Quilting in India didn’t start as décor; it started at home—women layering worn saris and dhotis into warmth, durability, and memory. Line by line, they stitched the everyday into heirlooms. As the practice travelled, it took on distinct regional codes: Kantha from Bengal with its endless running stitches that make cloth ripple; Sujani from Bihar, where outlines are filled densely and gifted as protection and blessing; Ralli across Sindh–Kutch–Rajasthan, bold patchwork triangles and rails built for desert life; and Kawandi from the Siddi communities of coastal Karnataka, pieced edge-to-center with joyful color and a visible hand. Same need, different language—line, rhythm, geometry.
Structurally, a quilt is simple and clever: two outer layers wrapped around a soft middle, bound with dense running stitches. That stitch does double duty—it holds everything together and sculpts the surface into a quiet topography. Precision isn’t the point; rhythm is. You feel the hand. Over time, power looms and synthetics pushed household quilting into the background, but it never disappeared. Women’s collectives, museums, designers, and a new respect for provenance pulled it back into the light. Today you see two parallel tracks: the utilitarian quilt that works hard, and the design/art quilt that leads with texture, composition, and story. Machine quilting exists for speed; the hand remains the luxury signal.
Quilting was sustainable before the word got trendy—reuse, repair, longevity. It’s texture over motif, substance over noise, and it carries authorship: names, places, lineages. It adapts effortlessly to contemporary objects—outerwear, furniture, bags—without losing its truth.
We translate those codes—wave, grid, patch geometry—into sculptural forms and disciplined spacing. We started with Puff, now, we’re evolving the language. New shapes, new forms. Still crafted in Mumbai, still designed to last, still about character over clutter. Quilting, for us, is a modern tool for depth. The texture tells the story—you feel it.
