Kiran Sawhney

Moonlight was once stitched into cloth, and what remained is this —aptly named The Ivory Hymn . Its hue is not merely ivory; it carries the mellow softness of mogra petals at dusk, freshly bloomed and silvery in the twilight. There’s something both sacred and familiar in its tone, like the first spoonful of thick malai skimmed off warm milk—gentle, creamy, and comforting in its purity. This seems plucked from the corridors of a forgotten palace, where the queens once walked barefoot across marble floors, the scent of sandalwood trailing in their wake. Woven with the restraint of a whispered prayer and the grace of a silent hymn, its floral motifs appear like tales etched in the air—faint but unforgettable. One could imagine this very displayed in a glass case at an ancient textile museum, labeled under “Divine Drapes: Era Unknown,” with a footnote speculating its origin from a temple town ruled by moon-worshipping queens. There’s a belief from old folklore that when the goddess Saras...