Seated low on the ground, their hands move steadily through bundles of dried reeds and rice straw. A few women work alongside them in near silence, eyes fixed on the mats taking shape, strand by strand. Conversation is sparse; the work follows its own rhythm.

The small, functional courtyard—shaped by years of use rather than design—is where Waguv is still made, away from shops, exhibitions and loud claims of revival. Here, the reed mat continues quietly, as it always has.

Waguv, once inseparable from Kashmiri domestic life, is among the Valley’s oldest crafts. Dating back nearly three centuries, with references traced to the Mughal period, it was never ornamental. Made by entwining dried rice straw with reeds known locally as peich, harvested from wetlands around Dal Lake, Waguv provided insulation in winter and cooling relief in summer. Spread across floors and placed beneath bedding and carpets, it softened cold surfaces in homes and houseboats alike.

British civil servant Walter R. Lawrence, in The Valley of Kashmir, wrote of how Kashmiris put every plant to use, describing *peich* as a fibre that produced “excellent matting.” For generations, Waguv defined domestic comfort, particularly for poorer households.

There was a time when more than 500 families in Srinagar alone depended on Waguv weaving. In Akhoon Mohalla, just across the water, over fifty families practised the craft. Children learned early; not knowing Waguv weaving was once considered a failing.

Zameer grew up in that world. “I don’t remember a time when Waguv was not around me,” he says, tightening a rope of straw. His family has been associated with the craft for nearly two decades. He witnessed years when demand was steady and buyers predictable, and then the slow unravelling.

“Modern carpets came, mattresses came, and Waguv slowly disappeared,” he says. “People stopped asking for it. Then they stopped remembering it.”

By the late 2010s, Waguv had almost vanished from everyday homes, surviving mainly as a rustic accent in hotels and restaurants. In 2019, Zameer chose to return to the craft deliberately, despite low demand, uncertain income and intense physical labour.

“There was a time when no one even wanted to hear the word Waguv,” he recalls. “But I felt if we stopped completely, it would never come back.”

Encouragement from friends outside Kashmir—financially stable and emotionally invested—helped him persist when resources were thin. “Sometimes you need someone to tell you that this work matters,” he says.

For Ruksana, the work carries a deeper meaning. “This is not just earning,” she says softly, her hands never pausing. “This is how our elders lived. If we leave it, what will remain of them?”

The process has not changed. Reeds and rice straw are collected from swampy areas around Dal Lake, Chak Bagh, Anchar and Ganderbal. After drying, the straw is twisted into rope and woven entirely by hand. Two people are required to complete a single Waguv, a task that demands patience and coordination.

“It takes hours, sometimes days,” Ruksana says. “You cannot rush it.”

Despite the labour involved, Zameer has kept prices intentionally low. “If it becomes expensive, people will see it as a luxury,” he says. “Waguv was never a luxury. It belonged to everyone.”

A shift came when the Handicrafts Department intervened. Under the Karkhandar Scheme, Zameer was able to formalise his work, and exhibitions at Lal Chowk brought renewed visibility. “People stopped at the stall and watched us work,” he recalls. “Some said they hadn’t seen Waguv in decades.”

Orders followed from different parts of Srinagar and beyond, including Anantnag. Some buyers ordered mats for entire rooms; others spoke of better sleep and reduced back pain—beliefs long associated with Waguv’s natural texture and firmness.

Another quiet change has been the involvement of young women learning the craft. In small courtyards and rooms, they weave to earn, keeping the knowledge alive while supporting their households.

In early 2025, Waguv received Geographical Indication status alongside other fading Kashmiri crafts such as Namda and Shikara. The recognition formally linked Waguv to Srinagar’s wetland regions and acknowledged the communities around Dal Lake that have sustained it for generations.

Zameer welcomes government support but remains realistic. “Schemes can support us,” he says, rolling up a finished mat, “but Waguv will survive only if people bring it back into their homes.”

