simply in the colour and thickness of the border. Basically, when you add gold, it becomes a luxury product.
Back in the day, patterning was almost considered a crime, and minimalism was the best form of refinement. Only the royalty and the rich aristocrats wore the kasavu sari, while commoners wore color. However, even the royals wore a coloured border at home and would wear a kasavu only when they went to an event. The aesthetic was as subtle as that. I’ll give you a personal example. My cousin is getting married so my aunt gifted my grandfather a settu mundu with a one-inch border. My grandfather looked at it and said, “Oh this is too gaudy, I only wear borders that are 0.25 inches. I’m too shy to wear all of this.”
However, as time has passed, people are finding the kasavu sari too minimal and subtle, so there are a lot of motifs being used now. The traditional motif is like a little flag at the end of the stripe called the chutti. Besides this, they also do very small extra-weft motifs (sort of like hand inlay) at one corner of the garment. As maximalist style is becoming mainstream (and people are getting bored of the same concept), we’re seeing even more motifs. Artisans weave trees and peacock motifs with extra wefts or jacquards, but these are all very recent additions.
In terms of the colour scheme, there really is no definite answer for why all the saris are white. One argument is that there’s so much green and colour in Kerala that people chose to wear neutral. Another technical reasoning says that since Kerala gets so much rain, the dyeing process was difficult. A third school of thought links the white to the predominant gold culture here. Since a lot of the adornment came from jewellery, the fabric didn’t need to be patterned.
I have used the kasavu fabric to create clothes in Indo-western silhouettes. I did a show at Lakme Fashion Week in 2015, where we got the same kasavu sari fabric woven by a cluster and used it to make my apparel line called Rouka. In the early days, I did experience an interesting incident. I met a weaver in Thiruvananthapuram and suggested to him that we re-work the plain fabric and see how we can maybe add checks or stripes to it. This made him completely furious. “I only make things for elite!” he said. It hadn’t struck me until then that patterned cloth is not considered elite—which is interesting, now that I think about it. Even today, you’re not allowed to enter a temple wearing Madras checks because they’re considered casual. But I hadn’t thought about it like that before.
In 2018, the Chendamangalam cluster was badly affected by the floods that took place in Kerala, and they lost a lot of their looms in Kochi. What was worse was that the water had entered the stock room, and 40 lakhs worth of stock could have gotten stained. So we launched a social media campaign to help sell their stock on an urgent basis. The campaign went viral with celebrities like Kalki Koechlin and Tillotama Shome reposting our message. I realised the true power of social media when all the stock sold out in two weeks, and people even came forward to help set up the looms—they were all up and running by December. After that, we did a pop-up called The Wardrobe timed to the Kochi Biennale, where four local designers used kasavu saris to make clothing. I’m now working with another cluster near Chendamangalam called the Cherai society. We are looking at how we can do a different take on the Kerala sari and quirk it up using traditional techniques and fun motifs. You can buy the same Kerala sari anywhere, so why not try some design intervention?
Most of the weaving clusters in Kerala work through co-operatives that work in their village. This is great because the system becomes fair-trade by nature. All the weavers are literate and part of the cooperative; there are fixed wages and bonuses, and nobody gets exploited. However, that does mean that the fabric is more expensive. I’ve heard designers say things like ‘Kerala cotton is expensive, and we can easily get something similar but cheaper like a muslin from Bengal’. One way to circumvent this is to market the product to an affluent customer, but this has not happened yet. Marketing efforts have been lacking when it comes to Kerala’s handlooms.
Another serious issue is that all the clusters are making the same product, and not much has changed in terms of design. The product still exists in its traditional form, and there’s not been a different take on it. As a result, the sales are seasonal, and all the clusters are competing for the same market on occasions like Onam or Vishu. The government gives a 30 per cent rebate then, so customers also wait till the festive season because they get a discount. A serious design intervention is required to get out of this rut.
The third issue is that because kasavu weaving is talked about as a dying industry, there’s no young blood coming into it. It sounds strange, but one good thing that happened with the floods and the social media campaign that went viral was that there was suddenly a lot of awareness about the different weaving clusters all over India. We were joking about how the floods is when Chendamangalam got its Benares moment! Everyone wanted to wear one for charity, and I got 300 emails in a single day. But charity cannot be sustained, and demand has to be nurtured. Once someone has worn the kasavu, they will know how elegant and comfortable it is, especially for Indian summers. Foreigners who buy them come back and tell me that they’ve used the saris as table linen and curtains. So it could also translate into other products, but none of this is happening yet.
They are proud of it, but like I said, it still is festive wear for most people. It is part of a bride’s trousseau, and they’re likely to already have in their wardrobes. There’s a lot of appreciation, but they also need a reason to buy more. As somebody who is from Kerala and lived in different places, it is something I’ll always carry with me.
