A designer’s search for material and meaning

Materials shape how we bring ideas to life, giving form, texture, and meaning to design. But beyond function, what makes a material truly feel right? This question lingered in my mind as I searched for something that resonated on a deeper level.
About a decade ago, while living and working in Delhi, I often wandered into building supply shops, looking for materials for personal projects—a creative escape from my industrial design job. My mind overflowed with ideas, each waiting to take shape. Yet, as I explored my options, I became increasingly aware of the responsibility that came with material choices. The realization struck when I paused to consider everything I would create in my lifetime—and the lasting footprint it would leave behind.
I experimented with metal, plastic, and engineered wood, but none felt quite right. The reliance on machines and outsourced production left me disconnected from the making process. That was when I understood—I wasn’t just drawn to designing; I wanted to be part of the making as well. This change in perspective made me pause, step back, and rethink my path. 

Picture : View from my workshop window, Ri- Bhoi district, Meghalaya, India.

I left my industrial design job and took up freelance graphic work—a way to sustain myself while I explored what product design truly meant to me. My freelance work allowed me to travel, breaking free from the confines of an office.
During this time, I visited my parents at their newly acquired forest farm in Meghalaya—a visit that would change everything. There it was—bamboo. Tall, green, and swaying gently, it carried a quiet presence, as if reaching out to connect with me. I watched as land workers effortlessly crafted bamboo sheds, furniture, fencing, and everyday objects. The ease with which they shaped the material revealed something profound. Bamboo wasn’t just a resource—it was deeply interwoven with life and tradition. That moment sparked a shift. A new way of design thinking was beginning to take root within me.

Picture : A mask artist working on a bamboo frame, Majuli village, Assam, India.

It didn’t take me long to quit my freelance job, return to Meghalaya, and work full-time on my bamboo project. The more time I spent with bamboo, the more my curiosity grew. I recognized it as something alive—more than just a material, it had its own rhythm and wisdom. Unlike conventional materials shaped to fit our needs, bamboo seemed to call for a different approach—inviting me to listen and respond rather than impose. At first, I followed familiar techniques, cutting it into slats and strips as traditional bamboo weaving methods have done for generations. Across the seven tribal states of Northeast India, these intricate woven patterns hold deep cultural significance, each reflecting the identity of its makers. I admired this tradition and the skilled hands that kept it alive. Yet, something within me was drawn to a different path—a way of working that focused on understanding the plant itself rather than reshaping it.

Beginning from the Land

To truly connect with bamboo, I had to start from the land—from the provenance of the bamboo itself. I joined the landworkers in gathering and harvesting, quickly realizing that timing was everything. The knowledge they held, passed down through generations, dictated when and how bamboo should be cut to ensure its strength and longevity. They followed the moon cycles, selecting the right season and time of day when the plant’s sap levels were at their lowest. It made me reflect on how I would have overlooked these details had I not immersed myself in their wisdom. Silently observing and learning, I also ensured that care was taken not to damage the outer culm wall. Bamboo had to be felled gently and kept upright for a few days to transpire.
At this point, the landworkers watched in astonishment as I regarded my material with deep reverence. I had no idea what I was going to do next, but I knew my journey had to begin with a profound connection to the material itself.
Observing the freshly harvested culms, I saw more than just raw material; I saw natural vessels, containers, bowls, and platters—all shaped by the artistry of nature. Their unrefined beauty called for preservation rather than alteration. My design brief became clear; it has to be - Preservation.

Picture : Inspecting Dragon Bamboo culms before harvest, homegrown plantation, Baksa district, Assam, India.

Preserving a natural material meant curing it, but I knew I had to modify traditional methods to suit my needs. Since I sought to honor bamboo’s natural form, I experimented with different cutting techniques—cutting the culm horizontally and splitting it vertically, each cut revealing a unique section of the plant. I worked the entire culm, from base to top, making decisions at each node.
These cut sections then underwent a curing process involving water, air, sun, and smoke. It was a journey that spanned across seasons, beginning in late winter, continuing through the monsoon months, and ending with the autumn sun. Through countless adjustments, adaptation, and patience, I eventually succeeded in curing my bamboo pieces. Each year, I refined my process further, improving my results.

Picture : Plunging cut bamboo sections in a forest stream, bamboo sap leaching process, Ri-Bhoi district, Meghalaya, India. | Photo by Menty Jamir @menty___jamir

Bamboo-driven design

Designing and making came only after I was satisfied with the curing process. I wanted a luxurious material, and I knew I couldn't rush the curing—only time would reveal its results. It felt like an entirely different way of working—placing creation at the very end and focusing first on the material itself.

This shift transformed my approach to design and making. Rather than forcing bamboo to conform to a predetermined shape, I let my cured sections guide me. It became a study of plant anatomy—an exploration of its structure, resilience, and graceful curves, each element serving a purpose for the plant. The cut sections revealed the nodes (also called septa or diaphragms); the internodes (or lacunae) forming the spaces between the nodes; and the culm wall, composed of three layers—outer, middle, and inner—each made of plant fibers and conducting tissue. Every part connected to the earth, providing this giant grass with nutrients, strength, and stability.

Picture: Exploring cross sections of Bambusa Balcooa to create vessels, Ri-Bhoi district, Meghalaya, India.

Holding these pieces was like uncovering found objects, each carrying a quiet wisdom. Honoring them also meant embracing bamboo’s responsiveness to its surroundings. Instead of imposing control, I learned to listen—to let the material speak. At first, the process felt uncertain. With few references to follow, I often questioned whether I was on the right track. But over time, clarity emerged through intuition, allowing the material to lead the way.

Picture : Holding a crafted bamboo piece featuring details in the culm wall, Ri-Bhoi district, Meghalaya, India.

I began to notice the details—the resilience of its outer skin, the natural divisions created by its nodes, the distinct character of each culm—and how all these elements evolved once the sap was removed. After many failed attempts to retain its cylindrical shape, I realized that preservation wasn’t about resisting change—it was about creating space for it. Bamboo had to evolve naturally while maintaining its organic essence.
These insights slowly shaped my approach, guiding each cut, form, and design decision. As I spent more time working directly with bamboo rather than sketching on paper, I moved beyond conventional design methods. My background in industrial design still informs my work, but now my hands follow the material rather than forcing it into rigid forms. Each piece is a collaboration—a balance between my creativity and bamboo’s natural tendencies.

Picture : Sanding a bamboo piece at the workshop, Ri-Bhoi district, Meghalaya, India | Photo by Menty Jamir @menty___jamir

Over the years, listening to the wisdom of this resilient giant grass has made me more mindful at work. I’ve learned to embrace uncertainty, to see mistakes as part of the process, and to let go of the need for complete control. Today, my work continues to evolve, each piece a quiet dialogue with bamboo—an immersive creative journey filled with surprises and endless possibilities.

Picture : A Dragon bamboo ring signifying endless possibilities and the circular rhythm of nature, Ri-Bhoi district, Meghalaya, India.