I got off and started walking towards my destination, literally a stone’s throw away from the entire incident. It was one of the swanky looking shops, in an otherwise narrow street, with two people hard at work. I was greeted with curious looks but warm smiles. On this hot dusty afternoon in Aurangabad, shade in any form was a huge respite. While I glanced around and marvelled at the pastel summer colours, I was told that I was looking at one of the finest art forms of the country that, today, is dying a slow death — himroo. As my curiosity piqued, I started walking towards the far end of the shop where I spotted a small white door leading to a tiny room, smelling highly of fabric and faintly of dust. I ran my fingers through the very fine threads that now were laid out in front of me over a loom. And behind the loom were deft hands and piercing eyes of Vinod Khode, a third generation weaver, at work.