The lustrous brown mountains of Lamayuru stand in stark contrast against the deep blue clear moisture-less skies. They call this land the moonscape. The sheer vastness of this landscape with appearance of the chodens and Lamayuru gompa is a sight one beholds and never forgets. I hold this sight in my heart as blue and brown. When I see blue and brown, I see Lamayuru. That is how much these mountains captivate me. They have in one stroke taken possession of all memories, all judgement, all recognition that may arise from this colourscape of blue and brown.

At Lamayuru, I wished a sunset sky. A deep intimate orange sky. Merging blues. Merging orange. Strokes and lines. Stripes and checks. Narrow streaks and broad panels.

This is where the flowers blossomed. The weaves of Dimasa weavers are the divine flowers. They appear to make lifeless come alive.

To Lamayuru, allow me to offer Dimasa flowers.

Abila didi, Molina and Doley didi and many others weave these flowers. As many flowers in nature, those many flowers in their heart to weave into their motifs. Their creative burst and technical fingers are an offering to the realm of craft.
I thank Aitryee who grounded me in their company, for not one but many years. With them, I experienced the richness that Dimasa community carries in their ancestry.

Gishim bodo, Rhijamphai, Dilam ball, Rihmsao, Rikhaosa, Horaimin, names of motifs and weaves penetrate through my fleeting memory. How not to remember the words heard ever so often. How to not pay homage to these weavers who were my first teachers of warp and weft.