Falak Bilal
Srinagar, May 11: In a narrow lane of downtown Srinagar, behind the faded wooden shutters of a modest shop, sits 78-year-old master artisan Abdul Aziz—one of the few remaining craftsmen keeping Kashmir’s turquoise jewellery tradition alive.
For six decades, his hands shaped stones into delicate necklaces, earrings and bracelets that once travelled far beyond the Valley. Today, those same hands move more slowly, tracing patterns of a dying craft in near silence.“I gave my entire life to this art,” Aziz says quietly, arranging unfinished turquoise pieces on a worn-out wooden table. “But today, I have nothing except memories.”
The shop, tucked beside his small home in Srinagar’s old city, rarely opens regularly now. Since the death of his wife, Aziz has withdrawn from the busy rhythm that once defined his life. He lives with his daughter, whom he is determined to educate despite mounting financial hardship.“She must study,” he says firmly. “I do not want her life to depend on uncertain work like mine.”
For years, Aziz’s jewellery was known among traders and buyers outside Kashmir, especially in Delhi’s Janpath market, where handcrafted Kashmiri ornaments once enjoyed steady demand. Traders regularly carried his turquoise sets to exhibitions and tourist hubs across India. During those years, he recalls, orders arrived faster than he could complete them.“There was a time when our work had value,” he says. “People recognised handcraft. Tourists searched for authentic jewellery. We worked day and night.”
Inside his dimly lit workshop, small boxes filled with polished turquoise stones remain stacked neatly beside rusted carving tools. Every item carries the precision of an artisan trained in patience rather than machines. Aziz still cuts, shapes and sets each stone by hand — a process that can take days for a single ornament.But the market that once sustained artisans like him has nearly disappeared.
Cheap machine-made jewellery, changing fashion trends and declining appreciation for handmade crafts have steadily pushed traditional artisans to the margins. Aziz now works only when someone places a custom order, often waiting weeks before another customer arrives.
“Earlier, every third household here was connected to handwork in some way,” he recalls. “Today, most workshops are closed.”The decline is visible across Srinagar’s old artisan quarters, where generations of craftsmen once specialised in copperware, wood carving, papier-mâché and traditional jewellery. Many elderly artisans have died without passing on their skills, while younger people increasingly seek stable jobs outside the craft industry.
“The younger generation cannot survive on these wages,” Aziz says. “Why would they spend years learning difficult work when it does not even feed a family?”His own journey into turquoise jewellery began as a teenager, when craftsmanship was still respected as both livelihood and identity. Over time, he developed a reputation for intricate stone setting and traditional Kashmiri designs inspired by Mughal-era ornamentation. Buyers admired the uniqueness of his handmade turquoise pieces, each carrying subtle variations impossible to replicate through machines.Yet recognition did not guarantee security.
Now, the ageing artisan spends long hours alone in his shop, sometimes without selling a single piece. The silence, he admits, has become heavier since losing his wife.“She always encouraged me to continue,” he says, pausing briefly. “After she passed away, the shop also became empty.”Despite everything, Aziz refuses to abandon the craft entirely. On some mornings, he still unlocks the old wooden shutters, cleans the dust from display trays and begins working on unfinished designs, hoping that someone may still value handmade art.
For him, turquoise jewellery is not simply a business — it is a lifetime etched into stone.“When I hold these tools,” he says, looking at his weathered hands, “it feels like I am holding my past.”
As Kashmir’s traditional crafts struggle against changing markets and fading interest, artisans like Abdul Aziz stand as living archives of a disappearing cultural heritage — carrying skills refined over generations, yet uncertain whether anyone will inherit them after they are gone.
