Kashmir’s last Turquoise artisan keeps centuries-old art alive

Srinagar, Dec 07: The smell of metal dust still carries him back. Every morning, when a thin beam of sunlight slips through the cracked window of his century-old Fateh Kadal workshop, it lands on the same wooden bench where eight-year-old Muhammad Hanief once stood on his toes to watch his father at work.

Even today, as a dim bulb flickers above him, 60-year-old Hanief can almost hear the gentler clinks of the past, his father’s warm voice guiding him, the turquoise stones scattered across the table.

“That was the day I really began to understand this art,” Hanief says, his fingers steadying a small brass ball as he holds a pair of tweezers. He remembers his father, a respected Turquoise, popularly known as ferozi artisan of the 1970s, lying weak and bedridden, calling him close. “You will carry this art now.”

Back then, the workshop pulsed with life. Nearly 60 to 70 families in downtown Srinagar earned their livelihood from ferozi, or turquoise jewellery, locally known as Manari.

“In those days, our home was always busy,” Hanief recalls. “16 boys worked alongside me. The sound of hammers, the glow of the fire… it felt like the art would live forever.”

But forever turned fragile as time changed machine-made ornaments and synthetic stones began saturating the market. Handmade ferozi quickly started to diminish, and the artisans who depended on it had families to feed.

“The demand collapsed,” Hanief says. “One by one, the artisans left. They didn’t want to, but they had no choice.”

Hanief kept the workshop running, even as the tools rusted and the benches emptied. “I took over everything when my father died,” he says. “But soon, I was the only one left.”

For years, he produced turquoise pieces during the six warm months, then travelled outside the valley, Bengaluru, Goa, Kerala, Mumbai, hoping to sell them where appreciation for handmade work still survived. Kashmir, he says, offered little support.

“We had potential, but no one cared,” he shrugs. “Other states arranged exhibitions for artisans. Here, no one bothered.”

It was his sister who nudged him toward a turning point. She urged him to participate in an exhibition in Bengaluru, organised through the Cauvery Handicrafts Emporium. Reluctant and unsure, he agreed.

“People there loved my work,” Hanief says, a quiet smile softening his face. “They were surprised that this craft still existed. Outside Kashmir, people ask questions; they value art.”

More exhibitions followed, each one reinforcing the same message: the world outside the valley still had space for ferozi. To adapt to shifting tastes, he began introducing new designs, mixing traditional turquoise with colourful stones and contemporary patterns.

But appreciation alone wasn’t enough to save the craft at home.

Hanief’s artisan card, essential for accessing government schemes and participating in official fairs, has been pending renewal since 2022. He has visited multiple offices, carrying files and hope from one desk to another.

“I’ve gone to so many places,” he says. “They always promise. Nothing happens.”

The COVID-19 lockdown brought another blow. Exhibitions stopped, customers disappeared, and the recession tightened people’s budgets. Since 2019, he hasn’t been able to travel outside Kashmir for sales.

What troubles Hanief even more is that no young person wants to learn the craft he has spent decades guarding.

“I offer to teach for free,” he says. “But no one comes.” Hanief does not blame them. “If I hire someone, I can give him 300 or 400 rupees a day,” he explains. “But that same person can earn a thousand doing labour. Why would he stay? How do I expect him to be with me when he earns more outside?”

After a pause, Hanief adds, almost whispering: “If I teach someone this art, but later he earns less than he spends, he will curse me for it. He will think the skill ruined him.”

Turquoise was brought to Kashmir around 650 years ago by revered saint Ameer-e-Kabeer Mir Syed Ali Hamadani (RA) whose arrival enriched the valley with dozens of handmade arts and earned Kashmir the title Peer Vaer. Today, Ferozi art is on the brink of extinction.

“Downtown once had seventy families making Manari,” he says. “Now, only I remain.” His voice carries the weight of centuries. “After me, there will be no one left to see this art. This is our legacy. If it dies, a piece of Kashmir dies with it.”

“I won’t be here forever. But this art should be. When I die, I fear this Ferozi art will die with me, and that breaks my heart.” Hanief ends with a quiet exhale.