Shaina Shealy's blog

I crack the cotton boll's protective shell, so tough that the muscles in my fingers cramp as I ply the encasement apart. Its edges jab into my skin, relentless in shielding the warm brown fiber inside. I pull at the fiber; it feels different from the bright, fuzzy cotton I’m used to seeing in the United States. Stronger and more compact, its color subdued like the desert fields of Kutch.