The Weaver of Patan

She has been sitting at the same loom for forty years. The room is small, lit by a single window that looks onto a narrow alley in Patan. Dust floats in the light. Her hands move without looking—thread through, press down, thread through, press down.

"When I started, every house in this area had a loom. Now there are only a few of us left. The young people go to the city. They don’t want to sit still for hours."

She learned from her mother, who learned from her mother. The patterns she weaves are old—geometric, symbolic—and she can still name each one. "This one is for festivals. This one is for the home. This one was for the kings, long ago."

She doesn’t sell to tourists. She sells to families who still remember what it means to wear something made by hand. "When someone wears my cloth, they carry a piece of this place. That is enough for me."