TAQWA SHAFI
SRINAGAR, Feb 17: For generations, the gentle warmth of the kangri defined winter in Kashmir. The small earthen firepot, filled with glowing embers and cradled in a finely woven wicker casing, was more than just a source of heat — it was a symbol of resilience against the Valley’s biting cold. Slipped discreetly beneath the traditional pheran, the kangri travelled with its owner from dawn to dusk, warming hands, feet and spirits alike. Entire families depended on it, and hundreds of artisans across Kashmir depended on crafting it for their livelihood.
Today, that intimate warmth is steadily being replaced by the uniform heat of hamams and electric heaters.
Hamams, once largely confined to mosques, shrines and a few affluent homes, have in recent decades become a common feature in private houses. Built beneath floors and fueled by firewood or electricity, they provide steady, room-wide warmth. In recent years, electric hamams and portable room heaters have further transformed winter living. They require little maintenance, produce no smoke and eliminate the risk of burns — all factors that make them attractive to modern households. For families able to bear the cost of installation and electricity, heated rooms offer a level of convenience the kangri cannot match.
But for the artisans who have shaped clay pots and woven wicker frames for decades, this transition has come at a heavy price.
In Bandipora, second-generation kangri maker Ghulam Nabi recalls a time when winters meant brisk business. Orders would pour in weeks before snowfall, and artisans would work tirelessly to meet demand. “We used to sell hundreds every winter,” he says, his voice tinged with disbelief at how quickly things have changed. “Now, if I manage to sell 30 or 40, it is considered good. Hamams and electric heaters have replaced most of our customers. People don’t carry kangris under their pherans anymore.”
The decline has not only reduced sales but also shaken the continuity of the craft itself. Abdul Hamid, an artisan from Srinagar, learned the skill from his father, as generations before him had done. Yet he sees little interest among his own children. “I learned this craft from my father, but my sons are not interested,” he says quietly. “They see that no one wants kangris now. Hamams give warmth without our work. It feels like years of our labor are being ignored.”
The financial strain is evident. Gulam Qadir Bhand, also from Bandipora, explains how prices have dropped sharply in a desperate attempt to attract buyers. “We once sold a kangri for ₹280. Now we are begging customers to buy it for ₹200 or even less. This winter, I have sold only 20 kangris. There are no buyers anymore,” he says. Faced with mounting expenses and shrinking returns, he is contemplating leaving the craft altogether. “I am thinking of switching to another business. We cannot survive like this.”
Retailers confirm the shift in consumer preference. Bashir Ahmad, who runs a household goods shop in Nowhatta, Srinagar, remembers winters when families purchased multiple kangris in preparation for the cold. “Earlier, every family bought several before winter,” he says. “Now they invest in hamams, electric hamams or room heaters. The kangri market is shrinking fast, and artisans are struggling to earn even a basic living.”
Even in rural areas, where high construction and electricity costs limit access to modern heating systems, reliance on kangris is no longer as strong as it once was. In parts of Kupwara, households still use them, but alternatives such as wood stoves and small heaters are increasingly preferred. “In our village, kangris are still used, but fewer people depend on them,” says Naseema, a resident. The gradual shift suggests that modernization is reaching even those communities that once clung firmly to tradition.
In an effort to adapt, some artisans have turned to crafting decorative kangris, adorned with intricate patterns and bright colors, marketed for weddings and special occasions. Mohammad Yousuf from Batmaloo in Srinagar says these designer pieces provide occasional sales, but not enough to sustain a family. “I can sell a few decorative kangris,” he explains. “But it does not cover our expenses. Hamams have made it very hard to survive only by making kangris.”
Beyond the economic implications lies a deeper concern: the erosion of cultural heritage. The kangri has long occupied a special place in Kashmir’s social and cultural life, referenced in poetry, folklore and daily conversation. It was once inseparable from the pheran, a pairing that defined winter identity in the Valley. Now, as electric warmth replaces ember heat, the kangri risks becoming more of a nostalgic artifact than a living tradition.
For artisans like Qadir, the change feels definitive. “Our traditional hamams and now electric systems have pushed craftsmen into other businesses,” he says. “We are forced to think of other work because there are no buyers left.”
In some homes, the kangri still glows softly beneath a pheran, carrying with it the scent of charcoal and memories of another era. But for the craftsmen who once shaped each piece by hand, that glow is fading — not just from living rooms, but from their livelihoods and from a tradition that once warmed the very heart of Kashmiri winter.
