Machine-Made Kills Art: Kashmir’s last embroidery masters fade away
Srinagar, Feb 12: In a small workshop tucked away in Srinagar’s winding lanes, 60-year-old Abdul Hameed Wani hunches over an embroidery frame, his nimble fingers weaving patterns that have defined Kashmir’s artistic legacy for centuries. But today, these golden threads tell a story of struggle rather than prosperity.
“When I began 45 years ago, every stitch was worth its weight in gold,” says Wani, his eyes never leaving the intricate pattern taking shape beneath his needle. “Now, I barely make Rs 10-12 thousand a month, working twelve hours a day. The machines have taken over everything.”
Forced into the trade by poverty at age 12, Wani remembers his initial days with mixed emotions. “I used to see embroidery shops on my way to school. The conditions at home were so bad that I had to choose between education and earning,” he recalls, adjusting his failing eyesight to focus on a particularly delicate design.
His workday begins at dawn, stretching from 8 AM until sometimes 8 PM. “Usually, I work for 10 hours straight. It’s backbreaking work,” he says, rubbing his shoulders. “But what choice do I have? At my age, starting something new is impossible.”
The rise of machine embroidery has devastated traditional artisans like Wani. “Before the 2000s, this profession was thriving. We earned well because people valued hand-crafted work,” he says, pointing to a wall displaying his finest pieces. “Now everything is readymade. Customers walk in, look at our prices, and leave for cheaper machine-made alternatives.”
The physical toll of four decades of precision work is evident. “I’ve developed diabetes, probably from sitting still for so long,” Wani shares, listing his ailments: chronic back pain, leg cramps, and deteriorating eyesight. “But these health issues aren’t even the worst part. What hurts most is seeing our craft die.”
Young people’s disinterest in learning the trade particularly pains him. “My children have seen my struggles. They want nothing to do with this profession,” he sighs. “Can you blame them? Who wants to earn a pittance for such skilled work?”
Yet, amidst the gloom, Wani continues his craft with quiet dignity. Each stitch he makes is not just part of a design but a testament to Kashmir’s resilient artistic heritage. “Machine-made pieces might be cheaper,” he says, holding up a recently completed shawl, “but they’ll never have the soul that comes from hours of handwork.”
As evening shadows lengthen in his workshop, Wani remains bent over his frame, adding another thread to a pattern that grows increasingly rare in Kashmir’s modernising landscape. His story is not just about the decline of a craft – it’s about the fading of an art form that once defined the Valley’s cultural identity.
“Sometimes I wonder if anyone will remember how to do this work in a few years,” he muses, preparing to close shop for the day. “These patterns have been passed down for generations. Will they die with us?”
