Chisel in Hand, Worry in Eyes: State Awardee Artisan Muhammad Rafiq Naqar Watches His Craft Fade

Srinagar, July 2: In the heart of Srinagar's Rainawari area lined with timeworn houses and narrow bylanes, the rhythmic tap of a chisel against walnut wood is one of the last reminders of a fading craft. Inside a modest workshop that smells of timber and turpentine, Muhammad Rafiq Najar sits quietly, his eyes tracing the intricate patterns he's been carving for over four decades.

A master artisan of Kashmiri wood carving—known locally as *naqash kari*—Najar has spent his life shaping the legacy of a craft passed down through generations in his family. He is the third generation to wield the chisel in his household, and a recipient of the prestigious State Award from the Government of Jammu and Kashmir. But today, the honour feels like a fading memory rather than a mark of recognition.

“Wondrous as this art is, I fear I might be the last in my family to carry it,” Najar says, gently brushing sawdust off a half-carved panel. “My children chose other professions. They had to. You can’t run a family on this anymore.”

For centuries, Kashmir’s wood carving tradition was an emblem of the Valley’s rich cultural heritage—seen on mosque pulpits, shrine doors, palace facades, and fine home furniture. But today, artisans like Najar feel abandoned, their skills struggling to survive in a world driven by market demands and quick profits.

“This craft is dying,” Najar says bluntly. “It takes years of training to master it, but what you get in return is less than a day’s wage for a labourer.”

The economic math of the craft is disheartening. Despite the skill, effort, and artistry required, artisans are often paid meagre sums by middlemen, who buy the work cheap and sell it at high rates in showrooms or outside the Valley. This decades-old system has drained both morale and earnings.

“You see where the middlemen are—driving cars, running big businesses,” he says, “and look at the artisan, the one who created the piece. He can’t even feed his children properly. That’s the real tragedy.”

The artisan economy in Kashmir has always had its vulnerabilities, but Najar says the post-1990s conflict years, rising costs of materials, and absence of policy safeguards have left traditional crafts in serious peril.

“I remember when I was in Class 10,” Najar recalls, voice tinged with emotion. “I needed just Rs 100 for tuition. My father, who was also a wood carver, earned Rs 300 a month. I had hoped he would help me study, but I understood the hardship. That’s when I made my decision—to join the craft and earn. I’ve been at it since.”

But that decision, he says, would not be the same today. With returns dwindling and recognition scarce, he cannot recommend this path to young people.

“The youth are not foolish,” he says. “Why would they spend five, even ten years learning something that gives them less income than a day’s labourer? There is no incentive, no stability.”

Najar believes that if this cultural heritage is to survive, serious intervention is required. And fast.

“The government must come forward not with hollow slogans but real measures,” he says. “We need institutions to teach this craft in a structured way. Most importantly, the stipend given to apprentices should be increased. Today, it’s too little. If you want youth to learn, give them Rs 8000 per month. Make it viable.”

He points to foreign countries where traditional crafts are supported through subsidies, design workshops, market linkages, and fair pricing. “In Kashmir, we are still stuck with the same system that has failed us. Even the award I received did not change my condition. It was an honour, yes, but I still go home to the same daily struggle.”

The workshop, lined with carved panels of floral vines and geometric patterns, holds both pride and pain. Each piece tells a story—of heritage, skill, and slowly, of loss.

“This isn’t just about me,” Najar says. “It’s about an entire community of artisans—carvers, papier-mâché artists, sozni embroiderers—who are being pushed out by neglect.”

Despite it all, he continues to carve. The chisel in his hand moves with practiced ease, carving motifs that have adorned shrines and homes for centuries. But there’s a heaviness in his tone that no design can mask.

“Maybe one day, people will wake up,” he says. “Maybe they’ll realise what we’ve lost, but by then, it may be too late.”