Heavy Taxes, Shrinking Markets: Famed Kashmir Papier-mâché Art On The Edge
Artisans associated with the centuries-old art in Kashmir are lamenting about added taxes and apathy from the government leaving them in a quandary.
Published : September 13, 2025 at 7:24 PM IST
Srinagar: In a workshop in Srinagar’s Lal Bazar area, shelves are stacked with finished papier-mâché vases, bowls, and boxes, while artists stay busy giving the final brushstrokes to their traditional craft. Once symbols of Kashmir’s artistic pride, these pieces now tell a quieter story—of survival, debt, and neglect.
The artists bent over these delicate shapes are state award winners. Their work has adorned shrines and museums, and even traveled across continents. But here at home, they are caught in a never-ending struggle between survival and passion.
For Maqbool Jan, a 60-year-old artisan who recently created an intricate map of old Srinagar on cloth using papier-mâché, the art form has been both a livelihood and a lifelong sorrow. "I would like to thank Amir-e-Kabir Mir Sayyid Ali Hamadani and Sultan Zainul Abidin who introduced papier-mâché to Kashmir. Because of them, we are able to earn two meals a day," Jan said, pausing at the edge of his cluttered worktable. "But our leaders gave preference to education, not to skills. That is why our younger generation is not taking this up as a profession. There is no degree in handicrafts."
Jan's journey into the craft began not with choice, but with necessity. His father died suddenly at the age of 38, leaving the family adrift. Jan was just two. His mother spun pashmina threads for a few rupees a day. It was an aunt who brought him to a papier-mâché unit in Zadibal, where 60 or 70 artisans once worked side by side. "At first, I only used to sleep there. But slowly I learned. That was our survival," he recalled.
Even as a boy, Jan noticed how little the craft earned compared to its prestige. "We lived on Rs 5 or Rs 10 a day. Yet we had passion. Today's children are educated, but they are far from this tradition. It is not their fault. It is our fault. We artisans did not value the art enough to demand respect for it."
He blames both policy and perception. "Technical hand should be in every school. Just like engineering and fine arts are taught, handicrafts should also be taught. Without that, the younger generation will continue to drift away."
The decline of papier-mâché is not just about fading interest. For artisans like Jan, taxation has turned survival into a daily battle. "So far, we have not received any orders for Christmas this year," he said. "When art is exported, who gets the tax? The state. Whatever sacrifice was to be made, it was done by the artisans. First, the tax should not be high. The more our products go abroad, the more prosperous the country will be. But instead of support, the system is making us poorer."
That frustration is shared by Firdous Hussain, 57, another state award winner, who has spent his life with papier-mâché but sees little hope for continuity. "If I were young today, I would not choose this work," he said bluntly.
Sitting on a floor in his modest home workshop, Hussain described how government channels that once supported artisans have dried up. "Earlier, emporiums used to buy from us. Now they take goods from exporters, not directly from artisans. Even the companies that used to buy would delay payment. The artisan was always exploited. That is why the new generation does not want to come."
Loan schemes, he argued, were designed without understanding the craft's demands. "They gave Rs 1 lakh. But do you know how long raw material itself takes? At least four months. Then the shaping, the polishing, the painting – another six or seven months. By the time a single product is ready, the interest has already started. How will an artisan repay?"
Hussain pointed to a small papier-mâché box. "This looks like a small thing. But making it takes two to three months. Raw material, called paper pulp, takes its own time to dry. In winter, it takes even longer. How can Rs 1 lakh cover that? At least Rs 5 or 6 lakh is needed for a family to sustain themselves while producing. But no one listens."
The result, he said, is that many artisans end up labeled as defaulters. "We did not fail. The system failed us. They gave us too little and then called us defaulters when we could not repay on time. Who would want to live such a life?"
