Instead of summer camp, Meera visited her aunt’s handloom shed. Here, the kaithari (handloom) clacked rhythmically, weaving cotton saris with borders of gold zari . Her aunt taught her that each thread had a story: the red for the earth of Kerala, the gold for the sun, the white for the backwaters’ foam. “Machine-made cloth has no heartbeat,” her aunt said, guiding Meera’s fingers through the warp and weft.
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