Author: Priyanka Rai
For generations, North Indian homes depended on the comforting weight of handmade razais. When lighter, modern mink blankets entered the market, the shift felt practical—less storage space, quicker warmth, easier handling. But in that convenience, we lost something profound.
Amroha: This was once the centre of a 200-year-old tradition. Amroha’s lanes echoed with the twang of the dhunki, the cotton-carding bow. Nearly 3,000–4,000 families—carders, women helpers, tailors, cover-makers, traders—depended on razai-making for their livelihood.
Salim’s family crafted razais for three generations but When everyone started buying mink blankets, the work just disappeared. Centuries of skill were forced into silence.
But Amroha did not give up. The same hands that once filled razais now sort and process discarded fabric—torn sheets, old clothes, waste cotton—into recycled fibre.
What appears like an informal “dhandha” is actually a quiet climate contribution. These micro-units extend the life of textile waste, turning it into low-cost mattress filling, pillow filling, upholstery material, and wipers—keeping cloth in use till the very end.
Amroha, known for its dholaks, pottery, mangoes, and cultural heritage, is now silently contributing to a near net-zero effect for domestic textile waste—without any formal recognition or financial support.
At a time when climate change dominates global discussions, these small recyclers—working from homes and cramped workshops—are doing what many industrial systems still struggle to achieve: reducing waste, lowering emissions, and sustaining livelihoods.
This is not merely the story of a craft that disappeared—it is the story of Amroha’s resilience, of people who refused to give up, and of climate action happening quietly, thread by thread.