NEW DELHI: In the heart of Shahjahanabad—amid the chaos of rickshaws, spice-scented alleys, and crumbling havelis—survive the last whispers of a bygone era.
From the delicate hammering of chandi ka warq (silver leaf) to the smoky shimmer of kalai inside brass utensils, and the rhythmic stitching of hand-bound books to old time deed writers, Old Delhi was once a living museum of handmade tradition.
But now, these once-thriving crafts are disappearing, swept away by mass production, rising costs, and fading relevance in a modern city. In this series, TNIE presents stories to capture not just a profession, but also a legacy on the brink of extinction.
Inside the narrow, bustling lanes of Old Delhi, just past the arched gateway of Turkman Gate and into the quieter alleys of Phatak Telian, time once shimmered—literally. For decades, this tucked-away locality echoed with the rhythmic thud of hammers, beating silver into impossibly thin sheets, known locally as chandi ka warq. Today, that sound has disappeared; replaced by the honk of two-wheelers, the chatter of street vendors, and the creaking of old wooden doors hiding memories of a vanishing trade.
Not only Turkman Gate but Churiwalan, Khari Baoli, Matia Mahal and Chitli Qabar were other places where the manufacturers of silver leaves, lived and made an earning.
The craft of making chandi ka warq, those delicate silver foils that adorn Indian sweets, paan, and even Ayurvedic medicines, was once a thriving cottage industry here. The process was entirely manual. Small lumps of pure silver were placed between layers of ox gut or specially-treated animal membrane, and then beaten for hours until they stretched into gossamer-thin sheets—often thinner than human hair.
“This house used to shine with silver,” said a 68-year-old wife of Haji Mumtiaz recalling the days his husband who died ten years ago used to make the ‘warq’ just outside his small hose situated in Phatak Telian.
“Ab to chaandi dekhne ko bhi nahi milti…, ek zamana tha jab haathon pe lagi chandi ko chaat liya karte the… ( Now we don’t even get to see silver anymore… There was a time when we used to lick the silver foil off our hands.)
She added, “Haji ji used to beat the hammer all by himself from morning till evening with a single break. Unfortunately, after his demise, none of my kids could continue into that profession. My daughters are somehow managing our survival.”
Surprisingly even ten years after his death, ‘Haji Mumtiaz’ is still a name associated with ‘Chandi ka warq’ and once you enter Turqman gate, any one would take you to their corner house in block B. Another known manufacturer of chandi ka warq in Phatak Telian is Rafiq who used to run his small shop in an open area close to Haji Mumtiaz’s place. His neighbours still know him by his profession, although Rafiq, now 65-year-old left making silver leaves 15 years ago.
Sharing his experience, Rafiq said, “The process of making chandi ka warq used to involve making of a foil from raw silver and cutting some gm ribbon of silver. Generally the foil was cut into small equal sizes with a thickness of an inch. Then we kept in a small leather pouch and pounded with hammer continuously on the corners. That took over 3-4 hours. Earlier the silver was not that expensive. In Rs 300, we used to some 150 silver sheets now the same 150 sheets may cost you over Rs 15,000. On Amazon also, you will get some 50 smaller silver leaves for roughly Rs 300.”
He added, “You will not find a single manufacturer left in old Delhi. Whatever silver leaves the shopkeepers are getting is from Sambhal in UP, Muradabad and Meerut.” “Back then, silver wasn’t this expensive,” added Rafiq’s daughter-in-law, Nilofer, recalling how even children were part of the warq-making process that time. “It was about the craft, not just the money. There was pride in knowing that your silver would go on a barfi in a wedding or a royal paan served in a nawabi home,” she said.
But over time, the craft began to tarnish. The first blow came with rising silver prices. Then came mechanisation, as mass-produced warq from Uttar Pradesh and Rajasthan flooded the market. Finally, concerns over hygiene and the use of animal parts in traditional methods led to stricter regulations.
Jamal Uddin, who now runs a tea stall near Matia Mahal said, “One packet of 10-12 warq sells for 50 rupees now, but back then we’d sell by the tola. Now machines do it cheaper, faster, and cleaner. We couldn’t compete.”
Today, chandi ka warq is still widely available across Old Delhi—from kiryana shops to upscale mithai outlets like Kallan Sweets, Kamaal sweet house etc. But it’s no longer made here.
In Phatak Telian, only fragments remain—tools tucked away in old trunks and stories that slip out over tea. The younger generation, many of whom now work in retail or have moved out, have little connection to the craft.
“I’ve only heard about it from my dada (grandfather),” says 22-year-old Faizan, who studies at Jamia Millia Islamia. “We never learned it. There was no point. It is the time when machinery is doing everything for you.”
Meagre earnings, increased silver prices and the machinery taking over the profession are some to the reasons; the manual manufacturing of chandi ka warq in Old Delhi came to an end, many years ago. There are some famous shops in Khari Baoli which are still there but they don’t manufacture it, they only deal in selling the silver leaves.
Yet the nostalgia is hard to ignore. One of the residents of Chatta Sheikh Mangloo lane, Arshad Fehmi recalled his school days and said, “The voice of those continuous hammers still echoes in my ears.
When I used to return from school, we used to stop by those shops in Churiwalan to see out of curiosity that what was being beaten so hard. There were seven to eight manufacturing shops in churiwalan that time but there is none left now.”