The artisans' despair is not only financial. It is also social. "People think artisans are failures," Hussain said quietly. "Young people say there is no respect in this work. A doctor or engineer lives differently. An artisan struggles for Rs 10,000 a month. How can you tell your child to follow you into that?"
Fifty-year-old Masrat Jan echoed the same grief. "Papier-mâché is dying because the government is not supporting it. Awards and prize money are not long-lasting. Beyond that, there is no support. We suffered during floods, during the shutdown during Article 370 abrogation. We had no work and no one came to ask how we were living."
For Masrat, loans turned into another trap. "They gave us Rs 90,000. Is that enough for raw material or marketing? And yet interest started from day one. If they had given Rs 4–5 lakh with an interest-free period, we could have produced and repaid. But with Rs 90,000, artisans were pushed into difficulty. Many could not repay. The scheme failed."
The memory of middlemen still stings. "Earlier, we used to give products to middlemen who sold outside and kept most of the profit. We got peanuts. Our blood and sweat was not respected. Now many work independently at home, which is better. But still, there is no dignity. My children are interested in art, but when they say there is no future, I feel heartbroken. We gave our lives for nothing."
Papier-mâché arrived in Kashmir in the 14th century with Persian influences. Introduced by saint Mir Sayyid Ali Hamadani and later supported by Sultan Zainul Abidin, it flourished in the Valley's shrines, palaces, and drawing rooms. Over centuries, Kashmiri artisans developed their own styles, covering vases, boxes, and even walls with delicate arabesques, flowers, and scenes drawn from Persian poetry and Kashmiri landscapes.
For generations, the craft was passed from father to son, from master to apprentice, in workshops that once bustled with dozens of artisans. Export markets carried the art to Europe, America, and beyond. The intricate sheen of papier-mâché became synonymous with Kashmiri finesse.
But over the past three decades, political upheaval, floods, economic blockades, and now taxation have reduced the art to survival mode. Where once units employed 70 or more, today most artisans work alone at home.
The decline is visible in the classrooms as much as in workshops. "Children study to become engineers or doctors. But there is no degree in handicrafts," said Maqbool Jan. "If handicrafts were taught in schools like other subjects, children would see it as equal to education. Now they see it as backward. That is why they refuse."
Hussain agreed. "If in schools there was a papier-mâché teacher, like a math or science teacher, children would be inspired. Some would want to become artisans, just like others want to become engineers. But now, they think this has no future."
The younger generation, artisans admit, also has a different set of expectations. "Today’s youth want bigger incomes, bigger dreams,” Hussain said. “An artisan knows he will earn only Rs 10,000 a month. How can he ask his child to live like that? We manage because our dreams are small. But children today want more.”
The result is that even children of award-winning artisans are walking away. “My son has a vision to learn,” Jan said. “But when people ask, what does your son do, they want to hear of engineers and doctors. No one values an artisan.”
Tourism, once a lifeline for Kashmiri handicrafts, has not provided steady support either. “Tourists buy, yes, but not enough. Kashmir Haat should be developed at an international level, open all twelve months, not just for 15 days. Only then artisans can grow,” Jan said.
Masrat was more blunt. “Tourism is because of artisans’ blood and hard work. But the government does nothing to promote us. They talk of tourism, but what about those who make the souvenirs tourists buy? No one thinks of us.”
For many artisans, taxation has become the heaviest blow. The Goods and Services Tax (GST), introduced in 2017, applies to handicrafts in ways that artisans say eat into their already fragile earnings. Though the GST which was earlier at 12% is now under 5% for papier-mâché, US taxes on Indian products continue to burden these artists.
“When a product goes abroad, the state collects tax. But who sacrifices? The artisan,” Jan said. “Tax should be reduced. The more our products reach the world, the more the country benefits. Instead, artisans are being squeezed.”
With shrinking markets, failed loans, and added taxes, even award-winning artisans find themselves on the brink. “They gave us certificates, awards, recognition,” Masrat said. “But what use are awards if the artisan cannot feed his family?”
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