If the artisan world ever had its ‘born with a silver spoon,’ it was Abdul Wahid — not affluent, but raised in comfort, his life cushioned against the hardships that many weavers endured. He had a comparatively stable life compared to his fellow weavers. His parents always dreamt of him serving as a government officer, living a life of honour and respect like a few of his cousins already did. But Abdul Waheed had different plans. His heart was never aligned with office work — he believed it was robotic. He was a born artist who found rhythm not in paperwork but in the clanking of handlooms, where Pashmina was woven thread by thread and emotions took form.

Against his parents’ wishes, Abdul Waheed started weaving Pashmina shawls at a young age — playfully at first. It wasn’t a career, just something he enjoyed doing. His hands were so naturally proficient at weaving that time at the loom felt like play. He worked casually, confident in his gift, earning enough for himself and assuming this would be his life’s path. Little did he know this art would soon teach him lessons of a lifetime.

Then came the power looms. Suddenly, as Abdul Waheed entered the workshop one morning, his companions told him there were no orders. “As if it happened almost overnight,” he says. At just 22, a carefree, full-of-life artisan was told not to come anymore — orders had stopped. Some of his peers shifted to other jobs; some joined the power-loom factories. But Abdul Waheed refused, especially after learning that those machine-made shawls were adulterated with nylon and silk.

While other artisans quit or waited hopelessly for work, Abdul felt burdened with purpose. “Overnight, handmade Pashmina began collapsing under the weight of machine-made imitations. And I, who always took pride in the imperfections of the handmade, watched perfection roll out of steel looms — lifeless, soulless, and cheap,” he says.

Abdul did not give up. “I tried to protest, took help from senior weavers, spoke about authenticity and heritage,” he recalls. But his words were drowned in the noise of modernization. “No one cared,” he adds, his eyes reflecting memories heavier than words. That moment became a turning point in his life. A young man who once wove out of leisure now wove out of defiance. His shawls became a silent rebellion.

Determined, he travelled outside Kashmir — to small trade fairs — carrying his handmade shawls and explaining to customers what real Pashmina was. While a few appreciated the authenticity, most chose the fake, machine-mixed versions that were cheaper and available in bulk. Fast fashion had taken over; authentic craft began to feel like a burden instead of pride.

His optimism began to fade. “There were days when I sat at my loom and wondered if I was weaving for no one,” he admits. His love for the craft remained unshaken, but his faith in its future faltered.

Then came Pashmsutra. At a small fair in Delhi, we met Abdul Waheed. What started as a casual conversation became a companionship. We both wanted the world to know about the real Pashmina — the original threads that come from the Changthangi goat of Ladakh and are manually processed in Kashmir. We valued his honesty, his skill, and his devotion to the craft. “Pashmsutra reminded me that true art never fades. It only waits for the right eyes to see it,” he says with a proud smile.

Today, Abdul Wahid is one of Pashmsutra’s most trusted artisans. His looms sing again — not out of rebellion, but out of peace. He now mentors young weavers, teaching them not just technique, but philosophy: the belief that handmade art holds emotion, patience, and purpose. As he often tells his students,

“Machines can make fabric, but only a human heart can make Pashmina.”

Not every artisan inherits the loom from his forefathers. Some forge their own route, driven solely by their passion. With eighteen years of expertise, Firdous Ahmed Dar belongs to the latter group. There was no ancestral loom waiting for him, and he had no family history of weaving. Yet, as a teenager, he found himself enthralled by the beauty of Pashmina, and that love became the defining force of his life.

When Firdous initially learned about weaving, he was just fifteen years old. Still in school, he was captivated by the sight of a master artisan at work in his hometown, and it enthralled him. Something in him was aroused by the loom's rhythm and the way fiber was turned into cloth. But his parents didn't encourage him. They urged that he complete his education, and as domestic financial strain increased, Firdous was forced to quickly give up on formal education entirely. But the love for Pashmina had already taken root in his heart.

In an effort to study, Firdous started travelling five kilometers each morning and evening to the same master craftsman's classes. He never missed a day—rain or shine, even when sick, he was always present. His commitment was quickly noted by his teacher, who eventually asked him to work with him because of his perseverance and quick learning. This allowed him to advance more quickly than others. It was an absolute dream come true for Firdous.

However, dreams collided with harsh realities. The introduction of the power loom rocked the world of Pashmina hand weaving just as his skill was blooming. Earnings decreased, orders decreased, and both students and teachers experienced difficulties. However, they continued to practice the skill. “We were happy even if we only got one order a month,” remembers Firdous. “Because we were weaving for the art itself, not for financial gain.”

Soon his friends became laborers, drivers, and quick earners. His family too pressured him to leave the loom. Firdous, however, held on to it with a devotion that few could comprehend. He mumbles, “There were nights when I slept on the weaving room floor. I occasionally dreamed about the future of Pashmina fiber while I slept with it in my hands.” His loyalty turned into a source of solace and hardship, tying him to an uncertain tomorrow.

A few years later, Firdous and the world of Pashmina received a significant blow. His teacher passed away, giving birth to a profound loss. Even then, Firdous could not allow the art to perish either. He persisted, continuing to weave shawls with the same tenacity that had seen him through years of adversity.

It was during this period that we discovered him. We could see by looking at his shawls that his hands were incredibly skilled and unique. We saw in him a custodian of tradition as much as a weaver. Firdous was just as surprised to find us. “I never considered working for an organization,” he admitted. “Most deal only with machine-made shawls. However, you and I are alike.” That marked the start of a collaboration based on shared principles.

