Chisel falls silent: Art of making stone epitaphs fades in Srinagar

Srinagar, Feb 16: The sound used to come before the sight, a steady, patient clink of chisel hitting Dewer stone. It wafted through the narrow streets of Srinagar and meandered toward graveyards, where memories are meant to last.

This sound carried weight, measuring grief with careful strokes. Today, that sound has all but vanished. In its place is the sharp screech of a metal cutter, a burst of noise that starts and ends within minutes.

Inside his modest workshop, 45-year-old Mushtaq Ahmad Mir of Karan Nagar exists between two worlds. On one side, unfinished marble slabs lean against the wall, pale and cool to the touch. On the other, thin sheets of iron wait to be cut, engraved, and painted. The floor is not just dusted with stone powder, it shows the quiet signs of change.

“I am the third generation making epitaphs,” Mushtaq says, stroking a slab as if reading Braille. “My grandfather and father worked with Dewer stone. I learned by watching them. That was our life.”

Dewer stone was more than raw material to him in his childhood, it was part of his heritage. The grey-blue rock, mined from Khonmuh in Srinagar and Saderkoot in Bandipora, held strength and durability valued across the region. It withstood Kashmir's harsh winters, snow, rain, and time. Families would come with chits handwritten with a list of names, dates, and holy Quranic 'ayats. Then they would sit with Mushtaq's father and discuss spacing, calligraphy, and the slab shape. The process was unhurried and almost sacral.

It could take 15 days to complete a single epitaph. The stone must first have been levelled and polished. Letters were chalked out in advance of carving them, one measured strike at a time. A moment's impatience could crack the slab and undo days of work.

“It was slow work,” Mushtaq recalls, a faint smile appearing. “But it lasted for generations. When you carved Dewar, you knew it would remain long after you were gone.”

For decades, graveyards across Srinagar showed the mark of such craftsmanship. Each stone was unique, shaped by the hand that carved it. The inscriptions were not machine-perfect, but they held depth both literal and emotional.

Then, slowly, the rhythm began to change. Between 2016 and 2019, government restrictions stopped much of the local mining. Quarrying of Dewer stone ceased, cutting off the supply artisans had depended on for decades. What was once abundant turned scarce and costly. Transport became difficult, Orders fell.

“It vanished over time,” Mushtaq says softly. “People started preferring marble epitaphs.”

For a time, marble seemed like a bridge between tradition and affordability. Easier to get, often sourced from Rajasthan, it allowed artisans to continue carving by hand. But marble had its own issues. Kashmir’s damp winters caused stains and cracks. Snow seeped into small crevices. Over time, the sheen faded.

Then another change occurred quieter, but more decisive. Iron plates appeared in the graveyards.

“Nowadays, people ask us to make iron plates in place of stone epitaphs,” Mushtaq says, pointing to a stack of metal sheets in his workshop. “Marble and Dewer take time. They need 10 to 15 days. Iron can be ready in just a few hours.”

The economics are clear. Dewer stone, once the most durable choice, has become the most expensive due to its scarcity. Marble falls in the middle but requires time and skilled labour. Iron, however it is the cheapest and quickest to produce. Laser engraving or painted letters can be done in a single day.

Standing by a freshly marked grave at Hawal, Junaid Ahmad adjusts the simple iron plate at its head. The black surface catches the faint winter light. His voice is heavy as he speaks.

“We wanted to do it in stone, like our elders did,” he says quietly. “But the marble would have taken many days and cost much more. Right now, we just needed something ready quickly. It’s not about choice; it’s about what we can handle.”

His words reflect the feelings of many grieving families. Funerals happen quickly, and expenses are immediate. Waiting two weeks for a carved stone feels impossible when closure feels urgent.

For Mushtaq, the impact has been severe. He estimates that he has lost nearly 80 percent of his income as orders for carved stone have dried up. Yet he speaks without bitterness.

“It’s not just about money,” he says. “It was a skill. Only a few people knew this art, now it is fading away.”

The workshop that once echoed with apprentices learning to steady their hands now mostly sits silent. The chisels passed down from his grandfather are neatly arranged, but they are used less often. Younger family members show little interest in continuing the craft.

“Our younger generation isn’t interested in this,” he says. “They don’t want to learn as they think there is no future in it. Why would they pick something that’s dying?”

The question lingers heavier than the dust from the stone. He recalls when Dewar slabs arrived rough and unshaped, unloaded with effort from small trucks. He and his father would inspect each piece, looking for hidden cracks. They would smooth the surface, carefully trace the letters, and carve with patience gained from practice. Every finished epitaph felt like a conversation with time.

Stone, he insists, has dignity. It won’t bend or rust. It weathers but lasts. Iron, on the other hand will one day corrode. Paint will peel. Letters may fade.

Still, Mushtaq continues to cut and engrave metal plates because adapting is how he survives. Orders for iron come frequently, for stone, they are rare. The market has made its choice. Mushtaq often takes his chisel and hits the marble in his workshop during the quiet hours of late afternoon, since there are no customers around. The sound is sharp that echoes through the room. For a second or two, the past seems to come alive again.

Outdoors, the city changes even quicker. Building construction increases, the materials alter, and convenience dictates instead of custom. And the graveyards bear the record of the changing times with rows upon rows of thin metal plates instead of heavy carved stones. “When you carve in stone, you feel a connection,” he says softly. “It lasts for centuries. Iron will not.”

By: Duwa Bisati