Downtown artisan keeps Kashmiri cap craft alive

Falak Bilal
Srinagar, Apr 13: In the bustling yet timeworn lanes of Maharaj Gunj in Downtown Srinagar, where history breathes through every brick and wooden balcony, a small tailoring shop stands as a quiet witness to changing times. Inside, seated behind a worn-out sewing machine, Mohd Yousuf continues a routine he has followed for over 40 years—cutting, stitching, and preserving a craft that once defined his identity and livelihood.

For decades, Yousuf was known across neighborhoods and distant villages for making traditional Kashmiri caps. His work carried not just skill, but a cultural essence that resonated deeply with people. There was a time, he recalls, when his shop would remain crowded throughout the day.
“People used to come from far-off villages just to buy caps from here,” Yousuf says, gently running his hand over a piece of fabric. “I hardly had time to rest. There was so much demand, especially during winters and festive seasons.”
Back then, the Kashmiri cap was more than just an accessory—it was a symbol of identity, worn with pride across generations. Yousuf’s craftsmanship earned him a loyal clientele, and his small shop became a destination in itself.
But today, the scene has changed dramatically.
The once-busy shop now often sits quiet, with fewer customers walking in. Changing fashion trends, modernization, and the growing preference for factory-made products have gradually eroded the demand for handmade traditional caps.
“Now things are not the same,” he says, his voice carrying a mix of acceptance and nostalgia. “The demand has reduced a lot. People prefer ready-made items, and traditional caps are no longer in fashion like they used to be.”
What worries him even more is the lack of interest among the younger generation. Despite spending a lifetime mastering his craft, Yousuf has found no one willing to carry forward his legacy.
“No young person wants to learn this work anymore,” he explains. “They want quick money, easier jobs. This craft needs patience, and maybe that patience is disappearing.”
Yet, despite the challenges, Yousuf continues to open his shop every day. For him, it is not merely about earning a livelihood—it is about staying connected to a way of life that he has known for decades.
“I still open my shop every morning,” he says with quiet determination. “Even if there is little work, I cannot sit idle at home. This is what I have done all my life.”
His shop, though modest, tells a larger story—one of resilience, cultural change, and the silent fading of traditional crafts in the face of modernization. Each stitch he makes today carries the weight of memory and the hope that perhaps, someday, the value of such craftsmanship will be rediscovered.
As the day passes and the streets outside grow busier, Yousuf remains at his place, waiting—not just for customers, but for a revival of interest in a tradition he has spent a lifetime preserving.