Falak Bilal
Srinagar, Apr 23: In a narrow lane of Hawal Badamwari in Srinagar, where the hum of daily life blends with the quiet rhythm of tradition, Amina’s story has been unfolding—thread by thread, knot by knot—for more than two decades.She was still a child when she first sat before the loom.
What began as a necessity soon became a lifelong commitment. Her father, himself a weaver, taught her the craft at a time when the family had little choice but to depend on every possible source of income. With two sisters and a younger brother to support, Amina’s small hands learned quickly. Each knot she tied carried more than wool—it carried the weight of survival.
“I didn’t choose this work,” Amina says, her voice is steady but reflective. “It came to me because it had to. We needed it.”Today, at 37, little has changed in terms of responsibility, even if the years have passed. Marriage did not mark an end to her labour. Instead, the loom followed her into her new home, just as her obligations did.
The patterns she weaves have grown more intricate over time, but so too have the challenges.A single hand-knotted carpet can take up to three months to complete. The process demands precision, patience, and an almost meditative focus. Yet the financial return rarely reflects the effort involved.“You give three months to one piece,” she explains, “and when it’s done, the money you get doesn’t feel like it belongs to those three months. It feels much less.”
It is this imbalance—between labour and reward—that has pushed Amina to step outside her usual routine. At the Gongul Festival held at SKUAST Srinagar, she stands not behind a loom, but among a crowd, searching for opportunities that might offer a more stable livelihood.Her presence there is not just about finding work.
It is also about being seen.“If this craft had real value in the market,” she says, “I would be at home weaving right now. I wouldn’t need to stand here and look for something else.”Her words reflect a broader reality faced by many artisans across the region. Traditional crafts, once the backbone of local economies and cultural identity, are increasingly struggling to compete in a market dominated by machine-made products and shifting consumer preferences.
Yet, despite the hardships, Amina has not abandoned her craft. The loom remains a part of her life—not just as a means of income, but as a connection to her past and her identity.“There is knowledge in our hands,” she says, gently rubbing her fingers together as if recalling the texture of wool. “This is not something small. It deserves respect.”Her message extends beyond her own story. It is directed at other women like her—those who have inherited skills passed down through generations but now find themselves questioning their worth in a changing world.
“Don’t leave what you know,” she urges. “Even if it is difficult, even if it doesn’t give much right now. One day, it should matter again.”Amina’s journey is not marked by dramatic turns or sudden breakthroughs. It is defined instead by persistence—by the quiet, consistent effort of showing up each day and continuing despite uncertainty.In many ways, her story mirrors that of countless women whose contributions often remain unseen and undervalued.
They sustain households, preserve traditions, and adapt to circumstances without recognition or adequate support.As the festival continues and visitors move from stall to stall, Amina stands among them—not just as a job seeker, but as a representative of a fading yet deeply rooted craft.Her hands, shaped by years of weaving, tell a story that goes beyond carpets.
It is a story of resilience, of labour that often goes unnoticed, and of a strength that does not demand attention but quietly endures.In the end, Amina is not asking for sympathy. She is asking for something far more fundamental—acknowledgment.And perhaps, in listening to voices like hers, there is an opportunity to not only preserve a craft, but to restore the dignity of those who keep it alive.
