How 1 Woman Is Turning Assam’s Forgotten Muga Silk Into a Global Symbol of Change

On a quiet morning in Dhemaji, Assam, the rhythmic creak of a loom rises like breath from the earth. Threads stretch, hands move in practised harmony, and golden strands of Muga silk begin to take shape.

In a corner of this weaving studio sits Jagrity Phukan, 32, founder of ‘Way of Living Studio’ — a grassroots movement, design practice, and regenerative textile ecosystem rolled into one. She is leading one of India’s most powerful rural design interventions, prioritising nature, community, and indigenous wisdom over speed, scale, or profit. In doing so, she’s helping rewrite the narrative of India’s fashion and craft economies.

A loom and a dream

Jagrity grew up beside her mother’s loom, the hum of yarns becoming the pulse of her childhood. Even as a schoolgirl in a starched Muga mekhela(a cylindrical piece of cloth wrapped around the waist like a skirt), she remembers being both proud and pained — the fresh fabric cutting into her ankle, its beauty demanding patience.

“I would always go back to my mother’s softened old mekhela,” she recalls. “That’s when I began to understand the true potential of this fibre.”

Her dream was clear even then — to study design at NIFT Delhi and return home to build something of her own. Like many design graduates, she entered the fast fashion industry chasing creative freedom, only to confront its darker truths: overproduction, exploitation, and the erasure of traditional craftsmanship.

And so began the quiet birth of Way of Living Studio — which, fittingly, reads as SLOW in reverse. Although the dream began much earlier, the Way of Living Studio was officially established in 2021 in Dhemaji, a small town situated on the north bank of the Brahmaputra River in Assam. And instead of building just a company, she built a community. 

Craft as culture, silk as a symbol

The studio didn’t emerge from a business plan but from an inner urge to reimagine fashion as a holistic, value-led ecosystem. Inspired by the native Foxtail Orchid, Jagrity created an ethical and ecological blueprint — a five-petal philosophy rooted in cultural sustainability, co-creation with nature, circular design, economic resilience, and community participation.

Like the flower it draws from, the model thrives only in a biodiverse, healthy environment. At its heart lies a deep respect for indigenous knowledge systems — particularly Assam’s traditional silks, Muga and Eri.

Muga silk is ecologically rare. Its prehistoric silkworms are delicate, surviving only in unpolluted air. Their presence itself signals environmental balance — a harmony between land, trees, and people.

“For Assamese communities, Muga is more than fabric; it is identity,” says Jagrity. “During Bihu, our biggest festival, it is tradition to wear Muga silk. Its lustrous threads are our second skin — a living marker of heritage.”

Eri silk, too, has long been part of Assamese life. “In my land, the Eri silkworm has always been part of our food culture. The community rears, cooks, spins, dyes, and weaves. The cycle sustains us — nature, food, cloth, and community exist in harmony. It’s not a supply chain, but a collaboration between land, silkworms, women, and trees,” she adds.

From soil to silk: the ‘Way of Living’ ecosystem

The Way of Living Studio operates on a ‘Soil to Silk’ model — community-driven hubs where every cocoon is raised with care and every fibre traced to its source.

Muga silk begins in backyard farms where Som and Soalu trees grow chemical-free. Eri silk, even more intimate, is reared in courtyards within layered agroforestry systems. Women raise the worms in rhythm with the seasons, reel them using bamboo tools, and dye yarns with colours from their gardens.

Each piece is woven at home or in a community loom — never outsourced, never industrialised. “We are a living community, not a workforce,” says Jagrity. “We make with care, and we make at home.”

What emerges is not just cloth. Every sari or scarf carries within it the labour, land, and lineage of its makers.

This ecosystem has redefined what a rural value chain can look like — circular, transparent, and deeply human.

An indigenous value chain, reimagined

At Way of Living Studio, they have 14 looms in their R&D centre. Each loom supports at least eight artisans, and every 50 grams of yarn woven links back to dozens more — sericulture farmers, women spinning silk in courtyards, and families dyeing threads with plants from their fields.

Today, the studio’s community includes 24 spinners, 15 sericulture farmers, 10 weavers, six dye farmers, and two young girls who work as community coordinators — about 57 people in total. When yarn falls short, scrap dealers (raddiwalas) step in after collecting silk from villagers, adding another 10–15 hands to the circle.

Numal Bhuyan, 48, has been in the Eri silk business for 25 years. Once travelling from village to village to collect yarn, he now leads a network of raddiwalas who pick silk instead of scrap, supplying it to the studio.

“This is the original bostuthat has lasted generations,” he says proudly. “Through this business, I’ve been able to create bhaat-paani for myself and many families. It’s self-sustaining — the women don’t have to leave their homes to earn.”

