It Started With A Mala

“I have a bag of wood beads for you! I think you’ll really like them.”

It was 2014 when a good friend said this to me during one of our weeknight yoga meetups. We were laid out on the lawn outside of her North Austin apartment after class, when she handed me a small baggie filled with a strand of stocky, yet delicate, red-toned beads. These tiny wood balls were particularly lightweight, with a surface that I can best describe as earthy. They reminded me of being in a forest in spring, when one is typically filled with rich, spongy soil and dense leafy trees. I’ve always been fascinated with the dichotomy of botanicals and these beads presented in a similar manner —each irregular in shape and size, but cohesive as a whole group. I was drawn to them and instantly knew that they were going to help paint a very unique and special full picture. Like smaller elements in nature that we tend to overlook each day, the beads had subtle details that were easy to miss if not deliberately examined, but intricate if you took a moment to appreciate. I hadn’t touched anything like them before. These feel nice, what are they? She told me that they were tulsi wood and her mother had gotten them in Pakistan. “I bought these for you. You can make something with them!”

I went home and immediately began to lay them out on the peeling ottoman that I tried to pass off as a coffee table. Best believe the next morning I was standing in the small back room of Bead It (RIP to OG Austin) as I asked questions about every strand that caught my eye. I left having spent way more time and money than I had expected, but also filled with inspiration and more questions that I was eager to research. Once home, I began to make my first necklace using the tulsi wood, a single mustard yellow silk tassel, and a turquoise blue evil eye guru (center) bead. I gave it to the same friend, as she’s what inspired this piece —uncomplicated, beautiful, and organic.

Over the years, I continued to make an effort to gift traditional malas and energy stones to my close friends as a means of encouragement and a sense of sisterhood. My intention was to let them know that their feelings of unbalance were recognized and that they had a source of support. The beads and gemstones in each piece were tailored per individual person or situation, and finished with a single silk or hemp tassel and a one-off guru bead. A surprising perk of getting into making malas was learning about the unique ways in which different religions make and use their malas. I find it fascinating that there are such slight, almost non-distinguishable, variations to account for, while the general vibe remains nearly identical. The process was also a fun little workout for the brain! For a good friend whom was reconnecting with her faith, I wanted to include one natural jasper bead to represent each of her children. She practices Islam, so my usual 108-bead mala had to be altered to now be a misbaha, consisting of 100 total beads, divided into three sections. Attempting to figure out how to artfully lay things while maintaining focus on my original intention was a welcome distraction. For all of my necklaces, the energy and details involved were variable, but the template remained the same —that of a traditional, knotted string of beads that were used as an aid for meditation. When people started asking where to purchase their own, I was unsure how to proceed. I wanted to tread lightly as to not misrepresent any practice or inadvertently mock someone else’s faith. Is this what they call appropriation? I’m also not religious in any capacity, so it felt strange to capitalize on it. This disconnect, paired with my newfound stockpile of textile remnants and scraps, led to me implementing vintage lace, Swarovski crystals, and zig-zag-sheered swatches of fabric to my malas, for fun.

After the loss of Sofia, the very first thing that I made when I walked back into my sewing studio was a mala for myself. This one consisted of moss agate, rudruksha, silk, and gold-filled miyuki glass. I made myself a matching choker and bracelet so it would be a set because, well, I’m Indian. I hated going into that room after the loss, since it was the last place where I was when my body decided to abandon any foreseeable plans for motherhood. It was a heavy load, but over time it became less intolerable for longer periods. My mindset gradually shifted from those early moments, when I was seeking solace within the quietness by way of consistent, but monotonous, stringing of beads and tying knots. Over time I found myself intentionally adding pops of joy in even the tiniest of details. A short while (and many necklaces) later, I pivoted from a traditional style of malas to those inspired by the concept, but now including elements like gold, Swarovski crystals, and glass beads. Energy stones remained a focal point, but I started implementing silk leaves as pendants, painted lace trims as chokers and earrings, and made beaded chanjaran (jingling Indian anklets). My malas had morphed from meditative aids to help quiet noise and embrace silence into necklaces that sparked joy and started conversations.

The “set”: mindfully made using moss agate from a local Austin store, wood rudraksha beads that I purchased in Kyoto a few years prior, a silk tassel that I got in India during my last trip, and tiny sprinkles of gold-filled Miyuki beads that I picked up in Tokyo. She has quite a story to tell, this one.

For those interested, a straightforward definition of traditional malas can be found here, on Wiki. I find it fascinating and think you may as well. And finally, a note: Thank you to Tania, for gifting me your mother’s stash of tulsi wood beads, and also for encouraging me and my art. A true girl’s girl, I’ll forever appreciate you. and all of our adventures together in Austin. ❤️

x, Navi

TL;DR: My original mala necklaces remained simple —made from natural wood, gemstones, and fibers which reflected my inner craving to be still and blend into my surroundings. I was sad, anxious, and felt as if I was floating without purpose. The act of physically stringing beads and then tying the strings into even knots (both in size and also how they were spaced) provided a healthy amount of distraction for me in my early days of grief. With time, I realized that this act of creating mala necklaces wasn’t only a service to myself, it became a part of my necessary toolkit (along with therapy and meds, if we’re committing to the honesty thing) in getting me back on my colorful creative path.