https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Hqchvh1hQXk

In the bustling streets of Srinagar, the rise of electric buses threaten the rickshaws that have long sustained hundreds of families in Kashmir. Sanna Nisar and Kaif of Department of Journalism and Mass Communication, GCW M.A. Road dive into this unfolding crisis, capturing heartfelt stories from rickshaw drivers facing shrinking incomes and vanishing customers amid the push for greener transport. This poignant video explores the human cost of modernization in Kashmir, questioning whether old rickshaws would survive the electric revolution.

It’s a beautiful evening- the sun casts its warm, golden glow on the lush green grass of the meadow and makes it look absolutely ethereal and magical, as if the grass itself is glowing. I therefore stop seeing the sun.

There’s nothing else to be seen, just a long vast stretch of land covered with grass. Some wildflowers here and there give it a pop of color: pink, yellow, orange. The sky is a vast sea of blue in comparison. I therefore stop seeing the sky.

There are some people far-off in the distance. They are taking pictures of themselves. But the horizon seems like a perfect confluence of two worlds where everything is in harmony. I therefore stop seeing the people.

In the meadow, there are big, ugly transmission towers that carry electricity from a distant river to a distant city. But there are bugs buzzing over the wildflowers on the meadow floor. I therefore stop seeing the steel towers.

Along the narrow road that cuts right across the meadow, there are cars chugging along- white, grey, black- all drab and hideous. But I see a hoopoe looking for worms right in front of me. I therefore stop seeing the cars.

At the end of the meadows is a mountain range, and their snowcapped peaks look beautiful. I can feel the gentle breeze on my skin, and warmth of the sunlight making me realize that this is peace. Peace is in little moments of life, the ones that we have stopped seeing. I always come to this place whenever I want to take a step back from life and just exist. I then stop worrying about my problems.

The rising temperatures in Kashmir have become a major cause of worry. With winters getting warmer, and summers becoming unbearably hot, changing weather patterns have wreaked havoc with all walks of life in Kashmir. In this brief explainer, our students of PG Semester 2 explain the reasons behind these heatwaves. Watch on.

By: Sana Showkat and Snober Mehraj

November 28, 2024 – The journey of making a Samàwar starts with selecting premium copper or brass, known for their durability and shine. Skilled artisans then shape and engrave each piece, transforming it into a functional yet beautifully detailed vessel, ready to serve its purpose in homes and gatherings.

For generations, Ashiq Husain Khan and his family have been crafting Samàwars, blending artistry with tradition in each piece. However, as Ashiq points out, “Nowadays, everyone is drawn to government jobs, and no one wants to continue this craft. Even my younger ones aren’t interested in learning it. What was once an important part of our culture is now just a decorative item.” Another artisan, Mohammad Shafi, contrasts this by saying, “Despite the decline in making Samàwars, it can never completely vanish from our history, as it is a true symbol of Kashmiri identity.”

The first step in the process is preparing the raw material, which consists of flat copper sheets. These sheets are then shaped to form the various parts of the Samàwar.

A Samàwar takes four days to make and requires crafting 26 individual parts, such as the póng, heè, pèti, and thàp, each meticulously shaped and assembled to perfection.

Once the parts of the Samàwar are shaped, they are sent for engraving, where skilled artisans carve intricate designs onto the copper with great precision. Each section, including the head, body, and tail, is engraved separately, ensuring every detail is meticulously crafted. After the engraving is complete, the master artisan inspects the Samàwar, carefully removing any dents or imperfections to achieve a flawless finish. The parts are then dipped into acid (tezaab), a refining process that cleans and prepares them for the next stage of assembly, bringing the Samàwar one step closer to completion.

After the parts are refined, they are meticulously washed to ensure every detail shines with perfection. The washing process removes any remaining impurities and enhances the natural luster of the copper. Afterward, the cleaned components are carefully laid out and left to dry, allowing all moisture to evaporate completely. This step is crucial as it ensures the parts are fully set and ready for the next stage of assembly.

