When Gulafsha Akhtar (30), an inhabitant of Shaheen Bagh, located in the southernmost colony of Delhi’s Okhla neighborhood, first heard about Rafooghar—an embroidery center near her colony, she knew she had to join it. With four children and a bustling household, her days were filled with domestic chores. She didn’t care much about stitching or embroidery. She just wanted to be away from her house. 

After she moved to Delhi from her hometown in Ghaziabad, she hadn’t seen much of the city. “I only had permission to send the children to school and pick them up from there,” said Akhtar. The only time she had been anywhere else was when she delivered her children at the Jama Masjid’s Kasturba Gandhi Hospital. “On the way, my husband said, dekh Jama Masjid dikhta hai idhar se (We can see the Jama Mosque from here). That was the closest I came to it,” chuckled Akhtar.

Fowziya Khan (35), Akhtar’s neighbour, has a similar routine. It took a while to convince their husbands to let them go to the embroidery center. But they eventually relented. “Kadhai wagerah seekhne seekhane sunke unhone ijazat dedi,” said Akhtar (After hearing about learning embroidery, they gave permission).

Rafooghar isn’t the usual handicraft center we hear about in NGO impact stories and government interventions, where creating a livelihood programme is the priority. Here, women are taught to embroider as a way to express themselves. 

One of the first things Akhtar stitched was a moment of peace, as she described it. Stitched on a white fabric, the scene depicts her kids sleeping with her husband while she enjoys a cup of tea.

For Billo (24), stitching has become a means to relieve her stress. A resident of Madanpur Khadar’s JJ colony, a neglected neighborhood in South East Delhi, Billo got married when she was 13. With an abusive household and several abortions due to her husband’s refusal to use contraceptives, Billo has bouts of depression along with health complications. 

Coming here has helped her mental health, she shared. “Dhaago se tension nikal jaata hain” (The thread releases stress). One of Billo’s artworks is a self-portrait where her tears fill an aquarium and help trees grow. “I have a lot of sorrow, and I end up crying a lot,” she said. “So I decided to paint that. But I also wanted to show how my tears have turned into a river in which fish can swim and trees, too, can grow.”

The House of Peace

Roshni Bhatia, an art psychotherapist based in Bangalore and one of the founders of Rafooghar, explained that stitching was chosen because it is a familiar medium to most women. “Stitching is a slow, deliberate process. Its repetitive motions and rhythmic pace make you slow down and stay with a thought,” she added. “At Rafooghar, there’s usually a lot of chatter when the women gather, but once everyone begins stitching, a calm, almost meditative state settles over the room.”

Since then, this space has brought Akhtar, Khan, and several other women peace and joy. Most women interviewed shared that this space has become their “dusra maika” (second home). Some even call it Sukoon-ghar (house of Peace). 

Rafooghar (meaning “House that Mends”) is located in south-east Delhi. The center was created in the summer of 2023 by Pooja Dhingra, an art director; Rubina Singh, a social designer, textile artist, and art psychotherapist; and Roshni Bhatia, in collaboration with Yellow Streets and Artreach India. The idea was to bring together women from marginalized neighborhoods in and around south-eastern Delhi, like Jasola Vihar, Shaheen Bagh, and Madanpur Khadar, to stitch as a form of community-building and arts-based therapy.

Collaborator Yellow Streets is a Delhi-based non-profit that provides quality education to underprivileged children through creative learning, leadership development, and community-driven initiatives. Yusra Khan, its Founder and Director, said that most of the women who are part of Rafooghar are the mothers of the children who go to Yellow Streets to learn.

“The idea of using art was central to this space,” said Dhingra, who was active during the anti-CAA NRC protests of 2019-20. She recalled how the murals painted at Shaheen Bagh were the first to be removed by the Indian state. “That really stayed with me,” she reflected. 

In addition to slowing down, the women of Rafooghar use embroidery as a powerful tool for storytelling. Their artwork reflects their lived experiences, with themes ranging from identity and aspirations to freedom and mobility. Several of the pieces have been showcased at the India Art Fair, the 19th International Asian Women’s Film Festival, the Participatory Design Conference in Malaysia, and the AWID Forum in Thailand.

Embroidery, especially for decorative purposes, is often dismissed as a trivial domestic craft. And when mass-produced as a textile, its labor has mostly been gendered and undervalued. Rafooghar wanted to shift these narratives. “There is value attached to these works. This is their art,” stated Singh. “We don’t want to mass-produce. We want to look at stitching from a feminist lens, where women use it to tell their stories.”

