‘It ends with us’: The last tantis of Tangail
Generation after generation, the fathers taught their children, and they went on to become tantis, spending the rest of their lives weaving sharis and in turn, repeating the cycle. But that cycle might end soon
Factbox:
- Production cost of one shari runs is roughly Tk3,000
- Thread costs Tk2,000, while labour accounts for Tk700
- Factory owner adds another Tk1,000 to Tk2,000 on top
- Depending on finishing, costs rack up to Tk6,000–Tk7,000
- Final product can sell for Tk15,000 or more at retail level
The hands move carefully, the eyes along with them — one mistake, and the entire piece will be ruined. In a tin shed of nearly 15 feet by 13 feet, under suffocating heat, the craftsmen work with absolute precision, not letting a single drop of sweat fall onto the material beneath their fingers.
What emerges from the loom is a cloth of extraordinary texture and intricacy — one that has crossed oceans, entered wardrobes of hundreds of thousands of women across Bangladesh and the world for decades, and now carries the official weight of a state certification.
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In February 2024, the Tangail shari was added to Bangladesh's GI product list. In December, it won UNESCO recognition as an intangible cultural heritage reflecting "local, social and cultural practices".
Despite global acclaim, the same craft is now hanging by a thread. The weavers are exhausted, and they think the Tangail shari will die with them.
Farid Uddin Ahmed, a handloom worker in Pathrail — the tanti village of Tangail — has been working in the same factory for the last 30 years. Now, he says it pays too little money to survive.
"It takes two to three days to finish working on a cloth, and we get paid Tk700 for each cloth," Farid told TBS.
For a father with four mouths to feed, that amount is barely enough.
A fading lineage
The Pathrail village is a treasure trove for people who seek the authentic Tangail shari. Its roots trace back to the late 19th century. Weavers, primarily from the Basak community, transitioned from weaving muslin to creating fine cotton — and later silk — sharis with distinctive, delicate, and often floral, motifs.
Once, the entire village was associated with handloom, in some way or another. Every house in sight had a workshop attached to it. Now, most stand empty.
"There are 10 to 15 factories left. Around 40 people work in ours. Each of these factories employ the same amount of people," says Farid.
According to Farid's math, the total number of people working now would be less than 500 people. A village that once vibrated with the rhythm of a hundred looms now only has an echo.
"My brother and I learned the craft to help my father out. I was 13 at the time. It was the same with my father, he learned it from my grandfather," said Norottom, a Hindu craftsman.
It was the same with all of them, generation after generation, the fathers taught their kids, and they went on to become tantis, spending the rest of their lives weaving clothes, thus repeating the cycle.
"But I won't teach my son this craft, I want him to pursue other kinds of jobs that pay more, preferably in the Middle East," added Norottom.
Like him, most people in the village who once could not imagine a life other than handloom are now switching to other professions.
The village that once stitched a kind of cloth that is no less than a form of art is now flying to the Middle East for blue collar jobs that pay better. The rest have become CNG and auto-rickshaw drivers. And the women of Pathrail are largely absent from the trade
"There was a time when people preferred tantis over government employees as grooms," says Farid. "Let's say you worked all day in the field, you would get Tk200-300 at best. But a tanti used to earn over a thousand. There was dignity in the profession, and there was money."
The profit margin
Today, the economics of the craft tell a harsher story.
The production cost of one shari runs to roughly Tk3,000 — thread alone costs Tk2,000, while labour accounts for Tk700. The factory owner adds another Tk1,000 to Tk2,000 on top. By the time it reaches a retail outlet, the cost climbs to Tk6,000–Tk7,000 depending on finishing, before retail margins are added.
The final product can sell for Tk15,000 or more. But the hands that weave it take home Tk700.
The distortion sharpens further with the rise of duplicate sharis. Original thread costs around Tk12,000 per kilogram; lower-grade alternatives cost Tk3,000 and can pass for the same product to an untrained eye.
As buyers become more price-sensitive, many are willing to compromise on quality — and retail prices do not always reflect that difference.
Farid explains it through a simple analogy: gold plating and solid gold can look identical in a photograph. Only one holds value.
The factory supplies its product to Aarong, the retail chain under BRAC. Despite the wide margin, the tantis acknowledge that the art would not have survived this long without Aarong's reach.
Shift in consumer behaviour
Masud Kaisar, who owns the factory, says that like other businesses, the market never recovered after Covid-19. But the main issue, he argues, is the change in consumer habits.
"People only wear sharis on special occasions now. Women have changed clothing habits. Back then, everyone used to wear sharis. The demand was much higher. Now they buy a shari for a single occasion and put it in the wardrobe," Masud told TBS.
He also agrees that the tantis are paid less than they deserve, but the changing landscape in market and consumer habits is to blame, not the supply chain.
Kazi Sinthia Jerin, a 22-year-old university student, says she rarely buys sharis anymore.
"I only wear sharis when there's an event," she says. "And even when I do, I just wear my mother's. There is too much hassle involved — finding the right blouse, the petticoat, and all of that costs money. Not to mention how difficult it is to drape one."
The last of them?
The art that once traveled from one generation to the next, through a father's hand to his son, might now no longer travel to the next generation. They won't teach their sons the craft, and their daughters will marry out of it. The loom, for centuries the centre of life in Pathrail, is becoming a relic.
But despite the low wages, they still stick to the same profession. There is no other option left for men who have spent thirty years learning a single craft.
"This is all I know now. At this age, learning something new is not possible for me," said Norottom.
As automation scales up and machine-made Tangail sharis flood the market at lower prices, the shari itself might survive in name — on shop racks, in GI certificates, in UNESCO documents. But the craft, the knowledge passed down through calloused hands and patient eyes, and the soul that gave it meaning, might be lost forever.
Unless the gap between the retail price and the tantis' wages is addressed, the UNESCO-recognised craft risks the same fate as Dhaka muslin — a cultural heritage reduced to a historical footnote.
"It ends with us," said Farid.