The parts of the Samàwar are polished to enhance their appearance and give them a refined finish. Then, all the prepared parts are carefully joined together and shaped into the body of the Samàwar, bringing the components together to create a nearly finished masterpiece.

Once finished, these Samàwars are delivered to shopkeepers, who carefully store them in transparent PVC covers to safeguard them from any potential damage.

The Samàwar, whether simple copper or intricately designed (Qandkaer), small or large, modern or traditional, holds a special place not only in Kashmiri households but also in the hearts of its people. Despite the rise of electric kettles and other modern appliances, the Samàwar remains deeply rooted in Kashmiri culture. As Tahira Begum, a resident of Hawal, Srinagar, shares, “On the second day of the daughter’s wedding, a Samàwar filled with almonds, cardamom, and saffron is sent to her in-laws as kàhwa khabar.” Recalling her own experience, she adds, “When my daughter got married, I made sure the Samàwar I sent was polished and filled with the finest ingredients because it’s not just a gift but a reflection of our love and traditions.” This enduring custom symbolizes warmth and hospitality, making the Samàwar a cherished emblem of Kashmiri heritage passed down through generations.

Historical Legacy of Gun-Making

The craft of gun-making in Kashmir traces its origins to the Dogra rule during the mid-19th century. In 1848, Maharaja Gulab Singh recognized the mechanical skills of the residents of Bandook Khar Mohalla, describing them as “engineers by profession.” British gunsmiths trained the locals under the Maharaja’s guidance. By 1944, Maharaja Hari Singh introduced a formal system for gun ownership and documentation.

In 1962, the Government of India mandated that all guns manufactured in Jammu and Kashmir be tested at Ishapore, West Bengal, to meet official parameters. This regulation forced many local factories to close. Of the 15 gun factories in the area, only two survived: the Subhana Gun Factory (established in 1925) and the Zaroo Gun Factory (established in 1940).

Nasir Ahmad, one of the owners of Subhana Gun Factory, recounts:
”In 1962, we had to send six guns for testing but initially forgot to include the documents. The guns didn’t meet the government’s parameters, but the factory stood strong despite the setback.”

Decline of a Craft

The Wildlife Protection Act of 1978 dealt the first major blow to the industry, banning hunting and significantly reducing the demand for guns. The situation worsened during the political unrest in 1989, when gun factories were temporarily shut down, leaving owners and workers in dire straits.
In 2016, the Arms Act imposed stricter guidelines, making it nearly impossible to acquire individual gun licenses. Although gun manufacturing remains legally permitted, the ban on purchasing firearms has rendered the trade unsustainable.

“The current policies allow manufacturing but ban purchases. This leaves us helpless,” laments Ahmad.

Skill and Legacy

Despite its challenges, the artistry of Kashmiri gunsmiths has been widely acknowledged. Walter Lawrence, the author of The Valley of Kashmir, praised their craftsmanship, noting:
”The well-known gunsmiths can turn out good guns and rifles, replacing parts so skillfully that it is difficult to distinguish between Kashmiri and English workmanship.”

The craft’s survival owes much to artisans who repair and enhance guns with intricate hand-carved walnut gun butts, a signature feature of Kashmiri gun-making.

Government Initiatives

In 2023, the PM Vishwakarma Yojana was launched to support traditional craftsmen, including gunsmiths. The scheme provides:

• Armourer certifications.
• Toolkits worth ₹15,000.
• Loans of up to ₹3,00,000 with a 5% interest rate.
• Training programs, including a six-day drill and an advanced 15-day course, during which artisans receive ₹500 daily.

However, local gunsmiths argue that these measures are insufficient without the issuance of individual gun licenses. “In the entire Kashmir Valley, only nine gunsmiths remain. Youngsters avoid this profession as it doesn’t offer financial stability. Without serious administrative steps, this industry will vanish,” warns Ahmad.