Today, seven years later, Firdous is regarded as one of our most exceptional craftspeople. His hands effortlessly move with such ease and speed that he can finish a sturdy shawl in three days — remarkable in the Pashmina community. To see him weave is to see the embodiment of passion: a craftsman who preserved a centuries-old art form by choosing the loom over comfort.

“Have I been weaving Pashmina or has it been weaving me,” says Ghulam Ahmed, a 48-year-old Pashmina weaver with 30 years of experience. Ghulam Ahmed started at a tender age of 16. Since then, he has learned weaving like an artist born to the loom. “I often wonder if my fingers remember more than my mind does. They still move in rhythm, even when I sleep. It is as if the loom calls out to them from the darkness,” he says.

Ghulam Ahmed hails from Budgam, an area well known for its Pashmina shawls, especially Kani shawls. Kani weaving is the most intricate form of Pashmina weaving and takes years to master. Yet artisans like him have never felt burdened by repetition. “On the contrary, we wait for the sun to rise so that we can touch dreamy-soft Pashmina shawls and begin the day’s work. It is not a job — it is a hobby, a passion, and a dream of our ancestors,” says a proud Ghulam Ahmed.

In the earlier days, when Ghulam was still training with his father and grandfather, their house echoed with the soft tak-tak-tak of looms — the heartbeat of artisans. His father, grandfather, uncles, and even neighbours all wove together in one single room. The air smelled of warmth and wool. But one fateful day, it all stopped. Power looms arrived.

Pure Pashmina shawls take days to complete if they are solid. Kani shawls with full designs — Kani Jamawar — can take up to six years. But the heartless machines could do all the work in a few hours. Artisan hands that took weeks to prepare a shawl were replaced by machines that did it in fifteen minutes. Markets shifted overnight. Orders vanished. “We would hardly get one shawl a month,” recalls Ghulam.

“I still remember that winter when my loom stayed silent for the first time,” says a teary-eyed Ghulam Ahmed. “My wife tried to light the room with candles and warm it with a bukhari, but our eyes could still feel the cold darkness.” There were times when artisans like him faced food shortages, because Pashmina making was the only skill they had. Some sold their household items; others sold their Pashmina shawls piece by piece just to buy food and clothes. It was a haunting time for spinners, weavers, and embroiderers.

Thankfully, Pashmsutra discovered this highly skilled artisan just when he was on the brink of quitting. We shared his belief — that Pashmina is real only when it is handmade. Artisans had almost forgotten this, but we reminded them that there are still patrons of true Pashmina craftsmanship. We acquired pure Pashm from Ladakh and handed it to Ghulam Ahmed. As he began weaving it, we saw in him the same youthful energy and passion that had defined his early years.

Artisans like Ghulam Ahmed deserve recognition and more opportunities so they can bring the real Pashmina to the world. Shawls adulterated with silk or sheep wool might be alluring, but they can never replace the artistry of true handmade craft. Today, Ghulam Ahmed pauses — not because he is tired, but because he is grateful. His home once again echoes with the familiar clanking of looms, and the air smells of wool and warmth.

“May this art never fall silent again.”

Ghulam Hassan still remembers this saying of his father, as he weaves the magically delicate threads of Pashmina. This immensely experienced artisan, who has been working with Pashmsutra for 10 years now, has 35 years of experience. He was just 22 when he started. Trained by his own father and uncle, Ghulam Hassan says that he can weave Pashmina with his eyes closed. But such proficiency and skill did not come easy. Ghulam Hassan has to go through unforgettable challenges and difficulties in his life.

It was the late 1980s, when Ghulam Hassan had already imbibed everything his father taught him. From 1985, he was weaving shawls in the most expertly fashion. He poured his heart and soul into Pashmina shawl weaving. “Receiving pure Pashm threads from Ladakh was the best thing that would happen”, he says. “I would desperately wait for the suppliers to bring me handspun threads so that I could touch them, and start working on them”, he added. The sound of loom at their home was the sound of ultimate respect, and as people would walk by, they would turn heads to the clanking sound of handlooms. Pashmina making was respected and artisans were honoured the most.

This reverence did not last long. As soon as the early 90s arrived, producers introduced power looms. Power looms were machines used to weave Pashmina shawls, which obviously took less time and produced more. Now, this would have been a feat in the Pashmina industry. Instead it was a disaster. Pure Pashmina threads could not bear the stress of the power looms and would tear immediately when in contact with the machine. So producers mixed nylon or sheep wool in Pure Pashmina threads, and passed it through the power looms successfully. This gave more Pashmina shawls in less time, but all were a mixed variety. These shawls were sold at a cheap price, and unfortunately commoners fell for it. Markets were filled with shawls that looked like Pashmina but were not. They were cheap, quick, and careless. Customers no longer cared whether it was genuine or not.

“I still remember the pain of those years. My earnings went so low that at one point I couldn't even afford books for my kids. My wife started selling household items, one after the other, to keep kids fed”, says a teary eyed Ghulam Hasan. Power looms had taken over, and no one had the patience to wait for a handmade shawl which took months to complete. “Machine shawls were ready in days, why would women wait for months”, he adds. As a result, Ghulam Hassan’s elder son gave up weaving Pashminas. He took up a labour job at a construction company to make ends meet.

