At 83, Kashmiri craftsman keeps dying oil mill tradition alive

Falak Bilal
Srinagar, May 23: In a quiet corner of Kashmir’s countryside, where the scent of mustard once drifted through nearly every village lane in winter, the rhythmic groan of a wooden oil mill still echoes against the mountains. Bent with age but firm in spirit, 83-year-old Ghulam Mohammad Wani continues to turn the heavy beams of what is believed to be Kashmir’s last surviving traditional oil mill — a craft that has nearly disappeared under the pressure of modern machines and changing times.

For Wani, the oil mill is not merely a source of livelihood. It is memory, inheritance, and identity.
Every morning before sunrise, he unlocks the weathered wooden doors of the centuries-old structure, stepping into a world untouched by industrial speed. The creaking timber, the earthy smell of crushed mustard seeds, and the slow grinding rhythm of the mill speak of an era when life moved with patience and labor carried dignity.
“This mill raised our family,” Wani says softly, his hands stained golden from mustard oil. “I grew up watching my grandfather work here. Then my father carried it forward. I was a child when I first learned how to feed seeds into the grinder.”
His voice grows emotional as he recalls the promise he once made to his father.
“When my father became seriously ill, he called me near his bedside,” Wani remembers. “He told me, ‘As long as there is breath in your body, never let this work die.’ I have spent my whole life honoring those words.”
The traditional oil extraction process is painstakingly slow. Unlike factory-produced refined oils, Wani’s mustard oil is prepared using age-old wooden crushing techniques that preserve its natural aroma and nutrients. Villagers still visit him from distant areas, carrying sacks of mustard seeds and waiting patiently for hours to receive fresh oil.
For many older residents, the oil is more than a cooking ingredient. It is deeply woven into Kashmiri culture.
“This is the oil our mothers used for winter massages and for cooking traditional meals,” says Abdul Rashid, a local resident who has been visiting Wani’s mill for decades. “The smell alone reminds us of our childhood.”
Doctors and traditional healers in the region have long regarded cold-pressed mustard oil as beneficial for body massage, joint pain relief, and hair care during Kashmir’s harsh winters. Wani proudly insists that nothing artificial enters his product.
“What comes out of this mill is pure,” he says, lifting a small steel bowl filled with freshly pressed oil. “No chemicals, no mixing, no shortcuts. Only mustard and hard work.”
But preserving purity has come at a cost.
Modern electric oil extraction units now dominate the market, producing oil within minutes at a fraction of the labor. Younger generations, attracted to easier professions and urban opportunities, show little interest in carrying forward physically demanding traditional occupations.
Wani’s weathered face tightens with concern when asked about the future.
“After me, who will do this?” he asks quietly. “Young people do not want this life anymore. They want offices, businesses, jobs in cities. Nobody wants to spend hours turning wood and lifting seeds.”
The old craftsman says maintaining the mill has become increasingly difficult. Wooden components require constant repair, mustard seeds have become expensive, and earnings are modest. Yet he refuses to close the doors.
“As long as I can stand, the mill will run,” he says with determination. “Even if my body weakens, my heart cannot abandon this place.”
Across Kashmir, traditional occupations such as carpet weaving, copper engraving, wicker work, and manual oil pressing have steadily declined over the decades. Cultural historians warn that many of these practices may vanish entirely if efforts are not made to document and preserve them.
“People often speak about preserving heritage buildings,” says a local historian in Srinagar. “But living traditions are equally important. Men like Ghulam Mohammad Wani are themselves part of Kashmir’s cultural heritage.”
Inside the dimly lit mill, sunlight filters through small cracks in the wooden walls, falling on sacks of mustard stacked in corners. The slow-moving grinder continues its circular motion, unchanged by time. Outside, the world rushes forward with modernity. Inside, Wani guards the fading heartbeat of an older Kashmir.
For him, this is not simply work. It is devotion.
“When I hear the sound of this mill,” he says, resting his frail hands on the wooden beam, “I feel my father and grandfather are still with me.”
And so, day after day, the old mill turns — perhaps for the last generation.