A Fading Tradition

The once-thriving factories, bustling with activity, now lie silent and outdated. Despite holding industrial registrations, these facilities were never converted into industrial estates. Artisans like Javid Ahmad Ahangar continue working on single-barrel guns, but with minimal hope for revival.
Showkat Ahmad, who left the trade to repair electrical equipment, expresses his grief:
”For generations, my family made guns. Out of 15 factories, only two remain. I had to leave the trade to support my family, but gun-making runs in my blood.”

Zareef Ahmad Zareef, a Kashmiri poet and historian, echoes these sentiments:
”The uncertain situation in Kashmir has led to scrutiny and harassment of gunsmiths. The violence has caused the decline of many traditional vocations, including this one.”

Lasjan, a developing area in Srinagar (south) tehsil, located 7.23 kilometres from the city centre, is home to various rock-making, sand, and other construction mills. Beneath the bypass flyover lies a mix of residential areas, including multiple slum communities.

According to the Detailed Project Report (DPR) under Rajiv Awaz Yojna (RAY), Srinagar has around 18,000 households across 77 slum pockets, with over 52 percent of the state’s slum population residing in the district. These informal housing clusters, often along highways, are predominantly inhabited by the service population.

The slum communities in Lasjan are part of this broader demographic, with most residents engaged in garbage picking, especially plastic waste. These communities have endured decades of living in extreme unhygienic conditions due to a lack of basic facilities. This photo essay captures the daily lives of these resilient individuals, from children playing in contaminated environments to families cooking meals amidst squalor.

Shabir Ahmed Khan, a local slum resident originally from West Bengal, has been living in Lasjan for the past 25 years. For survival, he and his community rely on garbage picking. “We are forced to live in these conditions for survival,” Shabir explains.

“We don’t even have proper water facilities like taps, and the hygiene conditions are especially dire during rainfall,” he further added. This stark reality underscores the daily struggles faced by these residents.

Due to financial constraints, the children in this particular slum don’t go to school. Instead, they stay at home and help their parents earn a living.

Others living in the slum say that although there is a lack of other amenities and hygiene, they have adapted to living like this now.

The head of a family residing in this particular slum, Manan Ahmed, shared that they don’t have many complaints about the living conditions. ‘We have been living here for years, through changes in administration and facilities, but we are content.”

Residents of the well-off houses in Lasjan help those in the slums by providing clean water from their taps. “We tell them to take water from taps around and also provide them with other essentials like food, etc.,” said Waqas Ahmed, a local resident.

Despite living in extremely unhygienic conditions, which would be intolerable for many city dwellers, the slum residents are grateful for the basic facilities they have. Now, there is an urgent need for their proper rehabilitation, providing them with essential facilities, and integrating them with respect into society.

By: Amaan Rasheed, Nazakat Aslam, and Faria Bhat

Srinagar, June 28, 2024  — Shakeel Ahmad Khan, a 58-year-old man, stands in his dimly lit workshop, surrounded by the fading aroma of paint and the remnants of his once-thriving business. His fingers, once skillful and confident, now move slowly over the last hand-painted board he might ever create.

“I’ve been in this field since childhood,” Khan reflects, his voice laced with both pride and sorrow. “This is more than just work to me; it’s my identity.”

History and Decline of this Art Form

Kashmir has long been renowned for its vibrant visual arts, where Urdu, English, and Persian languages beautifully converge on hand-painted boards. These durable boards, often made of wood or metal, feature meticulously painted scripts and motifs that represent the diverse culture of Kashmir. Beyond serving as practical signage, they are cultural artefacts that hold great significance in the community, symbolising the region’s unique identity and artistic heritage.

Today, however, the advent of digital printing is swiftly pushing this traditional craft towards extinction. Modern techniques offer speed and cost-efficiency, but at the expense of individuality and the artistic touch.

Artist’s Perspective

Khan’s journey began when he went to Delhi to hone his skills, before returning to Kashmir to continue the tradition of hand-painted advertising.

