Falak Bilal
Srinagar, Apr 20: In a modest workshop tucked away in the Raiteng area of Srinagar, time seems to move differently. Here, there is no rush, no noise of machines—only the faint glimmer of silver and the quiet concentration of a man who has spent most of his life perfecting an art that few now practice.
“People see jewellery,” he says softly, without looking up. “But for us, it is time, patience, and generations of learning woven together.”
But the beauty of the craft lies not just in its detail, but in its discipline.
“You cannot hurry this work,” Tariq explains. “If your hand shakes even slightly, the entire piece can be ruined. It teaches you patience before anything else.”
Born into a family of artisans, Tariq inherited the craft from his father, who learned it from his grandfather. At one time, Filigree workshops were a common sight across the Kashmir Valley, and the craft enjoyed steady demand from both local buyers and tourists.
Today, that landscape has changed dramatically.
The narrow lanes that once echoed with the quiet industry of Filigree artisans have grown silent. Many workshops have shut down, and younger generations are reluctant to continue a profession that offers uncertain income.
“There was a time when we didn’t have to think twice before making a piece,” Tariq recalls. “We knew it would sell. Now, I only work when there is an order. Otherwise, it is too risky.”
The reasons are many. Machine-made jewellery, cheaper alternatives, and changing consumer tastes have all contributed to the decline. What takes days—or even weeks—to create by hand can now be replicated quickly at a fraction of the cost.
“Customers ask for lower prices,” he says. “But how do you reduce the price of something that already demands so much effort?”
Despite these challenges, Tariq has not put down his tools.
Instead, he is trying to adapt.
On a small tray beside him lie unfinished pieces—earrings shaped like Chinar leaves, pendants inspired by traditional Kashmiri boats, and experimental patterns that blend old techniques with new ideas.
“If we keep making only the old designs, people may lose interest,” he says. “I want to bring something of Kashmir into every piece—something that feels alive and connected to today.”
For Tariq, innovation is not about abandoning tradition, but about sustaining it.
“Change is necessary,” he says. “Otherwise, this art will disappear quietly, and no one will even notice.”
Craft experts warn that Filigree is at a critical point. Without sustained demand, institutional support, or renewed interest from younger artisans, the craft risks fading into obscurity.
Yet, in his small workshop, there is still a sense of resistance—a refusal to let go.
As Tariq carefully places another thread of silver into position, the design slowly begins to emerge, fragile yet precise. It is work that cannot be rushed, cannot be replicated by machines in spirit, and cannot be learned overnight.
“This is not just my livelihood,” he says after a pause. “It is my responsibility. If I stop, a part of our history stops with me.”
Outside, the city moves on—busy, modern, and fast-changing. Inside, a man continues to stretch silver into stories, holding onto a legacy that grows thinner with each passing year, yet refuses to break.