Textile as a symbol of change, resistance, and resilience

Ninety-nine percent of the team is women-led. For these women, looms are more than tools — they are spaces of conversation, solidarity, and self-worth. “This is the beginning of an ecofeminist movement,” smiles Jagrity. “Rooted not in theory, but in lived experience. We’ve created a safe space — and that is the real change.”

Nearly 80% of the women who come to the studio are survivors of domestic violence. Many are single mothers. Yet they find dignity in their work. “It’s not just about craft,” adds Jagrity. “It’s about agency, healing, and being seen.”

Niru, Tinamoni, and Rina are three such artisans who have worked with Muga all their lives but recently joined Jagrity’s organised network.

“I work from 6 am to 7 pm. Mornings are spent at my piggery and poultry farm. After finishing my household chores, I come to the studio. It has given me an identity and a safe space,” says a cheerful Niru.

For these women, weaving has meant more than income — it has meant visibility. For the first time, their voices aired on All India Radio, their stories reaching beyond their villages. In a project with Central Saint Martins, London, they even modelled for their own textiles; their photographs travelled farther than they ever could.

“I may never be able to go there myself,” says Tinamoni, “but it gives me pride to see my image displayed in London.”

Rina is shy, but proud. “I’ve always worked with Muga because it is our tradition. But thanks to the Studio, our work is now exhibited across the world. I bought a phone with my own money. I feel very happy.”

A heritage overlooked globally

The GI-tagged Muga silk, known for its longevity, often outlives its wearer, turning each garment into an heirloom. Yet both Muga and Eri — regenerative and among the most sustainable fibres in the world — remain overlooked and undervalued.

“In colonial times, Muga silk was taxed and its trees destroyed to make way for tea,” says Jagrity. “Its erasure was intentional because Muga resists industrialisation. You can’t mass-produce it. It’s seasonal, ecological, and stubbornly local.”

To her, that is its strength. As global fashion houses borrow freely from India — Prada’s Kolhapuris, Louis Vuitton’s auto-rickshaw bag — Jagrity insists it’s time to reclaim Muga’s story for ourselves.

“Why should we let them tell our story?” she asks. “Muga has everything — sustainability, rarity, cultural depth. What it lacks is a storyteller with a platform.”

She believes Muga’s slow, climate-sensitive, anti-industrial nature may not suit fast fashion, but it’s perfect for the future we should be building.

Early supporters like Smita Godrej, Jahnvi Nilekani, and Roshni Nadar saw the value in this ethos, helping the studio reach global stages. Its first international collaboration came through Central Saint Martins.

The artisanal line began just 18 months ago. While the studio is still exploring revenue channels, its community-first model is sustained through a mix of B2B partnerships and a growing direct-to-consumer line.

“Our hero is our range of textile art, which has found many high-profile patrons who are true connoisseurs,” says Jagrity. “Each piece — typically 1.5 m x 37 in and made from muga on muga — is priced between Rs 4.8 lakh and Rs 12 lakh. We also offer stoles, mufflers, home textiles, garment yardages, cushion covers, and throws.”

For Jagrity, each handmade piece represents dignity, resilience, and proof that a slow, rooted textile economy can thrive today.

“Every day, one loom consumes at least 200 grams of yarn. To make that, we need a minimum of four women in the backend and around 34 sericulture farmers rearing the silk. It takes a village to create one piece. Our artisans now earn 3.5 times more than they did earlier, when they wove cotton gamchas or plain muga mekholas at home. That, to me, is true success.”

Meaning over metrics

The most radical part of Way of Living Studio may be that it doesn’t seek rapid scale. Instead, it prioritises resilience — ecological, economic, and emotional. It builds in slowness, allows for community pace, and respects natural rhythms.

The studio may not yet see tangible shifts in wealth, but its ripples run deep — resistance against invisibility, resilience against erasure, and renewal of identity through craft.

And while modest in scale, its aspirations are vast. “In five years,” says Jagrity, “I want Dhemaji to become a centre of design leadership, cultural intelligence, and ecological vision.”

She dreams of a weavers’ bank, microfinance rooted in care, and economic resistance built from ancestral knowledge. Most of all, she wants young people to see themselves not just as artisans, but as creators, leaders, and thinkers.

In a world driven by metrics, Jagrity’s work is driven by meaning. Her Way of Living is not a brand, but an invitation to rethink what we wear, how we make, and who gets to lead the story.

“A tree grows from its roots in the land, not from concrete boxes in the sky,” she says.

As the sun sets over Dhemaji and the looms fall silent for the day, there is no sense of urgency — only quiet purpose. The kind that comes from knowing that real change isn’t stitched in haste, but woven in time.

Disclaimer : This story is auto aggregated by a computer programme and has not been created or edited by DOWNTHENEWS. Publisher: thebetterindia.com