“My elder son took responsibility and days got better. But what would cut me like a knife was my empty loom. I would stare at it for hours, unable to work on it due to less demand for handmade shawls. “At times, I would receive an order for one shawl a month. This would fetch a few hundreds. As a result, many of my friends abandoned the work and took up other work. I was close to doing the same”, he says

Pashmsutra has been a ray of light. For the first time in years, he felt hope. Our team went to Ghulam Hassan with genuine Pashm from Ladakh, checked and certified. We just needed his skill. “You did not bargain, as that would humiliate my skill. Instead, you gave me steady work, and with that, my dignity returned”, he happily said.

Today, Ghulam Hassan feels alive again. His craft has meaning. As long as someone values real Pashmina, he will not give up, even at the age of 60. For artisans like Ghulam Hassan, Pashmina is not just fabric - it is their struggle, survival, and soul.

At 63, Ghulam Mohammad Kota carries within him half a century of devotion - fifty years of weaving, dreaming, and enduring for Pashmina - the art that shaped his life. Ghulam Mohammad, the younger brother of the renowned Wali Mohammed Kota, grew up listening to the gentle rhythm of his elder brother’s loom. The threads captivated him - their softness, their silence, their strength. Imitation soon became devotion, and before he knew it, Ghulam too was living and breathing Pashmina.

The charm of Pashmina swept this family in their childhood. Ghulam Mohammad’s brother started teaching him the loom's secrets when he was just 13 years old. These lessons were lived, felt, and spoken; they were never formally taught. Wali would lead his hands and demonstrate for him how to feel the pulse of the thread, listen to the wool, and detect tension. "My brother taught me to weave with patience and love, not with pride," Ghulam Mohammad continues to explain.

The two brothers had a destiny in common, in addition to a craft. Together, they experienced the illustrious era when Pashmina was Kashmir's pride and a sought-after, elegant symbol that was prized by patrons and royalty worldwide. However, the loom's music started to fade with the advent of power looms and cheap imitations. Orders ceased to flow in. Customers preferred fake, quicker, and less expensive options. A lot of weavers gave up on their art. The Kota brothers, however, do not.

Ghulam Mohammad had no intention of abandoning the loom. He persisted despite his kids moving away from the art and into contemporary occupations. He would walk to his older brother's house during the long winters when there was little work and no hope. The two would sit by the loom for hours, not always weaving - sometimes just talking, reminiscing about the golden days when their shawls travelled to Delhi, London, and beyond. He recalls, "The loom was our companion. When no one else was listening, it did." Two elderly artisans, clinging to threads that no one appeared to want anymore, in a silent world, made those years lonely. Their hearts, however, never lost hope that Pashmina would rediscover its light.

Pashmsutra was the manifestation of the light. The team at Pashmsutra was moved to tears when they met the brothers and heard about their story. Where most would have given up, their passion for the art had endured. They received freshly gathered, unadulterated Ladakhi Pashm from Pashmsutra's own collection centers in Ladakh. It was delicate, raw, and full of promise. The brothers went back to their looms the very next day. With a whisper, Ghulam remarked, "We felt alive again."

Today, both brothers weave for Pashmsutra; getting paid on a monthly basis. Their shawls travel across the world, cherished by patrons who understand what handmade truly means. The Kota brothers receive bulk orders. Yet, they never complain of being tired, even after working long hours. With the warmth of love and the weight of years, each piece they produce seems more soulful than the one before it.

Pashmina weaving was never a job for Ghulam Mohammad Kota. He saw Pashmina as an identity, solace, and spirituality. It is in his heart, not just in his hands. And every time the loom sings beneath his touch, it’s as if he is weaving not just fabric, but hope itself.

At 65, Ghulam Nabi Rather’s fingers still dance to the rhythm of the loom. He works slowly, as Pashmina demands, and steadily fills his art works with stories that span decades. His loom might be the oldest when compared to his companions. Its wood might creak a bit more and look withered, but the shawls it produces are better than all the shawls produced from his village. With 35 years of experience, his hands have developed a memory of their own. They move instinctively across the loom, weaving patterns even without his eyes guiding them. The threads hum, and make a melody that has been his companion since he gained conscience.

Born in the narrow lanes of the picturesque area of Budgam, Ghulam Nabi did not have a very secure childhood. He acquired little wealth from his father, but a deep legacy. After his father passed away when he was just 15, he carried his work on. When he first began, he didn’t weave Pashmina out of passion or as a profession, but simply to carry forward his father’s legacy. Yet, over time, he developed an extraordinary love for the art. “My mother’s patience and my father’s unfinished dream of carrying the legacy of Pashmina around the world gave me hope and strength. That’s how my hands learned perfection - even on days when my body was too weak to follow.

Years passed and Ghulam Nabi grew more passionate about the art of weaving Pashmina. He would wake up to the sound of the morning prayer and start his day as early as he could, hooked to the loom. Now, weaving wasn’t a profession but a passion. He would sit by the window sipping tea, and weaving warps and wefts of Pure Ladakhi Pashmina threads, watching the sun set as shawls took form.

But time, as it does, did not remain the same. In the late 90s and early 2000s, power looms entered the valley. The machines could produce pashmina shawls in minutes, contrary to the age-old techniques where shawls took weeks or even years to complete. But because pure Pashmina couldn't bear the stress of the power looms, manufacturers mixed nylon, silk or sheep wool with Pashmina and sold it as pure. People actually fell for this, as they believed they got the same shawls at cheaper rates.