“This craft doesn’t need celebration,” Ruksana adds quietly. “It only needs space to live.”

The post A quiet revival keeps last threads of Waguv alive appeared first on Greater Kashmir.

A Kangri glows between Abdul Rashid’s feet as he rubs his palms together for warmth, while the soft light falls on the cracked walls and faded posters lining the shop. The shelves are stacked with uneven bars of handmade soap, yellow, brown, honey-tinged, each piece shaped by the same pair of hands for nearly four decades. It is quiet. Too quiet for Rashid’s liking. He keeps glancing toward the wooden door that opens directly toward the Khanqah, watching for a customer. No one enters. His eyes return to the Kangri in front of him. Rashid, now 65, is the last traditional soap maker of Srinagar’s old city, a craft once spread across the Downtown now reduced to this single cramped shop, Modern Kashmiri Soap.

The name sounds modern, but nothing inside it has changed: the tools, the recipe, the rhythm, not even the scent. “This is one of the oldest shops where soap is still made the way my elders taught,” he says, as he uses his hands to gently sweep away the ash, coaxing the embers in his Kangri to glow. Wiping his hands on his pheran, Rashid mumbles, “I started when I was only twelve. Back then, every few lanes had a soap workshop. Now… only I remain.” The shop is barely wide enough for two people to stand comfortably. On one side sits a row of rusted tin containers labelled in Rashid’s handwriting: mustard oil, coconut oil, herb mix, honey.

A single bulb flickers overhead. The floor is uneven, warm where the Kangri rests. Decades ago, Srinagar had thriving soap-making units like Gulzar Soap, Kashmir Herbal Soap, and other nameless family workshops spread across Downtown. They produced handmade soaps that were trusted for purity and effectiveness. When mass-produced soaps swept the market, these age-old establishments slowly disappeared. “The Gulzar shop has shut down— even the herbal-soap store has vanished. Everything, bit by bit,” Rashid recalls, shaking his head as if flipping through old photographs.

Today, Modern Kashmiri Soap stands nearly alone, kept alive through the sheer persistence of one man. Rashid himself was not born into a soap maker’s family. He inherited the craft from a predecessor who ran this same shop. “I stood by him every day,” he says, recalling the heat of the cauldron and the sharp smell of oil that stung his eyes in those early months.

“I made many mistakes. My hands burned, my batches failed. But one day… the soap came out perfect. That day, I knew this was my path.” Now he produces three kinds of soaps. “One is for Namdha makers, essential for felting the wool,” he explains, lifting a rectangular bar that feels almost like stone. “Another is for hairfall and itching, pure, natural.” He runs his thumb along a third bar. “Mandan soap. People used to wash clothes with this. ‘Gentle, effective, every soap here has a purpose,” he insists. “If someone comes with a problem, I want to give them something that truly helps.” Many customers return with gratitude, telling him how his soap eased their rashes or softened their rugs.

The Department of Handicrafts and Handloom has also listed him among the city’s key artisans featured in the Craft Safari documentation, which highlights traditional craftspeople of Srinagar. Rashid holds up the Srinagar Craft Safari VII booklet with visible pride. His shop appears on page one. “At least they remembered me,” he says. “I am only, but I am here.” Still, the challenges are growing. Raw materials are expensive, customers are fewer than before, and the valley’s artisanal landscape has changed dramatically as crafts like Namdah-making themselves struggle to stay afloat. “The namdah-makers have disappeared, and the demand has also declined,” Rashid says softly. Yet, he shows no bitterness, only a quiet one.

His shop may be small, but it carries the last echo of a craft that once shaped Srinagar’s heritage. Rashid does not talk about giving up. He talks only of continuing, as long as he can, as long as someone needs a bar of pure handmade soap. He looks toward the revered shrine of Khanqah again, and with the mixture cooling beside him, he says with a firmness that warms the cold air more than the kangri can. “This work is my inheritance… my legacy. I will keep doing it for as long as I live.”

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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.

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