The stitch that was never decorative
A woman in a village outside Amritsar would begin a phulkari the way another woman might begin a letter, with something specific to say and no other way to say it. The base cloth was coarse khaddar, undyed, the kind that absorbed sweat and dust equally. Into it she pulled silk thread from the wrong side, so the front showed only the silk and none of the labour. The darning stitch moved horizontally across the warp threads, building colour from underneath. The finished surface looked effortless. That was the point.
