Bundles of sun-bleached reeds lie stacked outside homes in Maloora Khujbagh, Kashmir. Inside a modest courtyard, 45-year-old artisan Fancy Jan sits cross-legged, weaving a wagoov mat with practised ease. The motion is almost meditative. “For the last three decades, artisans have given up this craft because there is no profit. Ever since synthetic matting came to the market, we have been struggling to find customers,” she says, her hands never pausing.
Considered Kashmir’s organic carpet since the 18th century, wagoov are made from reeds harvested from nearby marshes and streams. Come September and October, families cut the reeds just above their roots, bundle them, and leave them to dry under the open sky. Weeks later, they are woven into mats using parallel grass ropes, a technique that demands patience, precision, and years of practice. The result is deceptively simple: a mat that cools in summer and insulates in winter.
There was a time, she recalls, when these mats travelled far beyond the village. “I used to sell reed mats to so many people,” she says. “But there are hardly any customers now.” Despite challenges, Maloora Khujbagh is the last standing village in Kashmir, where 250 households have been struggling to keep this tradition alive.
In another home, Zareefa Begum, a weaver in her 50s, works beside her loom. She learnt the craft from her grandfather. “We take four to five days to complete one piece, but we get only `150 to `250. We don’t care about money now. The craft should be preserved,” she says.
Her words hang heavy in the room. Around her, the loom creaks softly, as if echoing the same sentiment. For many in Maloora, wagoov is no longer a profession—it is an act of resistance.
Recognising the risk of extinction, the Handicrafts Department in Kashmir has recently brought wagoov under its Karkhandar scheme—a flagship skilling and livelihood initiative by the Jammu & Kashmir Department of Industries & Commerce. A training centre in Srinagar now pairs experienced artisans with younger trainees. Seven women from Maloora have already enrolled, each receiving a monthly stipend of `14,000 along with logistical support.
It is a start—fragile, but hopeful.
Yet the real question lingers beyond schemes and stipends. Can a craft survive if the next generation no longer sees a future in it? Back in the courtyard, Fancy Jan tightens another row of reeds. The mat grows, inch by inch, as it has for centuries. Around her, the bundles of dried reeds wait their turn.
