Amid modernity, Downtown's traditional soap maker keeps centuries-old craft alive

Srinagar, Dec 14: Inside a dim, narrow shop tucked a few steps away from Khanqah-i-Maulla, the winter air hangs heavy with the scent of warm oils and crushed herbs.

A Kangri glows between Abdul Rashid’s feet as he rubs his palms together for warmth, while the soft light falls on the cracked walls and faded posters lining the shop. The shelves are stacked with uneven bars of handmade soap, yellow, brown, honey-tinged, each piece shaped by the same pair of hands for nearly four decades. It is quiet. Too quiet for Rashid’s liking. He keeps glancing toward the wooden door that opens directly toward the Khanqah, watching for a customer. No one enters. His eyes return to the Kangri in front of him. Rashid, now 65, is the last traditional soap maker of Srinagar’s old city, a craft once spread across the Downtown now reduced to this single cramped shop, Modern Kashmiri Soap.

The name sounds modern, but nothing inside it has changed: the tools, the recipe, the rhythm, not even the scent. “This is one of the oldest shops where soap is still made the way my elders taught," he says, as he uses his hands to gently sweep away the ash, coaxing the embers in his Kangri to glow. Wiping his hands on his pheran, Rashid mumbles, “I started when I was only twelve. Back then, every few lanes had a soap workshop. Now… only I remain.” The shop is barely wide enough for two people to stand comfortably. On one side sits a row of rusted tin containers labelled in Rashid’s handwriting: mustard oil, coconut oil, herb mix, honey.

A single bulb flickers overhead. The floor is uneven, warm where the Kangri rests. Decades ago, Srinagar had thriving soap-making units like Gulzar Soap, Kashmir Herbal Soap, and other nameless family workshops spread across Downtown. They produced handmade soaps that were trusted for purity and effectiveness. When mass-produced soaps swept the market, these age-old establishments slowly disappeared. “The Gulzar shop has shut down— even the herbal-soap store has vanished. Everything, bit by bit,” Rashid recalls, shaking his head as if flipping through old photographs.

Today, Modern Kashmiri Soap stands nearly alone, kept alive through the sheer persistence of one man. Rashid himself was not born into a soap maker’s family. He inherited the craft from a predecessor who ran this same shop. “I stood by him every day,” he says, recalling the heat of the cauldron and the sharp smell of oil that stung his eyes in those early months.

“I made many mistakes. My hands burned, my batches failed. But one day… the soap came out perfect. That day, I knew this was my path.” Now he produces three kinds of soaps. “One is for Namdha makers, essential for felting the wool,” he explains, lifting a rectangular bar that feels almost like stone. “Another is for hairfall and itching, pure, natural.” He runs his thumb along a third bar. “Mandan soap. People used to wash clothes with this. ‘Gentle, effective, every soap here has a purpose,” he insists. “If someone comes with a problem, I want to give them something that truly helps.” Many customers return with gratitude, telling him how his soap eased their rashes or softened their rugs.

The Department of Handicrafts and Handloom has also listed him among the city’s key artisans featured in the Craft Safari documentation, which highlights traditional craftspeople of Srinagar. Rashid holds up the Srinagar Craft Safari VII booklet with visible pride. His shop appears on page one. “At least they remembered me,” he says. “I am only, but I am here.” Still, the challenges are growing. Raw materials are expensive, customers are fewer than before, and the valley’s artisanal landscape has changed dramatically as crafts like Namdah-making themselves struggle to stay afloat. “The namdah-makers have disappeared, and the demand has also declined,” Rashid says softly. Yet, he shows no bitterness, only a quiet one.

His shop may be small, but it carries the last echo of a craft that once shaped Srinagar’s heritage. Rashid does not talk about giving up. He talks only of continuing, as long as he can, as long as someone needs a bar of pure handmade soap. He looks toward the revered shrine of Khanqah again, and with the mixture cooling beside him, he says with a firmness that warms the cold air more than the kangri can. “This work is my inheritance… my legacy. I will keep doing it for as long as I live.”