Death knell for Kashmir’s handicrafts? Artisans worry as machine-made products to sell in shops too

By: Atif Ahmed – Ziraat Times Sunday Special

On a crisp September morning in Srinagar’s Sheher-e-Khas, Abdul Rashid sits on the worn-out floor of his modest workshop, his fingers gliding delicately over a half-finished Sozni-embroidered shawl. The thread he uses is barely visible to the naked eye, the stitch so fine it can take months to finish a single piece. “Each thread is a story, each shawl is a heritage,” he says, pausing. His tone changes to anguish: “But what use is this skill when the market is flooded with machine-made copies?”

For Rashid, who has been an artisan for nearly four decades, the Jammu & Kashmir government’s recent reversal of its crackdown on machine-made handicrafts feels like a betrayal. “We thought our craft would finally be protected,” he laments. “Now, it feels like the end.”

A legacy under siege

Kashmiri handicrafts have long been celebrated as the jewel of the region’s cultural tapestry. From the hand-knotted carpets introduced under Sultan Zain-ul-Abidin in the 15th century, to the world-renowned Pashmina shawls patronized by Mughal emperors, Kashmiri craft is as much a civilizational identity as it is crucial for Kashmir’s livelihoods.

The valley’s artisans — numbering around 3.5 lakh families — sustain themselves on age-old crafts like Pashmina weaving, Sozni and Tilla embroidery, walnut wood carving, papier-mâché, carpet weaving, and Kani shawls. Many of these are Geographical Indication (GI) tagged, emphasising their uniqueness. Yet, despite the global recognition, the reality on the ground is bleak.

“Machine-made replicas from Ludhiana, Amritsar and even China are being sold as ‘Kashmiri’ goods,” says Fayaz Ahmad, a trader at Srinagar’s Polo View market. “Tourists and even international buyers cannot distinguish the original from the fake. The artisans suffer, while middlemen make profits.”

“Today, the difference in price between an authentic Kashmiri shawl and a fake is ten times,” explains cultural historian Fareed Ahmad, an exporter. “A tourist pays ₹1,500 for a machine-made piece and refuses to believe that a handmade Sozni shawl can cost ₹15,000. This ignorance, coupled with weak enforcement, is eroding Kashmir’s centuries-old heritage.”

J&K government’s u-turn

Earlier this year, the J&K government had moved decisively to crack down on machine-made imitations, with raids, seizures and plans to impose strict penalties. Artisans hailed the measure.

But in a sudden reversal, officials cited “practical difficulties” in enforcing such bans, pointing to overlapping supply chains, consumer demand for low-cost goods and legal complexities.

“While our commitment to safeguarding Kashmiri handicrafts remains, it is unrealistic to eliminate machine-made products entirely,” a senior government official, speaking on condition of anonymity, told this newspaper.

For artisans, the reversal is devastating. “This is not just about trade; it is about survival,” says Shabnam Jan, a Pashmina spinner from Budgam. “We spend weeks spinning yarn so fine it passes through a ring, but machine-made wool is sold as ‘Pashmina.’ Buyers feel cheated, and our reputation is destroyed.”

Economic and social fallout

The numbers tell a grim story. According to data from the Handicrafts and Handloom Department, the sector once contributed nearly ₹2,000 crore annually to J&K’s economy. But exports have stagnated in recent years, and artisans’ earnings have plummeted.

“Many artisans now earn less than ₹10,000 a month,” says Bashir Ahmad, head of a craft cooperative in Ganderbal. “Young people are abandoning the craft, taking up jobs as drivers, salesmen, or migrating outside Kashmir. The chain of knowledge, passed from generation to generation, is breaking.”

The fear is that once artisans abandon their looms and tools, there may be no going back. “You can revive industries, but you cannot revive lost traditions,” Yes Iftikhar, another exporter, warns.

Culture for sale?

Beyond the economic crisis, the erosion of handicrafts raises a cultural question. “Kashmir is known worldwide for its craft identity,” says Delhi-based art curator Ritu Sethi. “From Paris to New York, exhibitions of Kashmiri shawls and papier-mâché have represented India’s soft power. If machine-made replicas take over, Kashmir loses not just income but its cultural soul.”

Tourists too risk being shortchanged. “An original Kani shawl can take over a year to make and costs upwards of ₹1.5 lakh,” explains Sethi. “But the market is full of imitations that cost ₹5,000. Tourists unknowingly take home a fake, thinking they own a piece of Kashmir’s legacy.”

A generation at crossroads

For 24-year-old Umar Farooq, a carpet-weaver in Anantnag, the future feels uncertain. “My grandfather’s carpets adorned royal palaces. My father’s work was sold in London. But today, I struggle to find buyers even at throwaway prices,” he says.

Umar’s friends have already left weaving for call-center jobs in Delhi. He contemplates the same. “I don’t want to quit, but how long can I keep working for nothing?” he asks, staring at the half-finished carpet on his loom.

What lies ahead

Experts argue that safeguarding Kashmir’s craft is not just about economics but about cultural diplomacy, identity and sustainable livelihoods. “The world is moving towards slow fashion and authentic products,” says Ritu Sethi. “This is Kashmir’s chance, if only the government stands firmly with the artisans.”

Back in his workshop, Abdul Rashid sighs as he folds his half-finished shawl. “Our ancestors kept this craft alive through wars, famines, and turmoil,” he says. “But if the government abandons us now, this art may not survive our generation.”

For Kashmir, that would mean more than just the death of an industry. It would mean the silencing of centuries of artistry, patience, and beauty — threads that have bound the valley’s identity for generations.