Exploring the Banni Grasslands: Rural Communities and the Craft Traditions of Kutch

The Banni - this vast, low-lying expanse of grassland skirting the southern edge of the Great Rann of Kutch - has quietly, and almost without my noticing, reshaped what I seek when I’m in India. For years, I’ve been fuelled by the energy of the cities, their noise, their density, the vivid chaos that always seems on the brink of unraveling but never quite does. That kind of sensory overload used to feel like the heartbeat of travel for me.

But the Banni is different. Out there, in its wide open emptiness, something in me slows down. It’s a place where the landscape feels like it’s breathing in long, deep breathes - unhurried, grounded, and expansive. It has made me rethink what stillness means, and how rare it is to find spaces that allow you to simply be.

There’s no pretending out in the Banni. The land is stark, the climate unforgiving, the horizon endless. It draws your attention to small details, cracked mud, shifting light, the subtle movements of livestock. In a world that’s always switched on, always broadcasting, this is one of the few places where I feel truly and deliberately disconnected. And it’s liberating.

It’s not empty, though. Life here is threaded into the land in quiet, resilient ways - through the communities who have adapted to its landscapes, the crafts that carry its story, the animals that graze with instinctive patience. It’s a region that holds its own. And I find myself returning to it more often now, not for what’s there to ‘see’, but for how it makes me feel.

The Banni reminds me that silence can be generous. That emptiness can be full of meaning. And that sometimes, the most profound connections are made when the world falls quiet.

Out in the Banni with the Pathan Community - Photo @ Siân Warren

The Banni grasslands are not just defined by their open skies and wind-brushed silence, they’re shaped just as much by the communities who have long called this land home. Many here are pastoralists, tending to herds of cattle, buffalo, and goats, living in harmony with the land’s cycles of scarcity and abundance. Their roots stretch back generations, often to regions like Sindh and Haleputra, having crossed borders and time to settle in this semi-arid frontier.

Life in the Banni has always meant adaptation. Water sources are few and far between, and many families have traditionally built their homes near small ponds or wells - precious anchors in this wide, low-lying landscape. Occasionally, the sea pushes inland during high tides or monsoons, flooding patches of the grassland and cutting off entire villages for days. And yet, life continues.

Many of the communities here are Muslim clans - among them the Mutva, Node, and Pathan - each with distinct identities and histories. Their architecture reflects both necessity and artistry. The traditional Bhungas, circular, one-room dwellings made from mud, thatch, and local materials, are brilliantly designed to withstand extreme heat and shifting winds. But they’re also deeply beautiful. Many are adorned with Lippan Kaam, a delicate form of mud and mirror work that transforms otherwise simple homes into shimmering canvases. These motifs create a kind of quiet elegance that sits gently against the dry, dusty earth.

There’s something deeply moving about this landscape - not only in its physical form but in the way people have lived here for so long, with minimal interference. The Banni isn’t listed in the 'Top 10' in the guidebooks, but it stays with you. It teaches you to pay attention to texture, to silence, and to the stories etched into even the most modest corners of a home.

Lippan Kaam work on an interior wall in Dhordo - Photo @ Siân Warren

Across the Banni, embroidery isn’t just a skill - it’s a quiet, powerful form of storytelling. Almost every community here has its own visual language threaded into cloth, with distinct motifs, stitches, and techniques passed down through generations. These aren’t just decorative embellishments; they are markers of identity, geography, and belonging. Over the years, I’ve been lucky to spend time with women from different communities, but I’ve always found myself particularly drawn to the work of the Mutwa.

The embroidery of the Mutwa women is incredibly refined - delicate and precise, yet rich in complexity. It’s one of the most intricate forms of Kutchi embroidery, characterised by fine stitches that almost seem impossible to have been done by hand, with small, embedded mirrors glinting subtly through densely packed geometric and floral motifs. Their work carries a certain quiet elegance, executed with such skill and discipline that it stands apart, even in a region so steeped in craft.

What’s interesting is that their embroidery is so respected within the region that other communities have been known to emulate it. And it’s no surprise - Mutwa pieces are highly sought after, both within the local market and worldwide.

Sample of Mutwa embroidery - Photo @ Siân Warren

Vintage Mutwa Gaj, collection of Salim Wazir - Photo @ Siân Warren

After many years of slow, thoughtful research and time spent on the ground, we’re now in a position to offer carefully curated journeys into the Banni. These are small, intimate experiences - available either as part of a group or on a private, tailormade basis - designed to offer a meaningful window into this remarkable part of Kutch.

Our approach here has always been shaped by the relationships we’ve built over time, and we take great care in how we introduce guests to the communities we’ve come to know and respect. These visits aren’t about ticking boxes or collecting images - they’re about listening, observing, and understanding. With that in mind, we ask our guests to move through these spaces with a gentle awareness. There are some communities who have chosen not to be photographed, and we always honour those wishes. We also encourage a quieter kind of presence, one that allows for connection over documentation, and that treats people and their stories with the dignity they deserve.

The Banni is not a place that reveals itself instantly. Its beauty lies in the subtleties, in the quiet hospitality of a family home, the intricate embroidery passed between generations, the soft hush of the grasslands. And for those who are open to it, these journeys offer something rare: the chance to experience craft, culture, and community not as a spectacle, but as something quietly shared.