Inside a Mirpur slum, bridal dreams are sewn for as low as Tk10

As I stepped into Kalshi slum in Mirpur, the first thing I noticed was the narrow lane: its teal-coloured walls peeling, the cement crumbling away. 

Clothes, both men's and children's, hung from strings tied erratically to the walls. Further along, children aged perhaps between five to 10 years darted about, some in worn, ill-fitting clothes, inventing games of their own.

A few men slouched outside their homes. The slum felt like one sprawling house, with the lane acting as a shared backyard, though each cramped room belonged to a different family. Off to one side, a teenage girl crouched over small stoves, preparing rice for the family.

But what would catch anyone's eye were the two women — one middle-aged, the other in her late 30s — seated opposite each other, a loom balanced between them. They were sewing tiny floral motifs onto a long red veil, the kind a bride would wear — the kind you would expect to find at the shops in Benarashi Palli. 

The younger of the two women was Lucky.

Inside Lucky's home, a single small room, everything was packed into one space: a large cabinet against one wall, a small television fixed on the opposite wall, a bed wide enough for three, cooking utensils stacked nearby, and a single sewing machine pushed into a corner. It was cramped, but Lucky sat comfortably on her bed with multiple works showcased on it.

She has been sewing for more than 15 years. "I used to work in this line before marriage, here and there, but I fully devoted myself to this after marriage," she said.

It began almost accidentally: she had watched neighbours doing similar work and, as a student, decided to make use of her spare time. A senior artisan referred her for her first job; then came more work, more women, and eventually an informal team of eight to 10 artisans who now stitch under her guidance in this cramped slum courtyard.

Her work is deceptively delicate. On the red wedding veil, she places each stone and floral motif by hand, following what she calls a "map" given by her merchant — the middleman who supplies the materials and takes the work to the wholesale markets in Mirpur and Benaroshi Polli.

"There is an embroidery design given in advance, and we put the stones on top of it," she shared. "We hardly get the opportunity to design according to our own liking."

The arrangement is unstable. Some merchants supply materials upfront; others offer contracts, which means Lucky must buy everything herself. 

"For example, the contract will include a clause of paying me Tk60 for each piece of stone," she explained. "I have to buy the materials myself."

Her voice carried a matter-of-fact steadiness, the kind born from years of doing this work through fluctuating prices, expanding responsibilities and rising costs. She keeps a notebook to track every bit of work — her own and her team's. 

Each veil has a different rate: Tk10, Tk15, sometimes Tk30. "If I sew 100 veils, I can make Tk1,000," she explained. On a good day, she finishes four dupattas of the Tk25 variety. The numbers feel small, the labour behind them anything but. In the market, each veil sells for Tk1,500 to Tk2,000.

Each veil has a different making charge: Tk10, Tk15, sometimes Tk30. "If I sew 100 veils, I can make Tk1,000," explained Lucky, an artisan. On a good day, she finishes four dupattas of the Tk25 variety. The numbers feel small, the labour behind them anything but. In the market, each veil sells for Tk1,500 to Tk2,000, with middlemen bagging the lion's share of the profits.

Demand is high during the wedding season, and December is one of the busiest months. 

"Right now, there is a lot of pressure to complete the orders," Lucky said. "This pressure will stay till Pahela Baishakh." During the peak season, merchants push her to hire more workers, sometimes offering slightly better pay, though never enough to matter.

Still, the economics rarely favour her. "Previously, I used to be able to make veils with the help of others and still keep Tk100 extra for myself per day," she said. "But now I can barely keep Tk30." 

When asked whether the rate should increase given inflation, she did not hesitate, "They should increase the rate, but the rate decreases."

Merchants regularly remind her that cheaper workers exist outside Dhaka. In theory, they could shift production there entirely; in practice, they still return to Lucky. She knows why. "They come to keep avoiding cutting us off completely," she said. 

"I don't have many options since going to work at a garment factory means being away from my children, but it is better to make some money than none," she added.

Her team members feel the same squeeze. Many used to work in ready-made garment factories before being laid off or pushed out due to age or declining eyesight. Though the wages are lower, this work — home-based and flexible — offers a way to make a living. 

"This work is affecting our spine because of long sitting hours. And our eyesight. We cannot always give enough time to our family, but we are still working," Lucky further said.

However, this meagre income allows her to send her sons to school, and the work, however gruelling, is one that she knows. In addition to embroidery, she also occasionally tailors with a second-hand sewing machine she purchased for Tk8,000. But customers demand detailed designs for three-piece sets and are not willing to pay what it costs her to make them. 

"People pay Tk500  in stores for three pieces, but I am given only up to Tk300."

Some orders come from within the community — weddings, festive occasions. When her brother-in-law married, she wanted to gift his wife a beautifully embroidered dupatta. Even then, she had to ask the merchants for a discounted price.

"He has his expenses," she commented. "I cannot ask him to give it for free."

Business, she believes, depends on luck. Businesses rise and fall; some once made large profits and later went into loss. Artisans, though, remain at the bottom of the chain — steady, invisible, rarely compensated fairly for their craft.

Yet Lucky still talks of expansion. 

"I want to expand, but I would have to increase wages," she explained.

And that feels impossible for now. If wages were higher, she believes more women would join this field instead of garment factories. But as things stand, only those who have known her for years stay on; the rest leave, unable to survive on the slow decline of piece-rate pay.

What has not declined, however, is demand. "New designs keep coming. Whatever gets viral becomes the trend," she said. 

She adapts to all of it — change of patterns, new seasons, growing expectations — without seeing the price of her labour inflate in return.

The bride who will one day wear one of Lucky's pieces will see a beautiful red veil made with precision. But when you admire a veil draped over a bride, or watch shoppers browsing silk sharis in Benaroshi Polli or Mirpur, you are unlikely to think of the women who made them. 

And yet, they will still be there working day and night, stone by stone, stitch by stitch, just enough to hold their families together, through labour that is never appreciated, only awed at.