Rug sellers

Village elder in Modh

Patern behind actual carpet

We were a distinct curiosity

Cyclist with wool

Arriving on the train platform in Bhadohi

Indigo wool drying

School visit in Bhadohi

Silver gilt meat in storefront

Aslam and Dick enjoy some sugarcane with villagers looking on

The Ansaris have been in the rug business for 40 years, and for many generations before that they were weavers. While the family once lived on the margins in the town of Bhadohi, on the Gangetic plain of eastern Uttar Pradesh, now they are prosperous enough to be building a third gudam. That's the Hindi word for house, but it can signify much more. The current Ansari gudam is a sprawling three-story concrete structure with three generations of extended family living on the upper floors. Below is the binding and finishing operation for the rugs woven on hand looms in 20 villages spread throughout U.P. Wool is dyed out back in a cement cauldron over a wood fire. Dry petals from the dye-plant flowers flutter among the workers. There's a guest room on the first floor of the gudam next to a small garden. We slept there for two nights, cozy under wool blankets in a bed the size of Rajasthan.

The Ansaris are Muslim, as are most people in Bhadohi, and perhaps for this reason we were not introduced to any female members of the family, except for one of Aslam's daughters on the day we left. And that was just "hello." During our stay, however, we sometimes spotted both boys and girls quietly watching us from the roof garden far above.

The men of the family were open and friendly, especially Aslam. He is a good friend of Jeff Arcari, the Boston rug dealer who sponsored our visit to Bhadohi via the WBUR raffle won by Bob and Barbara Wheaton. Although busy with the everyday operations of the business, Aslam saw to it that younger family members took turns showing us around.

One of Aslam's nephew's, a well-spoken university student who told us happily that he had "no bad habits," showed us some local weaving operations, as well as the original Ansari gudam, built by Aslam's father. The building is now a primary school the family founded and funds. Another school is under construction nearby, this one sponsored by "Mr. Chris," another Boston rug dealer. A second nephew we met, a twenty-something handsome lad with an easy laugh, is getting married in late February---we were invited to the wedding but will have left India by then---and he was so excited he could barely keep his head on straight. He said his bride was a young woman he knew and liked. Several young Indian men we met spoke favorably of arranged marriages, the norm here, and disdained Western marriage customs that result in high divorce rates. Indian women may agree, although we have not met any whose opinions we might ask.

Another nephew, Shadab Ansari, met us in Delhi on our arrival and accompanied us on a day-long guided bus tour of the city---Parliament, India Gate, the Indira Gandhi Museum (with blood-spattered assassination sari), several temples and the Mahatma Gandhi tomb. The tour was conducted entirely in Hindi, but we liked being among Indian tourists in from the hinterlands as they looked over their cultural heritage with satisfaction.

The best part of our visit to Bhadohi was when Aslam drove us out one afternoon to the village of Modh. It's about 7 kilometers out of town amid healthy-looking rice and wheat fields. About 60 families live in Modh in mud houses with home-baked tile roofs. There's a village well and a common diesel pump for irrigating the surrounding rice paddies and vegetable plots. Each house in Modh contains a large hand-built hand loom, on which a gorgeous rug with a Persian design is being woven by a family member. Each family produces a rug a year, on average. The prices are negotiated by elected village leaders---democracy functions in India at all levels---and the rugs are the primary source of cash in the village. The rugs then end up in stores like Landry and Arcari in Boston, and on well-appointed floors from Beacon Hill to Concord.

Our arrival in Modh was an occasion, and the rituals of Indian hospitality were played out gracefully. Aslam was plainly not just respected but liked. He had a nice way with both the village leaders and the weavers and farmers. And because he had brought us to Modh we were treated warmly. After the tour of rugs-in-progress, we sat on charpoys and gnawed on fresh sugar cane as the villagers gathered and Joe took lots of pictures. We got a tour of the banana grove and saw bananas so new out of the flower they were the size of fingernails. Snacks appeared one by one: spicy fried potatoes, freshly fried potato chips, candied fruit, and the inevitable sweet chai.

Aslam and the village leaders talked business and some politics. The government was upbraided for providing electricity to Modh for only a few hours a day even as an enormous privately-owned cell-phone tower rose nearby. Aslam told us later that the villagers received poor educational and health services from the government. Their entire world was their village and what they made of it themselves. He said they knew nothing of the larger world and were barely aware of a place called India. It looked to us though that they valued Aslam and what he represented. And they valued their own artistry and industry, which put beautiful rugs on floors in places the people of Modh could not begin to imagine.