In 1984, he, along with a friend, established Do Bhai Advertisers. “I named this place Do Bhai because my friend and I started it together. Though we chose different paths later, the name stayed,” he recalls.

In the golden days of his business, Khan made thousands of hand-painted boards every year. “Each of them (board) was a piece of art, and was crafted with care and creativity,” Khan says.

The boards used to stand out so much that they became landmarks in their own right. “They were cherished by the community for their unique beauty and personal touch,” he adds.

But now, with the advent of faster, cheaper digital printing, Khan remains deeply concerned about the future of his craft. “Any board could be my last hand-painted one,” he says with a touch of sadness. “In today’s fast-paced world, no one has the time to appreciate art. Each piece I create might be the last of its kind.”

The Impact of Modern Technology

The rise of digital printing has significantly affected artisans like Khan. “We had exceptional artists who worked globally, but with the introduction of flex boards, their talents went silent,” he explains. Mass production using machines has led to job losses and a sense of purposelessness among artisans.

Local Perspective

Ridhwan Shafi, a 27-year-old engineer and former type designer, remembers the hand-painted boards fondly. “Growing up, I walked through the Bund near Polo View in Srinagar, captivated by signs of handicraft shops like ‘Suffering Moses.’ These signs were functional but also added a unique charm to the road,” he says.

Shafi believes digital prints, while convenient, lack the personal touch and individuality of hand-painted signs. “Each hand-painted board is a labour of love, showcasing the artist’s creativity and skill. Printed boards are standardised and impersonal, leading to a cultural loss,” he adds.

Efforts to Preserve the Heritage

Despite the challenges, efforts are underway to preserve this endangered art form. Kashmir Type Hunt (KTH), an open community project, aims to preserve and promote traditional Kashmiri design.

Co-founded by Waqar Qamri, Shariq Shah, and Waseeq Mir, three young designers, the initiative seeks to safeguard the visual heritage of Kashmir.

“The main idea was to preserve our visual heritage,” Qamri says. “In Kashmir, you see Nastaleek and Naskh scripts alongside Devanagari and Latin. Each artist brings their unique style to the boards, reflecting our rich cultural heritage.”

Building an Archive

KTH is creating an online library where anyone can upload photos of hand-painted signs, allowing the community to contribute to the preservation effort. “It acts as an open source library for anyone to use for their projects, research, or just to have a look at it,” Qamri explains.

Apart from this, KTH also organises walks throughout Kashmir on a regular basis. ” Our typewalks offer an immersive journey through Kashmir’s visual heritage, educating participants and documenting the unique typefaces that narrate our region’s story,” says Qamri.

Engaging the Community and Overcoming Challenges

“We utilise Instagram, a website, and a Discord channel to connect to our audience,” Waqar says. However, explaining their work to locals and police during ‘type walks’ has been challenging. “We had to clarify and simplify it as a project.”

Despite these hurdles, the community’s response has been largely positive, and the initiative has gained significant traction. Presenting their work at Typographics NYC has been a notable achievement for the KTH team. “It was amazing to introduce Kashmir’s design to a global audience,” Qamri shares. “They genuinely appreciated our work.”

Looking ahead, Qamri and his team plan to further support the craft by commissioning hand-painted sign creators to design typefaces that can be digitised and sold. “This will not only help preserve the art form but also provide a new revenue stream for the artists,” he adds.

The Road Ahead

The future of hand-painted boards in Kashmir remains uncertain. While digital and flex boards dominate the market, the efforts of preservationists like Kashmir Type Hunt offer a glimmer of hope.

Shakeel Ahmad Khan’s reflections underscore the urgency of these efforts: “If there’s no immediate intervention from stakeholders, this art form will become nothing more than a memory.”

Yet, the passion and dedication of those who value this art form may still keep it alive for future generations.

As Shakeel stands in his workshop, surrounded by the tools of his trade, he remains a symbol of resilience and hope. “No matter how things change,” he says quietly, almost to himself, “there will always be a place for the beauty of hand-painted art in my heart.”