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The staircase creaked under my weight as I climbed to the first floor of an old house in downtown Srinagar. The walls bore the signs of time—cracks running along their edges, wooden beams darkened with age. The house, though worn, stood with a quiet dignity, much like the man I had come to meet.
As I stepped onto the landing, the scent of freshly shaved walnut wood filled the air. It was unmistakable—the rich, earthy aroma of a craft as old as the valley itself. In the small workshop ahead, illuminated only by the soft glow of a bare bulb, sat Abdul Salam Rishi, his back slightly bent, his hands steady, working on a piece of walnut wood with a chisel that looked just as aged as he was.
His spectacles slid slightly down his nose as he examined the piece he was carving. Even with the dim lighting, his hands found the exact spots to press, carve, and refine.
"Carving takes patience," he said, without looking up. "Not just with the hands, but with the heart."
I stood there, watching in silence.
It was not just wood he was carving—it was a story, an inheritance, a tradition passed down from fathers to sons for centuries.
Kashmiri walnut wood carving is among the finest in the world. The technique dates back to the 14th century, introduced under the patronage of Sultan Zain-ul-Abidin. Over generations, the craft evolved into something unique—intricate, precise, deeply connected to Kashmiri culture.
But despite its history, the present was uncertain.
"Most of us who carve today are past our forties," Abdul Salam said, still working on the piece in his hands. "The young ones, they leave. They don’t want to sit for hours carving patterns that take months to finish."
His voice carried no anger, only quiet resignation.
"Tell him to bring some kahwa," he said suddenly, looking toward the young man sitting in the corner of the room. The boy, perhaps in his early twenties, nodded and disappeared down the stairs.
Abdul Salam set his chisel down and adjusted his spectacles. "Come, sit," he gestured to the wooden bench beside him. "It is slow work, carving. There is time for conversation."
Not long after, the young man returned, carrying a samovar of hot, fragrant kahwa and a plate of traditional Kashmiri bakery—sheermal and kulcha. The scent of cardamom and saffron rose with the steam, momentarily overpowering the woody aroma of the workshop.
We each took a cup, the warmth of the brass touching my palms as I listened to him speak again.
"This craft," he said, sipping his kahwa, "it is not just about knowing how to carve. It is about knowing how to listen. To the wood, to the tools, to the silence in between."
He picked up a fresh piece of walnut wood, running his fingers over its surface.
"Every slab of wood is different. Some are soft, some stubborn. A good artisan knows not to fight the wood, but to work with it. Like a poet choosing the right words for a verse, we must choose the right stroke for the right grain."
He pointed to the half-finished panel in front of him, its surface adorned with Chinar leaves and floral motifs—a hallmark of Kashmiri craftsmanship.
"This is what takes years to learn," he continued. "Anyone can hold a chisel. But not everyone can hear what the wood wants to become."
As we continued drinking kahwa, the conversation shifted again.
"We are fewer every year," he said, setting his cup down. "The young ones, they don’t stay. Not because they don’t love the craft, but because the world does not love it enough in return."
His words settled in the air.
Mass production had made it easier, faster, cheaper to recreate the patterns that once took months to carve. What was once an heirloom of patience and skill was now being replicated in hours by machines, in cities like Saharanpur, UP.
The boy who had brought the kahwa sat listening, quiet, thoughtful. I wondered if he would carry on the legacy or leave, like so many others, in search of a different life.
Abdul Salam looked at him, then back at the panel he was carving. "Perhaps he will stay. Or perhaps, when I am gone, this chisel will stay here, waiting for hands that never come."
The warmth of the kahwa had faded, leaving only the sound of the chisel once again working against wood.
I sat there for a while longer, watching the slow, deliberate strokes of his hands, each movement carrying the wisdom of generations.
As I finally rose to leave, I hesitated at the doorway, looking back one last time at the man in his upstairs workshop, surrounded by pieces of wood waiting to become something more.
Somewhere outside, the city moved on—markets bustled, cars honked, the world rushed forward. But in that quiet room, time was measured not in minutes or hours, but in the patient strokes of a chisel against walnut wood.
And for as long as those hands continued carving, a tradition centuries old would still breathe.
Even if only for a little while longer.
I left the workshop with a heavy heart, the weight of his words lingering in my mind. This craft, this legacy—it was too precious to be lost. I walked through the narrow streets of downtown Srinagar, past the busy markets and hurried footsteps of people absorbed in their daily lives, feeling a quiet determination settle within me.
The world may not always notice, but that does not mean we stop trying. If artisans like Abdul Salam could dedicate a lifetime to preserving this art, the least we could do was ensure that their work found its rightful appreciation. Their legacy deserved to be seen, valued, and passed on—not as relics of the past, but as living traditions that still had a place in the future.
Perhaps, somewhere, there is still time to remember. And perhaps, there is still time to make it count.
~ Moien Ahmad
Founder Hamaist.com
moein@hamaist.com
Comments 1
Such an interesting Blog..