The mountains of the Western Ghats are older than the Himalayas; they hold rain-washed forests, perennial rivers and an astonishing wealth of life. Cradled within the vast green spine is Uttara Kannada district in Karnataka, where forests meet areca nut plantations and cultural histories are as vibrant as the wildlife. Among the diverse communities who live here are the Tibetans, who arrived as refugees from the Himalayan plateau 60 years ago, and the Africans, who were brought centuries ago as slaves and soldiers. Today, the descendants of the Africans are known as Siddis.
While the Tibetans have largely preserved their religious practices and cultural identities within monasteries in Mundgod, the Siddis practice Hinduism, Christianity and Islam, and are spread across the district. Over generations, they have woven themselves into the social fabric of the region, blending into Indian culture while retaining traces of Africa in their music, rituals and craft traditions.
Saris are the primary attire of Siddi women in the region.
Pieces of fabric flutter against the green landscape—some are Buddhist prayer flags in Mundgod, others are saris tied along the fields to scare away wild boar and deer. They are also believed to shield a promising harvest from the evil eyes. A ride along the village roads reveals long lines of dazzling saris draped across home fences and farm boundaries, forming a moving canvas that is more enchanting than puzzling. The presence of saris is as common as the areca nut trees that line the countryside.
Used saris often find another life at Siddi homes; they are transformed into one of the rarest quilts in the world—the kawandi.
Between dense forests and cultivated fields near Mundgod lies the village of Ugginakeri, where Siddi families practise Christianity and live in modest thatched houses. In one such house lives Jacintha Siddi, 36, with her husband and five children. She works on farms and construction sites, but her earnings are scarcely sufficient to feed her family and educate her children.
During the colder months, Jacintha turns to a skill she learned in childhood by watching her mother and grandmother stitch kawandis.
A kawandi begins with an old sari laid out as backing, sometimes doubled for strength, over which patches of cloth salvaged from used garments are placed one by one—small and large, long and short, square and oval—drawn from cotton to polyester fabrics of varying textures and qualities. The maker does not follow a drawn pattern, colours are chosen instinctively. As the hand stitching advances, an abstract collage gradually emerges. The work is carried out in fragments of spare time, and weeks pass before the final stitches secure every patch in place. What ultimately emerges is a vibrant kawandi with a plain backing. Kawandis are gifted at Siddi marriages or upon the birth of a child—carrying much warmth and care.
Sleeping under a kawandi feels different from using mass produced quilt. Its surface is textured with tiny, close stitches that gather the layers into gentle ridges. It is slightly weighty yet breathable—the raised seams trapping heat while the cotton layers allow air to circulate, offering a firm embrace through winter nights.
Maintenance is simple, as kawandis are washed sparingly—usually by hand—and dried in the sun. Over time, the stitches tighten and the fabric softens. Owning a kawandi is not just holding a blanket but possessing a priceless creation. No two kawandis are identical and even deliberate attempts at replication cannot reproduce the same materials or arrangement. Each piece carries the memory of garments once worn, of seasons endured and of generations who practised the art of quilt-making.
As Jacintha bends over her quilt and pulls her needle steadily through layered cloth, close seams and raised folds appear like ridges and grooves. When the quilt is spread, it resembles the valleys of the Western Ghats; when crumpled, the folds resemble large brain lobes with colour coding, holding within it the memory of migration. These quilts preserve the history of Siddi integration into Indian society.
From discarded cloth to cherished heirloom, this is how a kawandi is born, repurposing the old fabric.
In December 2025, THE WEEK commissioned a quilt project involving 10 Siddi women—four from Hunshettikoppa, three from Tavarakatta in Yellapur taluk, and three from Ugginakeri in Mundgod taluk. These 10 women took 30 days to complete their task. Unlike traditional kawandis, these were made with new clothes, yet each woman retained the freedom to express herself in her own way.
In recent years, a few social entrepreneurs have initiated Siddi quilt projects. However, they often determine how the quilts should be made, sometimes urging the women to adapt their designs to suit particular tastes. Kawandis are in demand at handmade textile exhibitions and galleries abroad, where buyers acquire them primarily as works of art. Siddi women do not have cooperative societies of their own and have not fully tapped the potential of their craft; most kawandis continue to be made for personal use within the community.
Geeta Patil, a textile designer who works with women weavers in north Karnataka and runs the handmade textile brand Kubsa, observes that the design patterns in Siddi kawandi arise from individual expression. “The kaudi quilts of north Karnataka and the kawandis made by Siddis are structurally distinct and the stitching techniques differ,” she says. “Both share a similar purpose as layered and stitched designs emerge from frugality shaped by creativity.”
The mosaic of colours in a Siddi kawandi mirrors India’s cultural diversity. Siddis are one more vibrant shade added into the layered history of the nation; their close stitches serve as firm bindings that hold many colours together, much like the close embrace these kawandis offer.