Around the world, marginalized women—from Mexico, Palestine, and Chile to Alabama—have used embroidery to document their resistance and resilience. In Nepal, Sajha Dhago, a non-profit founded in 2022, works with survivors of sexual violence who use stitching as an art form to share their stories and help them heal.

Negotiating The Limits of Freedom

This simple act of coming together to stitch has also given women, especially Muslim women, greater access to mobility. 

According to NFHS-4 (2015-16) data on freedom of movement by religion, Muslim women have the least freedom of movement, with only 32% reporting that they were allowed to go to the market, any health facility, and places outside the village or community. This is followed by Hindu women (41.6%) and Jain women (56.3%). Buddhist/Neo-Buddhist women have the highest freedom of movement at 58.3%. Since NFHS-4, this data has no longer been recorded.

During one of the Sunday sessions at Rafooghar, the women were asked to map their mobility by creating visual representations of their daily routines through embroidery and appliqué techniques. For many, their drawings depicted a familiar routine: dropping their children off at school, heading back home, and sometimes stopping at a nearby grocery store to pick up daily essentials. 

This has changed now, largely thanks to the exposure visits to Rafooghar. Yusra shares that they conducted at least one visit per month to a park, a gym, a museum, an art fair, or even set up food stalls at events. “It could be any public place,” she said. This initiative was fueled by the women themselves, who expressed a desire to explore more, as only a few had ever had the chance to see the city.

As more women began venturing out, they grew more confident in negotiating with their families for greater mobility, shared Akhtar. Still, coming to Rafooghar remains a constant negotiation at home and in other intimate relationships.

“Padosi aur rishtedaar khub baatein banate hain kyunki main bahar jaati hoon,” said Khan (Neighbors and relatives make a big deal of my going out). “Kehte hain, ‘yeh toh ghumti, phirti rehti hain, iska pata nahi kaha jaati hain, kya aashiqui karti hain, kisse baatein karti hain’” (They say, ‘She roams around all over, no one knows where she goes, what she indulges in, whom she talks to’).

For Akhtar, too, navigating society’s taunts remains a challenge. “Log kehte hain uski biwi awaara hogayi hain,” said Akhtar (People say that his [my husband’s] wife has become a vagabond). 

With every argument, she has managed to carve out a little more space within her home.

But not everyone has the same circumstances as Akhtar. Several share that after two years of freedom, they can’t negotiate within their households anymore. “I don’t know if I will come here again,” said Khan as she took yet another call from her husband. Many others have stopped coming to Rafooghar altogether. 

A Space For Leisure

When Dhingra and Singh first started mobilizing women, they asked them what they wanted from Rafooghar. The women had a simple response: fursat (leisure time). This fursat is a rare privilege for Indian women, and is documented by Surbhi Yadav’s photo project Women At Leisure. Data backs this up too: on average, an Indian woman spends 243 minutes per day on unpaid domestic work or caregiving, while an Indian man spends just 25 minutes.

“When we first thought of it, we didn’t want to create a livelihood program,” Dhingra explained, where “there’s always an expectation of output or productivity. We just wanted to create a space where women could simply exist.” She added that many were not interested in stitching but came to just spend some time by themselves.

Preeti, who goes by her first name, is Billo’s sister and goes to Rafooghar every Sunday for fursat. Separated from her husband, she lives with her mother and siblings at Madanpur Khadar’s J.J. Colony. A domestic worker by occupation, Preeti’s day never ends. First, there is the work outside, then there are all the household chores. 

The constant water crisis at Madanpur Khadar means that whenever the water tanker comes into her neighborhood, she has to go and fetch it. “My mother doesn’t understand my visits here. She says, ‘What is the point of this work? You are not earning. You just go and waste your time there,’” Preeti shared. “But this space is sacred to me. I just want some time for myself in a day.”

Finding public spaces of leisure for women is an enduring challenge. While public parks offer some respite, they remain sparse in Preeti’s neighborhood. Many artworks that women drew of their neighborhoods feature green spaces despite their absence.

Shivangi Singh, an artist and Teaching Programmes Head from Artreach India, explained that a crucial element of these sessions is incorporating play into the process. Singh collaborated with Dhingra in developing many modules in Rafooghar. 

One module includes Zindagi Ka Naksha (Mapping Mobility), which uses embroidery and appliquée to map women’s daily routines to highlight their access to public spaces, places they feel safe, and areas restricted by societal or familial norms. Another, Tere Mere Sapne (Mapping Dreams), encourages women to express their aspirations through storytelling, drawing, and embroidery. It created a space to reflect on their challenges and gender roles. 

Yet another module is Love Lihaaf (Quilt of Love), designed by Rafooghar co-founder, Singh. Participants are encouraged to stitch each other’s stories through games, conversations, and listening sessions, bringing their narratives together in a collective Quilt of Love. Then there’s Meri Pehchaan (Expressive Portraits), where women were prompted to draw the part of their body they felt most grateful for and articulate why. 