This was the worst blow for artisans. They received lesser orders. Traders grew richer day by day and artisans couldn't even afford food. The art of Pashmina lost its identity. Looms became a burden for artisans. They stood in dim corners, occupying space and returning the weary gazes of those who once created magic with them. “There were months when I did not afford firewood to warm my family, as the only skill I had was no longer required”, says Ghulam Nabi. “There were full months of total silence and even the warmest threads on earth felt cold”, he adds.

For a few years artisans tried to protest against the loom. But when their families suffered, all they could do was quit weaving Pashmina. Some took other jobs, while a few, in desperation, joined traders who used power looms. However, Ghulam Nabi wasn't one of them. “The threads would forget my touch if I left them”, he used to tell his wife. Call it hope or blind faith, but this artisan knew that one day the glory of handwoven Pashmina would be restored. Until he met the team of Pashmsutra.

Just one meeting with this artisan and we knew we had found a gem. He spoke about Pashmina shawls like a love interest. “Weaving shawls gave me dignity, and I would resume at the faintest sign from the universe”, he said softly, unaware that the sign had already found him. Today, it has been 10 years with Ghulam Nabi, and we have not seen such artistry and precision in any work as his. He gets a regular salary, fair wages, and most of all respect for his work. “I no longer weave in darkness. Every shawl I make finds a home somewhere far away”, he says

Now, as his grandsons sit beside him sometimes, his eyes shine, as he narrates stories about Pashmina, his own struggle and the days he found his lost identity back. “The sound of the shuttle will never die after all”, he tells them

Javed Ahmed Kota - a 35 year old master Pashmina weaver - has devoted 15 long years to the intricate art of weaving Pashmina shawls. For him, weaving isn't just a job but a passion which ignited inside him when he was just 8 years old. It was under the gentle guidance of his school teacher, who also happened to be a close neighbour. It was him who first recognised the young boy’s talent as he would sometimes ask Javed to do little tasks at home. Javed says that he was just 10 when he assisted his teacher to mount Pashmina threads on a handloom. “I remember the first time I touched the soft threads of Pashmina. It was like holding a piece of heritage in my hands,” he recalls with a wistful smile.

But Javed’s story isn't as simple as it seems. By the time he was just 12, the winds of change had already swept through the Pashmina industry. Machines began to dominate the markets spinning and weaving shawls faster, cheaper and in mass quantities. Handmade shawls began vanishing from the markets even after ruling generations in the past. These were replaced by machine made shawls which lacked the emotion and finesse that handmade shawls had. As a result, many of his fellow weavers gave up weaving, unable to sustain themselves and their families. As markets no longer cared about the hard work of artisans, many turned to labor, construction, and other easier means to make a living

Yet, Javed never gave up. He continued weaving in silence, and secretly hoping that one day the lost glory would come back. Many advised him to follow his friends and that it was foolish to continue, but he never stopped. “Deep inside, I always knew that true art could never be replaced by machines. I had this strong and unshakable belief that the value of handwoven Pashmina would one day be recognized again”, Javed says

For so many years, Javed worked in obscurity. Wages were meager, orders were scanty, often limited to one or two shawls per month. Even then, he never lost hope. Every thread he wove still carried his love and emotion for the art. “Even when this work paid me low wages, I would never compromise on quality. My shawls would still be the best quality, with each thread being a sign of perseverance, and each warp and weft carrying his passion. My shawls are stories that I tell without using words”, Javed says, his eyes gleaming with pride.

Seven years ago, in 2019, Javed efforts finally bore fruits. A team from Pashmsutra recognised his mastery, precision and his unmatched work. His choice of colours, his blending techniques and the swiftness in his weaving caught our attention, and we realised he isn't creating shawls, but living art forms. The way he breathes life into plain shawls is remarkable.

Since then, his life changed and he is able to sustain himself and his family of 5. “I still cannot believe that once I waited with hope for even one shawl order, and presently, I receive bulk orders,” he shares, his voice tinged with gratitude. This has encouraged Javed even more and he approaches his loom with more dedication and passion. But, despite the new recognition and success, he remains grounded. His focus doesn't shift from work, and still carries the same emotion that he did as a little boy of 10. “It is not just work for me; it is a prayer,” he says

Javed’s journey is a reminder that true artisanship cannot be rushed or replicated. It is born from patience, passion, and an unwavering commitment to tradition.

There are stories where fate intervenes in strange, dramatic ways. Mehraj Dar’s journey with Pashmina isn't any different.

For more than 25 years, Mehraj has been a Pashmina weaver. He was born and raised in tufts of soft Ladakhi wool, the soft hum of handlooms being his lullaby, nurturing him with delicate wraps and wefts. His father was a weaver too, and as a young boy, Mehraj would crawl into his lap, and just babble the talim (coded version of the weave) playfully. As he outgrew his father’s lap, he did not forget the loom. Now he would sit beside his father and try hard to learn how the finest fibre threads are being woven into complete shawls.

“But life doesn't usually stay kind to dreamers”, he says. In the late 90s and early 2000s, power looms swept across the entire alley of Kashmir. All artisans, including Mehraj received a huge blow, like their craft. Markets were flooded with cheap imitations, all pretending to be pure. But sadly, only the expert hands could tell the difference between pure Pashmina shawls and fake ones. Commoners easily fell for the trick. Artisans, who were once praised highly for their work, lost their identity. Shawls they handmade for months together would have to be sold for pennies. It was just the fast produced machine made pieces that customers wanted.

