It is barely six in the morning when Devraj sits down at his loom. The valley is still blue, the wood still cold. He works for an hour before the first cup of tea — this, he says, is when the wool listens best.
His pit loom is older than him. The frame was cut from a single deodar tree by his grandfather in 1958, and three generations have worn the wooden bench to a soft sheen. Each Kullu shawl carries the small geometric border at its hem — a signature, a quiet stamp of place.
We spend the morning watching him work. The shuttle moves left, right, left. Outside the window, the apple orchards begin to wake.