"Su Yao's Dazzling Counterattack Chapter 25"
The sun baked the sandstone walls of Jaisalmer Fort as Su Yao's car rolled through the narrow lanes, where vendors shouted over piles of embroidered fabrics and camel carts rumbled past. Beyond the fort's golden gates, in a courtyard shaded by a centuries-old banyan tree, a group of Rajput weavers waited—men with turbans dyed saffron and indigo, women in mirrored ghagras (long skirts) that glittered like scattered stars. Their leader, a tall man named Rana Singh, bowed slightly, his hands clasped. "You've come for the bandhani," he said, his Hindi laced with the crisp tones of Marwari dialect.
The Rajput were masters of bandhani—tie-dye techniques that created intricate patterns, each knot representing a wish or a prayer. Su Yao's team aimed to merge this ancient craft with their seaweed-metal blend, creating textiles that reflected both the arid beauty of Rajasthan and the ocean's depth. But the first morning revealed a clash of traditions as sharp as the fort's ramparts.
Rana's wife, Meera, spread a bandhani sari across a wooden table, its red fabric dotted with tiny white patterns. "Each knot is tied by hand," she said, her fingers brushing the fabric. "A bride's sari has 108 knots—for the 108 beads in a rosary. We take three days to tie them, three days to dye. Rushing is an insult to the gods."
Su Yao's team had brought automated tie-dye machines, designed to replicate bandhani patterns in hours. When Lin demonstrated the machine, which spat out a perfectly uniform swatch, the weavers fell silent. An elder, Rana's grandfather, spat on the ground. "This is not bandhani," he said, his voice trembling with anger. "This is a ghost. It has no soul, no prayers."
Cultural friction ignited over symbolism. The Rajput's patterns were loaded with meaning: peacock motifs for prosperity, mango shapes for fertility, and the chakra (wheel) for protection. These were not chosen randomly; they were passed down through pothis (ancient manuscripts) that detailed which patterns belonged to which clans. Elena, inspired by the seaweed-metal's iridescence, proposed adding wave motifs to represent the ocean. "It will connect Rajasthan to the world," she said, showing a sketch.
Meera's sister, Priya, who had studied textile conservation in Jaipur, shook her head. "The ocean is not our story," she said. "Our patterns speak of the desert, of our forts, of our battles. You can't just add waves like spices to a curry."
A more urgent crisis erupted when the seaweed-metal blend reacted violently to the Rajput's natural dyes. The indigo, made from fermented neel leaves, turned the metal threads green and brittle, while the saffron—extracted from kesar crocus—stained the seaweed fibers a murky yellow. "Your fabric is cursed," the elder muttered, after examining a ruined swatch. "It rejects our colors, just as it rejects our ways."
That night, a sandstorm swept through Jaisalmer, coating their equipment in a fine layer of dust and tearing the tarpaulin covering their fabric stores. When they emerged at dawn, they found their remaining seaweed-metal rolls tangled with bandhani saris, the metal threads snaking through the tie-dyed patterns like serpents. Rana's grandfather declared it a bad omen. "The gods are warning us," he said. "Send these people away."
Su Yao sat with Meera in her courtyard as she tied knots for a new bandhani sari, the oil lamp casting amber light over their hands. "What if we learn to tie the knots?" Su Yao asked, her voice soft. "By hand, as you do. And we'll let your patterns lead—no waves, no ocean motifs. Just Rajasthan, in your colors."
Meera paused, her knotting tool hovering over the fabric. "You'd do that? After traveling so far?"
"Of course," Su Yao said. "We came to collaborate, not to replace. Your bandhani is perfect as it is. We just want to add a thread—our thread—to your story."
Over the next month, the team immersed themselves in Rajput life. They woke at 4 a.m. to help collect neel leaves from the fields, their fingers stained blue for days. They sat cross-legged on the courtyard floor, learning to tie knots with Meera and Priya—their hands cramping, their progress slow, but each knot a small victory. Giovanni, who had initially scoffed at "such simple work," found himself mesmerized by the precision. "It's like weaving lace," he said, as Meera corrected his technique for the hundredth time. "But with knots instead of threads."
To solve the dye reaction, Lin researched Rajput dyeing techniques, discovering that the neel leaves needed to be fermented for twice as long to neutralize their acidity. She also found that soaking the seaweed-metal blend in camel milk—used by the Rajput to soften leather—created a protective layer that prevented staining. "It's like magic," she said, holding up a swatch where the indigo had taken evenly, the metal threads glowing faintly beneath.
Fiona, inspired by the mirrored ghagras, incorporated tiny pieces of recycled glass into the seaweed-metal blend, mimicking the Rajput's love for sparkle without overshadowing the bandhani patterns. "They catch the light like the fort at sunset," she said, as Rana examined the fabric.
On the day they finished their first collaboration—a ghagra skirt with bandhani patterns in indigo and saffron, interwoven with seaweed-metal threads that shimmered like heat haze over sand—Meera draped it over Su Yao's shoulders. The mirror work caught the sunlight, casting rainbows across the courtyard. "It has your thread," she said, "but it still speaks Rajput."
As the team prepared to leave, Rana's grandfather pressed a small pothi into Su Yao's hands, its pages filled with hand-drawn bandhani patterns. "For when you forget," he said, his voice gruff but warm. "But I think you won't."
Su Yao clutched the pothi as their car rolled out of Jaisalmer, the fort's golden walls fading into the desert. She thought of the knots she'd tied, of the dye-stained fingers, of the way the metal threads had finally learned to live with the Rajput's colors. Rajasthan had taught her that some traditions weren't meant to be modernized—just honored, with a little space for new threads.
Her phone buzzed with a message from the Arctic team: photos of Ingrid wearing their Sámi-Arctic cloak, standing beneath the northern lights. Su Yao smiled, typing back: "We've added a new chapter—Rajput meets sea. It's beautiful."
Somewhere beyond the dunes, a camel herder sang, his voice carrying over the sand. Su Yao knew their journey wasn't over. There were always more traditions to learn, more threads to weave, more stories to tell—together.