Mehraj soon began to question his own worth. He questioned his art, his skill and even the entire being of Pashmina. Was it ever worth it? The loom that would wake the entire village up stood covered with dust in a corner - a dark reminder of the past. When conditions became even worse, he was on the verge of selling his loom. “I remember sitting beside it one evening and thinking to myself, maybe this is it, I should sell it off and move on”, he says. But something or the other stopped him. Finally, after a few months, he decided to quit the art of weaving. His heart was heavy, but he had made up his mind after spending weeks in deliberation.

Then came an unexpected phone call.

It was Mehraj’s childhood friend who had not been in contact with Mehraj for several years. After learning that Mehraj is on the verge of quitting, he told him about Pashmsutra. “Fayaz said, it's not just you who wants the revival of Pure Pashmina shawls. There is someone else desperately working on it”, says Mehraj. His eyes had lit up with hope, as he asked his friend to help. Knowing Mehraj’s unparalleled skill, Fayaz reached out to our team and told us about “a weaver who was losing hope, but whose hands could still perform magic.”

On the day our team visited him, he was hired. It was actually magic that spanned his shawls. The intricate motifs (on Kani shawls), the precision, the speed and the dedication with which he worked was worth watching. One could see him weaving the entire day without losing interest. His hands came alive as soon as they touched the loom. His fingers danced with the loom, with familiarity, with love.

As soon as we handed him pure Ladakhi Pashm, his eyes were filled with tears, as if meeting a lost loved one. Just two days later, a solid shawl was ready! Soft, warm and full of emotion. We didn't need another word and immediately offered him regular work and salary. This was the beginning of a new start for him, as well as us. This was five years ago.

Today, Mehraj works as a full time employee, receiving monthly salary and long lost value for his art pieces. Every time we visit him, there is the rhythmic clanking of handlooms, the whistle of the kettle and the soft laughter of a man who finally found his way home. It is as he says

“Darkness does turn into light, and despair can be followed by purpose. It just a ray of hope that differentiates survival from surrender”

At 70 years old, Muhammad Akbar Dar, is a living archive of Pashmina history rather than just a weaver. He started weaving at the age of 20, and by the time he was 25, he had already gained the title of "master." Today after 45 years of experience, he is the master of masters. Akbar witnessed Pashmina in all of its incarnations during his lifetime, from the glittering peaks of grandeur when it was regarded as a king's treasure to the agonizing troughs when machines threatened to obliterate this age-old craft's identity.

Akbar's talent took him further beyond Kashmir's valleys. His skill at the loom was so extraordinary that he was invited to various parts of the world to showcase his craft. Foreign artisans admired his mastery and wished to learn from him. A number of nations even extended permanent residency offers to him, guaranteeing him a stable future in exchange for sharing his expertise. However, Akbar's response was consistent: he wanted to remain at home, serve his people, and weave Pashmina where it truly belonged.

Akbar devoted decades of his life to the loom, giving the craft of Pashmina its rightful honour. Then came the age of machines. The value of authentic handmade Pashmina started to decrease with the introduction of power looms and blended textiles. Akbar's family suffered the most as his earnings dropped. He had taught his sons to weave, but discouraged by the difficulty, one of them dropped to pursue better alternatives. Akbar didn't give up on his vocation even then. With unwavering determination, he declared, "I will weave Pashmina by hand if the entire world stops doing it."

We met Akbar's in 2018, and that is when he found that there were still people who were committed to preserving handmade Pashmina because they shared his appreciation for it. Since then, he has consistently worked for us, earning a steady income that enables him to live a dignified life and a peaceful mind.

It is quite captivating to watch Akbar weave. The loom bends to his will as though it were an extension of his hands. Weaving seems natural to him - almost like a child's play. Yet beneath this ease is forty years of dedication, discipline, and practice.

One of the most remarkable things about Akbar is his respect for each part of his weaving. He handles each Pashmina thread as if it were his last. Before mounting the delicate, unwoven fibers on the wooden handloom, he meticulously arranges and prepares them as if they have a soul of their own. Because of his connection to the trade, the ceremony is nearly sacred.

Akbar frequently states that he finds strength in our shared commitment to pure, handmade Pashmina, and for us, his presence is a blessing. His expedition is evidence that although machines can imitate speed, they can never replicate a soul. Pashmina is still alive today - not just as a fabric, but also as a legacy - because of artisans like Akbar. And that's what makes his experience worthwhile.

For Ashraf, Pashmina weaving has never been just a source of livelihood, but carrying a legacy. His tender and simple yet challenging and tragic journey began 40 years ago. Ashraf lost his father when he was just 10, and from then on, it was his grandfather who became a father, a mentor, a guide and his best friend.