“Part of engaging in art is to derive joy from it and let go of preconceived notions,” shared Singh, recalling that most women wanted to simply draw, preferring it to stitching. For many, it was nostalgic. For others, it was a novelty. “They had never drawn in their lives or used a pencil,” Singh added. “They associated a pencil with reading and writing—something they had never done themselves, and so never imagined anything else could be done with it. But with drawing, that changed.” 

In the initial classes, the women were unhappy with their artwork, often frustrated when things didn’t turn out as planned. “We would ask them to draw with their eyes closed or use their left hand,” Singh said. “The goal was to embrace the fun, the silliness, and the inevitability of mistakes, while also discovering the freedom to start over.” It took time, but they eventually let go. 

“I am happy with my artwork now, and I also show it back home to my husband, who appreciates it,” said Akhtar. But not everyone’s family is as supportive, say the women. “But we all encourage each of us to do this work. Accha lagta hain. Man halka hojata hain. That’s what matters,” said Khan. (It feels good. We feel unburdened).

A Soft Masculinity

Rafooghar is not just for women. “We want to work with young boys too,” said Dhingra. 

A crucial step within this direction is building a module called “Mithi Biradari” (Sweet Brotherhood), which dives into questions of gender roles and the gendered division of labor with the women at the center. It is currently being designed and led by Dhingra; Singh; Achal Dodia, an artist, writer, and a facilitator; and 17-year-old Hari Om, a teacher at Yellow Streets and now an active participant of Rafooghar. 

Om is one of the only boys at the center who embroiders. “I absolutely love it,” he said. “Doing this has given me a sense of peace.” 

But arriving at this space was not without challenges. A resident of Sarita Vihar, Om was taunted and bullied at school for doing something that is considered ‘women’s work’. “Teachers and other boys have a problem with me at school because I hang out mostly with girls, do not use curse words, and engage in fights—all things expected from a young man like me,” he said.

One day, the boys who would taunt him said his actions were “mithi” (sweet/soft). Instead of being offended, Om started thinking more about this and the relationship between softness and masculinity. “What is the problem of being mitha?” he asked. “That prompted us to start the Mithi Biradari module to explore ideas of different kinds of masculinities that are softer, gentler.”. 

“We wanted to first work with the women there,” Om added. “We feel that when mothers understand the challenges young boys face, they can explain this to their husbands, and then work can happen.” Soon, they plan to work with boys from the locality.

Om, who wants to become a social worker after he finishes school, remains steadfast in creating spaces where young boys like him can escape gender roles and do what they like. “There is another boy who has started visiting the center. It’s just been some five days since he’s been coming,” he said. “I see a second Hari Om in him because he is also going through the same experiences that I had. He, too, enjoys stitching.” 

Building Solidarities Across Religion and Caste

The collective act of stitching has brought many of Rafooghar’s women closer. Akhtar shared how she didn’t have a support system before joining the center. “Isse pehle main kisise bhi apne dil ki baat share nahi karti thi jitna main ab karti hoon,” she said (Before this, I never shared my feelings with anyone as much as I do now). “Mere toh shaadi se pehle bhi itni saheliyaan nahi thi” (I didn’t have so many female friends even before marriage). Others said they looked forward to every Sunday, because they get to spend time with each other.

Rafooghar brings together women from both Hindu and Muslim communities in a region central to the anti-CAA protests. “Mobilizing women from different religions wasn’t exactly easy”, shared Billo. Initially, the women gathered in an open garden within a member’s home. However, many felt uncomfortable due to being in purdah (curtain/veil), and with the presence of male onlookers. 

To create a safe space, they soon moved to the current center, a few kilometers from the open garden. While women already connected to the center through Yellow Streets continued to attend, Billo was given the task of mobilizing women from the surrounding locality. 

At the heart of Rafooghar lies the idea of mending. “Stitching forces you to slow down,” said Singh. “And when you are stitching collectively, you are forced to talk to each other. You can have conflict, but you also end up building solidarities.”

Last year, one of the women at the space created an artwork that depicted her dream of going to Mecca for a hajj (Muslim pilgrimage). During the discussion around her artwork, one Hindu woman noted the similarities between hajj and their tradition of the “Teerth Yatra” (Hindu pilgrimage). This sparked a deeper conversation. Women began to recognize numerous shared practices, from fasting to ritualistic shaving.

What began as a space for creative expression has now evolved into a space of rest, resistance, and repair. At Rafooghar, women are not only mending fabric but also reimagining the world around them.