Shawls, Soap, and Rosewater: The Men Keeping Old Kashmir Alive

In the narrow lanes of Srinagar’s Aali Kadal, Rafiq Ahmad pounds shawls on river stones like his father once did. Not far from him, Habib Ullah Kozgar fills bottles of rosewater in a dim-lit shop beside a shrine. They are part of a dying rhythm—one that refuses to fade quietly.

Aali Kadal’s laundry ghat stretches along the banks of the Jhelum, hidden between the narrow lanes of old Srinagar. For generations, this spot has echoed with the sound of splashing water, soap beating against cloth, and the quiet conversations of dhobis who’ve kept this tradition alive.

Most mornings begin like this. Rafiq soaks delicate shawls in the river, scrubs away the dust of city life, and uses natural powders mixed with soap to gently clean the embroidery.

“I don’t need machines,” he says. “This river has taught me everything.”

Bilal Dar, 28, rolls a shawl to put it into a handheld dryer.

Bilal, Rafiq’s younger cousin, prepares the next lot for drying. Their routine hasn’t changed much in years, but their earnings have. “People want fast and cheap now,” Bilal says. “But you can’t rush the quality.”

Bilal spins the metal handle of a dryer to drain excess water.

Every spin of the dryer is like a tug-of-war with time. “Machines can't care for shawls like we do,” Bilal says. "One mistake and you lose a whole piece." Their work may look simple, but each fabric is treated like a fragile memory.

A rope strung with wet shawls sways gently along the riverbank.

By midday, the sun warms the ghat. The wind off the Jhelum lifts the drying shawls, making them dance. Rafiq says it’s his favourite part of the day.

“It feels like they’re flying after being set free.”

A distant view of Khanqah-e-Moula shrine beside the river.

Just beyond the ghat stands the Khanqah-e-Moula shrine, its walls whispering prayers into the wind. The ghat and the shrine have watched each other for centuries—both grounded in faith, both slowly fading from view.

Shelves inside the Kozgar shop, lined with rosewater bottles and portraits.

A short walk through Maharaj Gunj’s winding market lanes leads to another time capsule—a tiny rosewater shop run by the Kozgar family for over five generations.

The scent guides you before you even spot the wooden door.

Habib Ullah Kozgar, 80, at his wooden desk, surrounded by bottles.

Inside, Habib Ullah Kozgar sits with the calmness of someone who has repeated the same rituals for decades. “We never rushed this work,” he says. “Rosewater needs patience—like life.”

Old glass bottles, some over 200 years old, neatly arranged on the shelf.

The bottles hold more than liquid—they hold history. Some were used in royal kitchens, others in weddings, shrines, or during funerals.

“Each one tells its own story,” says Habib.

18th-century rosewater flasks stored in the corner, unused.

Many of the older flasks haven’t been touched in years. "We keep them," Habib says. “They remind us who we are, even if nobody asks for them anymore.”

Bone-china jars lined under Kozgar’s shelf, each filled with rosewater.

The dhobis have folded their last shawl. Kozgar’s copper pot has cooled. As jars like these rest quietly in the corner, Aali Kadal prepares to sleep. But tomorrow, the rosewater will bubble again—because some traditions don’t fade with the sun.

Written by Mir Kashif

Kashif wrote this article as a participant of the Media-Makers Fellowship's May'25 cohort.

This article was adjudged the 'Best Photo-Story' created in Week 2 of the program.