It was natural for a 10 year old boy to follow what his grandfather did. So Ashraf, from an early age, became attracted to Pashmina weaving. It was the warmth of his grandfather’s home that lured him towards the classic wooden handloom. Together, the young boy and his grandfather would sit side by side on the loom. “It would be a sight worth watching when his grandfather, 66, with decades of experience, and Ashraf, only 10, with boundless curiosity would work together", remarked one of their neighbours. “We would pause in wonder at this unusual pair, working relentlessly for keeping a tradition alive”, he added

Unfortunately, this sight did not last long and Ashraf’s grandfather passed away in 1983. Ashraf was just 18, and suddenly the responsibility of preserving Pashmina hand weaving fell on his shoulders. Despite the grief, Ashraf showed unmatched determination and courage. He trained himself to manage everyday chores - from buying Pashmina fibre from Ladakh to selling handwoven shawls to takers. He even trained his younger brother for many years and together they revived Pashmina hand weaving as well as their family name - which is still well known as the Kota Household.

For many years, Ashraf’s skill brought them livelihood, fame and sustenance. But then came the era of machines. Fake, machine made shawls, which took less time to produce, spread across markets. This was a major blow to artisans, as people preferred quick and cheaper supply.

“Weaving shawls on handlooms is an art in itself”, Ashraf explains, his voice firm with emotion. “It takes us 5 to 6 days to weave one Pashmina shawl. But today, producers use power looms. Pashmina is fragile and does not bear the stress of power looms, Hence they mix sheep wool or nylon along. What comes out cannot at all be called Pashmina. The real thing is, and will always be, handmade”, he adds.

Despite these challenges, Ashraf never gave up on handweaving shawls. With a small circle of fellow weavers, he continues to weave Pashmina over handlooms. These men have refused to let go of this art form that they say is their identity. Their income continued to be modest, yet their pride was unshaken. “Even if I earn less, I cannot compromise with purity”, Ashraf insists.

We met Ashraf in 2018, coincidentally on his 53rd birthday, when he was busy weaving. As we spoke to him, we felt his unwavering commitment to purity and quality. It seemed like his fingers weren't weaving, but playing a musical instrument - that's how he was enjoying his work. He urged us to remind the world that machine made is fake when it comes to Pashmina. “Cheap priced shawls do not have a soul”, he explained. “True Pashmina is the one that was once the obsession of royals, queens and aristocrats from noble courts”, he remarked with pride.

Now that Ashraf works with Pashmsutra, and gets a regular monthly salary, his journey reminds us of the lessons about perseverance and hope. He never struggled for survival. But for resistance, dignity and faith in traditions. It is because of artisans like Ashraf that the glory of Pashmina remains timeless

Work is worship

This is something Mohammed Ramzan sternly follows. He sits by his loom like one sits for the prayer. Bearing immense patience, reverence and surrender, he considers Pashmina threads as the most sacred tangible thing in the world. At 58, Mohammed Ramzan has 27 years of experience, and his fingers have memorized the rhythm of the loom. “My heart beats along with the shuttle’s quiet cadence”, he says

Mohammed Ramzan was never a patron of Pashmina. He wanted to become a teacher like his neighbour. But life has to give him some tough lessons before making him the most skillful master of Pashmina weaving. His father was a Pashmina weaver, earning enough for the family. But his life threatening illness struck the family like a bolt of lightning. Unfortunately he couldn't continue working, and his son Ramzan took the place. What began as a forced duty to sustain his family soon became devotion. “It was a burden first, but slowly, I heard the threads speaking to me”, he softly recalls.

As years went by, Ramzan began enjoying his work. He even asked his wife to bring his breakfast to the loom. “I wished to eat, drink, and breathe beside my loom. Whether it had become my best friend, I cannot say, but a day without weaving felt incomplete, he says, laughing at the memory. Ramzan and other artisans lived a king’s life in the 80s and early 90s. But then came the biggest blow to the artisan community. The Power Loom.

The golden age of Pashmina began to dim. Machines entered homes and one single click of a power loom could produce hundreds of shawls. The music of handlooms could no longer be heard. There were days when artisans like Ramzan would just stare at the loom, wondering if they would ever get to touch it again! They wondered if the art of handmade Pashmina had died forever.

Despite no hope, Ramzan never gave up. Something inside still motivated him to get up. During times when work was hard to come by, Ramzan still found solace in his loom - repairing old shawls or crafting new ones for the handful of patrons who continued to seek his art. He believed that if even one of them continued to look for pure shawls, the soul of the craft would survive. Alas, days got harder, and hope became dim.

And then came a call - from Pashmsutra. Pashmsutra had been in search of artisans who could help them survive this art. Thankfully the team visited Ramzan and found his work - which they found to be no less than art. He was immediately hired as a full time employee, who would now receive a regular salary. His joy knew no bounds. He couldn't believe that someone still wanted a pure Pashmina. But as soon as we handed over to him the finest Pashm threads acquired from Ladakh, his trust began growing.

That was five years ago. Today, Ramzan is one of Pashmsutra’s most trusted weavers. His looms no longer stand silent. His home, once heavy with uncertainty, now hums with life. His daughter in law spins, his son helps with finishing, and his little grandson often sits beside him, watching the dance of threads.

“When I see him watching me,” he says, “I feel like time has circled back, and the art I thought was dying has been reborn.”

In the still valleys of Kashmir, where time-honored traditions whisper through mountains, this artisan stands as a symbol of dedication and perseverance. At 53 years of age, Nazir Ahmed, with 15 years of Pashmina weaving experience, weaves the finest shawls. The most surprising fact is that he embraced it at a time when nearly everyone around him abandoned it.

