Falak Bilal
Srinagar, Aug 17: The sound is familiar: the steady hum of a sewing machine, the sharp snip of scissors and the soft pull of cloth being guided beneath a needle.
For Ghulam Qadir, it is not simply the sound of work. It is the sound of a lifetime.
At 75, Qadir still walks into his tailoring workshop in Kani Kadal every day and takes his place behind the sewing machine. His hands, trained over six decades, continue to measure, cut and stitch men’s garments with the same patience that defined his working life.
He was barely 12 when he first entered the world of tailoring.
“I was only 12 years old when I started learning this work,” Qadir recalls. “I did not believe that a person could master a craft without learning from people who already knew it. I trained under three master tailors, and each one taught me something different.”
What began as an apprenticeship became a profession, and eventually a way of life.
Over the years, Qadir built a name for himself not through advertising or modern branding, but through the quiet currency of traditional craftsmanship — a well-fitted garment, a satisfied customer and a reputation built one stitch at a time.
The workshop was never Qadir’s responsibility alone.
His younger brothers worked alongside him for decades, turning the establishment into a family enterprise. Though they were well educated and could have pursued other careers, they chose to remain in the trade.
“We worked together as brothers for many years,” he says. “They were educated, but they were comfortable with this work. We made our living from tailoring and stood by each other.”
The workshop consequently became more than a place where clothes were stitched. It became a space where family, livelihood and tradition were woven together.
For Qadir, tailoring also provided the means to build a home and raise a family.
“I have no complaint against this profession,” he says. “Whatever I have today, I earned through this work. I educated my children, got them married and built my life through tailoring. How can I be ungrateful to the work that gave me everything?”
Yet the satisfaction of a life well spent is accompanied by an uneasiness about what comes next.
Qadir worries that the workshop — and perhaps the traditional form of men’s tailoring it represents — may not survive another generation.
“This workshop is running because of us,” he says. “But after our generation, I don’t know who will take it forward.”
His concern is not simply about one family business. It is about a profession he believes is losing its place among younger men.
According to Qadir, fewer young people are willing to spend years learning the fundamentals of tailoring. The patience required to become a skilled craftsman, he says, is increasingly at odds with a generation looking for quicker ways to earn.
“There are no shortcuts in tailoring,” he says firmly. “If someone wants to learn this craft properly, they must sit with a qualified teacher and learn it step by step. You cannot become a tailor by learning a few tricks.”
He has noticed that women continue to enter the clothing business, particularly through boutiques and independent ventures, but says relatively few young men are choosing traditional tailoring as a profession.
For Qadir, however, tailoring has never been merely about earning money.
It taught him discipline. It gave him independence. It allowed him to support his family and educate his children. And, perhaps most importantly, it gave him a sense of dignity in work.
His philosophy is straightforward.
“I am satisfied with what I have done,” he says. “I never expected anything extraordinary. I worked honestly, earned honestly and looked after my family.”
There is no bitterness in his voice when he speaks about the changing times. Instead, there is acceptance — and a quiet hope that someone, somewhere, will still see value in the craft.
“If a young person really wants to learn, I would tell him not to look for shortcuts,” Qadir says. “Find a good teacher, sit beside him and learn. Give the craft time. Skill does not come in a day.”
Outside the workshop, Srinagar continues to change. Shops change hands, old neighbourhoods acquire new faces and traditional occupations compete with faster, newer forms of work.
Inside, Qadir continues to stitch. At 75, he could have chosen to step away from the machine. Instead, he continues to report to his workshop, measure cloth and complete orders.
Perhaps that is why his greatest worry is not about himself.
He has already had his years in the trade. He has raised his family and built a life from the work of his hands.
What troubles him is the possibility that the sound of his sewing machine may eventually fall silent.
Still, Qadir refuses to measure his life by whether the workshop survives him.
His belief rests on something simpler.
“All you have to do is earn through halal work,” he says. “The rest is in Allah’s hands.”
And so, in one of Srinagar’s old neighbourhoods, the machine keeps humming — stitch after stitch, day after day — while a 75-year-old craftsman continues doing what he has done since he was 12: making a living with his hands, and quietly keeping a disappearing tradition alive.
