Craft Celebrated, Craftsmen Forgotten: Handloom Day Brings Little Hope to Kashmir’s Weavers
Srinagar, Aug 7: As the Nation observed National Handloom Day with speeches, exhibitions, and social media tributes, far from the spotlight, Kashmir’s traditional carpet weavers spent the day like any other—battling irrelevance, poverty, and the slow death of a centuries-old craft.
In a small workshop in Srinagar’s Eidgah locality, 58-year-old Bashir Ahmad sat quietly at his loom, weaving a silk carpet knot by knot. Once, this karkhana was full of life, employing ten skilled artisans. Now, Bashir Ahmad works alone.
“Most of them left because the work no longer pays,” he says. “Some now drive autos, others run small shops or do construction jobs. I’ve stayed on, but it’s no longer enough to survive.”
Kashmir’s hand-knotted carpets, globally renowned for their artistry, are struggling to withstand the flood of machine-made imitations. Artisans say these cheap imports—often from Turkey, Iran—are entering local markets in large numbers and being passed off as Kashmiri handmade products.
“The real damage is not just economic. It’s the loss of credibility,” says Ghulam Qadir, a senior weaver from Nawab Bazar. “Tourists and even domestic buyers don’t trust what they’re buying anymore. They’ve been cheated too many times.”
That mistrust came into focus recently when a tourist was sold a carpet in Srinagar with a fake QR label claiming it was a handmade Kashmiri product. A probe by the Department of Handicrafts and Handloom, Kashmir, revealed that it was machine-made. The showroom involved was blacklisted, and the department invoked provisions of the J&K Handicrafts (Quality Control) Act, ordering sellers to ensure only genuine handmade carpets are marketed.
But on the ground, artisans say these measures are reactive and lack continuity.
“Enforcement happens after something goes wrong,” says Abdul Hamid, a weaver in Safa Kadal. “There is no consistent effort to protect or promote authentic carpet weaving. We’re just being left to fade away.”
The economic crisis is compounded by the sheer time and effort that goes into making a real Kashmiri carpet. Depending on the size and quality, a single carpet can take three to six months to complete. In return, the earnings are barely enough to support a family.
“It’s hard to convince the next generation to take this up,” says Ali Mohammad, another weaver. “There’s no future in it. No health cover, no pension, no guarantee of work.”
Even exporters are feeling the heat. “Kashmiri carpets once had a loyal global customer base,” says Yousuf Rather, who runs a family-run carpet export business. “But now we spend more time proving authenticity than selling. Buyers have become cautious, and understandably so.”
Artisans also express frustration with how Handloom Day is observed.
“These events and slogans are disconnected from reality,” says Fazal Hussain, who recently shut down his karkhana and took up daily wage labour. “We don’t need symbolic recognition—we need real, sustained support.”
Despite the GI tag and periodic promotional campaigns, the ground situation remains bleak. The younger generation is distancing itself from the craft, not out of disinterest, but sheer economic necessity.
Back in Eidgah, Bashir Ahmad continues to work quietly. He’s been weaving carpets since the age of 14.
“This is the only thing I know. But every year, it feels like the world knows us less.”
On a day meant to honour the country’s handloom legacy, the silence in Kashmir’s carpet karkhanas says more than any speech could. The hands that once brought global fame to Kashmiri craft are now struggling to hold on.