It was the year 2009, when Nazir Ahmed took a decision which was surprising for some and foolish for others. Handwoven Pashmina was already on the verge of complete extinction and machine made shawls had flooded markets, offering cheaper prices and faster production. Weavers had left hand weaving shawls and had taken up other jobs for the fear of losing jobs and not being able to sustain their families. Pashmina’s manual spinning, weaving and embroidery all were seen as unsustainable jobs. Yet, Nazir never believed the masses. His heart still beat for the timeless Pashmina shawls he knew from his childhood. He couldn't let the heritage slip away. “I had read about how this art was disappearing, how my ancestors once weaved these soft threads into masterpieces,” he recalls. “I thought, if no one else will save it, then I must.”

And this is how his journey began. Nazir started under the guidance of a close relative - an expert weaver whose family was into Pashmina weaving for generations. Despite starting late, Nazir’s passion and determination accelerated his pick up. His teacher remembers his early days clearly. “Nazir used to come to my home at 6 in the morning, sometimes when I was still asleep. He never wasted time. His hands moved with an eagerness I had never seen before. A few inches, he would weave better than me”, his octogenarian teacher proudly says. Watching Nazir is like watching a performance, where every movement of his hands showcases mastery and passion. As he weaves shawls over wooden handlooms, humming traditional Kashmiri songs - a habit adopted from his teacher - we felt his connection to his roots. He wasn’t weaving shawls, but keeping a legacy alive.

The early days were never easy. Orders were scarce, sometimes dropping to zero or barely 1 -2 per month. But Nazir worked, not for money or fame, but because he believed in the revival of handwoven Pashmina one day. “People thought I was being foolish, and waiting my time. But I did not weave for them, I weaved for my ancestors, dedicating each warp and weft to their undying skill which continues to live on even after they departed from this world.”

This relentless dedication of his led to his discovery. We found him working in a small factory, away from the bustling markets of the city. This place was quiet, where time seemed to have paused and handwoven emotion lingered on each shawl. The way he spoke to us showed how much cared for the art. His skill and art spoke even louder.

Since that day, Nazir now receives regular orders and a steady monthly salary, enabling him to live with dignity and continue his work with joy. “I never imagined this would be possible,” he says, eyes glistening with emotion. “From waiting for a single order to receiving bulk work, it feels like a dream. But more than that, I am happy that this art is alive again.”

Nazir Ahmed’s story is one of quiet resilience. His journey shows what unwavering passion and determination can do. Today, his loom continues to sing the melody of heritage, one shawl at a time. As he merrily weaves Pashmina, he knows he is weaving a future for generations to come.

In search of artisans, we met a gentleman, who considers his work as worship. Meet Shabbir Ahmed - a 51 year old Pashmina artisan - who has been weaving since he was in his early 20’s. Shabbir misses the early years of his work, when Pashmina weaving was considered to be the most respectful work and workers earned very well. Then times changed, owing to the industrial revolution, and Pashmina weaving - which was magic done by bare hands - reduced to machine made fakes. Even today, this art form has not resorted back to its original grace, but a few artisans like Shabbir are working hard to revive manual Pashmina making and bring back the lost prestige to this timeless art work.

“I have been weaving Pashmina shawls for 30 years. I do not consider weaving Pashmina a job, but a worship. This art is not my profession, but my identity, my legacy”, a proud Shabbir says.

Shabbir’s father, Mr Ghulam Mohammad Mir, has also been an expert Pashmina weaver in his time. This art form runs in the family, and has been passed down from generation to generation. He remembers himself as a child, sitting beside his father, and watching him carefully mount the finest threads of Pashmina onto the handloom. “It was then almost 40 years back, when I was just 10, that I dreamt of one day carrying this legacy forward”, says Shabbir.

The journey of Pashmina weaving was never easy. When Shabbir started, weavers, embroidery artisans, and spinners, all associated with Pashmina, lived the lives of a king. But in the early 90s, the art lost its charm and so did its makers. The journey was never easy. Wages dropped so low that artisans quit Pashmina weaving and switched to other jobs that paid enough to survive their families and make ends meet “Many weavers, including me, struggled to make ends meet. There was a time when I thought of leaving this art behind because it could no longer support my family. My wife and I were anxious, watching our children go without proper schooling or basic necessities. The thought of giving up weaving and searching for other jobs weighed heavily on me, and my heart could not bear to abandon the legacy of our ancestors”, Shabbir says. Unfortunately, Shabbir could not find a job, and kept weaving shawls. This resulted in low wages, leaving this immense skillful artisan in a miserable state.

Thankfully we had a chance to visit Kashmir valley and meet a few artisans, one of them being Shabbir. As soon as we saw Shabbir work, we were highly impressed. The finesse of his work, the delicate precision with which his fingers dance over the fabric, and the remarkable swiftness of his hands reflect a mastery perfected over years. At once we offered him to work for us, and without a second thought, he agreed.

What makes artisans like Shabbir Ahmed proud is knowing that through their hands, a part of Kashmiri heritage is being carried to patrons across the world. Not only has their life transformed, but this age old art form - on the verge of extinction - has been sustained. “I am grateful to Pashmsutra for believing in me and preserving this heritage art for the future generations. Our kids deserve to know how glorious their history has been”, Shabbir says, with a voice carrying a deep sense of fulfillment.

Meet Showkat Ahmed, whose childhood began with the most unbearable loss. Showkat lost both his parents before he turned 10. He doesn't remember their faces, just the warmth of his mother’s shawl, which she would wrap him in. “I was not born into comfort. My story begins with loss - the kind that comes too soon, and too heavy for a child to bear”, he says.

When his parents passed, his world became quieter. It was his grandfather who pulled him out of this childhood trauma. While his dad had been a walnut wood sculptor, it was the grandfather who was a Pashmina weaver, but not an ordinary one.

In the narrow lanes of Ompora, Budgam, the clanking of looms was heard from a distance. Early morning, the sounds start with one house, then two more, until the entire mohallas roar with it. One of these homes is that of Showkat. Showkat isn't the same old scared kid, but a grown up, skillful weaver with 28 years of experience. He isn't a weaver by profession, but by his soul. He lost his guru, his guide and his best friend - his grandfather - many years ago. But he is carrying his legacy effortlessly with pride.

“My grandfather considered Pashmina weaving a worship”, says Showkat. “His loom stood at the centre of our modest house, and the rhythm of the loom would be as calming to us as a lullaby”. Showkat and his grandfather were considered expert weavers and the family depended on Pashmina weaving. Him and his grandfather would work, while his grandmother would do household chores. But soon, they too left, leaving Showkat all alone, at a tender age of 23. “On a winter afternoon, Abba Ji left. I remember turning around to ask him something, and finding him still, peaceful, his fingers resting on the wool as if he didn’t want to let go”, says a heartbroken Showkat.

After that, it was just him and his grandmother. She continued spinning the Pashm threads, her frail hands trembling with age but never stopping. And Showkat would weave those threads into shawls through the night. That was life for them - her spinning, his weaving, and the quiet hum of the loom holding their grief together. Showkat earned enough to sustain his family of 2.

Then, one day, the rhythm broke. The heartless, cold, mechanical power looms arrived in Kashmir. Traders who once visited artisan homes turned away. The markets changed overnight. Handcrafted Pashmina couldn’t compete with machine-made shawls that were faster and cheaper. Orders stopped. Payments stopped. The loom stood silent.

For survival, Showkat purchased an auto rickshaw. Through the day he ferried strangers through the crowded streets of Srinagar. But at night, after everyone slept, he would silently return to the loom. Every thread would remind him of his grandfather’s legacy, and he would weave for 2-3 hours, for a very few patrons of pure Pashmina left.

Not after many years, Pashmsutra discovered this artisan. His work spoke for itself. The shawl handwoven by him seemed machine made. Such was the precision, patterns and regularity of his hands. We immediately handed over to him pure Ladakhi Pashmina threads, and in just 2 days, he completed a full shawl. He wasn't a worker, but a custodian of heritage. When it comes to an art like Pashmina weaving, emotions matter!

It has been 7 years since then. Showkat gets a regular salary, bulk orders and a decent pay, enough to survive his family of 5. He is not worried about tomorrow. Now he works on the loom with more passion, because he knows what he is weaving will carry the traditional, original art of Pashmina to any part of the world. “I wish my grandmother was alive. She would have been the happiest person in the world, seeing me weaving my dreams again”, says Showkat.

“Every shawl I make carries a prayer - for the hands that came before me, and for the art that will never die.”

Born in 1947, just after India gained its independence, Wali Mohammed Kota entered into a milieu where the sound of wooden looms and the subdued buzz of artistic creation filled the valleys of Kashmir. Pashmina wasn't just a fabric back then; it was poetry in motion, woven from soul, patience, and dedication.

At just 14 years of age, Wali found his calling in the most delicate Pashmina threads. Under the careful supervision of masters who treated craft like worship, his tiny hands mastered the loom's dance. What started out as an odd apprenticeship turned into an unshakable connection that would endure for more than 60 years. At 78 today, Wali is more than just an artisan. He is a living repository of the culture that makes Kashmir unique.

Over the years, his artistry transcended borders. Wali Mohammed has been invited countless times across India to teach young students the sacred art of Pashmina weaving. His proficiency even garnered recognition abroad, where he was hailed as one of the last surviving preservers of genuine Kashmiri workmanship. Watching him weave is like seeing discipline and divinity come together; his eyes follow patterns that only exist in his memory, and his fingers work with robotic precision.

“Weaving has never been a livelihood for me, it is an addiction, a reason for being. The threads have become an extension of my breath. And, I very well know that if I stop weaving, I will stop breathing,” he says with a half-smile. For him, the loom is more than just an object — it is his most enduring companion and the silent observer of his victories, setbacks, and unwavering trust in the art he serves.

Wali has seen Pashmina’s golden era - when the world revered Kashmiri shawls as treasures. But he has also endured its darkest phase. When power looms and synthetic imitations swept into the markets, countless artisans lost their livelihood. Having only ever done hand weaving, Wali, his younger brother, and his son had to endure the most difficult years of their lives. Yet they refused to surrender. Father gave his son courage; the son gave his father purpose. Together, they kept weaving, not knowing if the shawl would ever sell.

Following decades of endurance and patience, the craft is rediscovering its voice. Artists like Wali have seen a new era because of brands like Pashmsutra. Thankfully, Pashmsutra makes sure that the narrative woven into each shawl is once again seen, felt, and appreciated by bringing their handcrafted creations to the world stage.

Three members of Wali's family currently work with Pashmsutra: Wali himself, his 60-year-old son, and his 35-year-old grandson. They view weaving as a legacy rather than merely a custom. The loom has endured across fads, adversity, and time.

“You can take the man away from the loom, but never the loom away from the man.”