For nearly 30 years, Sayida has heated herself with a kangri (traditional earthen firepot).
Tucked beneath her pheran (long woollen cloak), the earthen firepot has been her constant companion through Kashmir’s harsh winters.
“As children, we watched our elders use it,” says Sayida, 48, a resident of Srinagar. “That curiosity slowly turned into habit, and then into necessity.”
For Sayida, the kangri is woven into daily life. During winter, turnips are placed inside it with oil. Once warmed, the oil is applied to the hands and feet of children suffering from frostbite.
“It is part of everyday care,” she says.
Kashmir, set amid the Himalayas, is known for its beauty. Winter brings a different reality. Temperatures often drop to minus 20 degrees Celsius. During late December 2025 and early January 2026, the valley faced an intense cold wave. As homes struggled through long power cuts, a centuries-old tradition continued to offer warmth and resilience: the kangri.
Winter routines shaped by fire and care
Winter has shaped the rhythm of Sayida’s life for decades. Even now, with electric heaters and gas-based alternatives entering homes, the kangri remains close. “When the electricity fails, and it often does in winter, the kangri is still there,” she says.
The firepot is handled with care. Used carelessly, it can burn skin or clothes. Yet leaving it behind has never felt possible.
Sayida recalls a childhood moment that has stayed with her.
At 11, while walking through her neighbourhood to buy milk, she was chased by a rabid dog. “I was wearing a pheran with a kangri inside,” she says. “Out of fear, I pulled it out and threw it at the dog. That moment saved me.”
A single artisan can make 12 distinct kangri types, from everyday firepots to ornate bridal designs.
When the embers inside the kangri finally turn to ash, nothing is wasted. The ash is collected and mixed into kitchen gardens. “It enriches the soil,” Sayida says. “It helps the vegetables grow better.”
Small practices like these have sustained households through long winters.
More than a source of heat, the kangri remains deeply woven into Kashmiri winter life, sustained by the hands of artisans whose labour begins long before the firepot reaches a home.
Where the kangri begins: the willow groves of Ganderbal
The warmth Sayida depends on begins far from her home.
In the willow groves of Ganderbal, Manzoor Ahmad has spent most of his life working with the plant that gives the kangri its outer form.
Willow from Ganderbal is boiled, stripped, and woven to form the kangri’s outer casing.
Manzoor, 57, is a resident of Shalbug village. “First, we cut the willow from the trees. Then we boil it in water,” he says. “It takes a lot of labour and a lot of patience.”
The work does not end there. After boiling, workers remove the upper layers of bark. Each boiler requires nearly a dozen skilled hands. “We have to clean and trim the garden where the willow grows,” Manzoor says. “If unwanted grass grows, it can destroy the entire crop.”
This careful process ensures quality willow, which is later shaped into baskets, chairs, tables, and the woven casing of the kangri.
The challenge of passing the craft forward
The work is physically demanding, and Manzoor says fewer young people are willing to continue it.
“The younger generation is not interested,” he says. “They walk away because their clothes get dirty, and they do not see money in it. They want easier jobs.”
The challenge is not effort alone. Income from willow work has declined sharply.
Potters in Pakherpora shape kundals by hand using manual or electric wheels.
“We are not making good money from this,” Manzoor says. “The value of natural willow is falling. Plastic is cheaper, even though it harms the environment.”
Manzoor believes the government could play a crucial role in saving the traditional industry.
“If the government bans plastic, it would reduce the health problems caused by plastic, and we could make a profit,” he says.
Finished willow products from Ganderbal are sold across Kashmir, including Srinagar, Budgam, Baramulla, and Anantnag. During peak winter months, traders also transport them to Delhi, where they are sold as decorative and utility items.
For now, Manzoor continues. “This is a tough job,” he says. “But without patience and care, it will all be gone.”
The work does not end in the willow groves. Once woven, the kangri moves into clay.
Shaping the core in Pakherpora
In Pakherpora village, Ghulam Qadri Kumar has shaped clay for most of his life.
The 52-year-old potter learned the craft at home, passed down through generations.
“I have never been to school,” he says. “I have been doing this work all my life.”
For decades, Ghulam worked on a trecht (manual potter’s wheel), powered by hand. Two years ago, he shifted to an electric wheel.
The kundal, the inner clay vessel of a kangri, is shaped to safely hold burning embers.
“We did not have electricity for a long time,” he says. “Electric potter’s wheels were not easily available here, and buying one from Delhi was more affordable and durable. Over time, we saved Rs 11,000. It reduced physical strain and helped us work more efficiently.”
Even now, the trecht remains part of his practice.
“When electricity fails, we return to it,” he says. “We still use the choupat (wooden shaping stick). The hands must stay connected to the clay.”
Clay that demands time and strength
The journey begins long before the wheel spins.
Clay is collected from nearby orchards, which are slowly disappearing due to urban expansion.
“First, we collect it from the orchards, then we filter it there,” Ghulam says. “We go through nearly 100 levels of preparation. It’s a lot of work, but it’s worth it.”
For many elderly residents, the kangri remains the most dependable source of warmth.
The clay is filtered several times, dried, and beaten to ensure quality. Ghulam and his family soak it in water, allow it to loosen, and then press it with their feet. The process demands patience and precision.
Only after the clay is fully prepared is it moulded into balls and placed on the wheel.
At this stage, the wheel takes over. Whether electric or manual, it allows Ghulam to create a range of pottery items, from simple pots to decorative pieces, and most importantly, kundals (inner clay vessels used in kangris).
“This is one of the main demands for our work,” he says. “Many people still rely on kangris during harsh winters.”
Pottery in the modern world
Pottery does not bring high earnings.
“The earning is very low,” Ghulam says. “But thanks to Allah, we manage to survive. The money is hard-earned, but it gives us satisfaction. We know it is clean money. There is no corruption in this work.”
Despite the challenges, there is still demand for his craft.
“People still want our pottery, especially the kundals,” he says. “Even though people no longer use earthen pots for cooking, the kangri remains important. The demand is there, especially for decorative items and storage containers. We are also making money banks, cups, and samawars (traditional tea kettles).”
Decorated kangris, including bridal designs, reflect Kashmiri craft and identity.
Younger people show little interest in the craft. “The new generation is not interested in this work,” he says. “They want quicker jobs and less manual labour. The tradition is fading, even though many people still seek these products.”
Still, Ghulam believes in its return.
“I believe the time will come again for this craft,” he says. “Our ancestors were healthy because they cooked and ate food from these earthen pots. There were fewer diseases then. The wisdom of our elders still holds true.”
“We might be using electricity now, but this craft will never lose its soul,” he adds. “It will always be about hard work, patience, and the blessings of Allah.”
The pots that Ghulam and his family make may not be as numerous as they once were, but each one carries the spirit of tradition, hard work, and a commitment to preserving the artistry of the past for future generations.
Giving the kangri its final shape
The kangri takes its final form in the hands of craftsmen like Ali Mohammad Dar.
For 50 years, Ali Mohammad Dar, a 65-year-old artisan, has crafted these traditional firepots. He makes 12 distinct types of kangris, each designed with care and tied to Kashmiri heritage.
“My father, seeing our situation at home, sent me to learn from the skilled craftsman Haji Khazir Mohammad Malik,” Dar says. “It was difficult at first, but the work stays with you.”
A symphony of shapes and sizes
Dar describes the varieties he makes, each with a name and purpose. From bahpuhur bajigan (small kangris for children) to bridal kangris adorned with mirrors, the firepots reflect artistry and identity.
Finished kundals are dried and later fitted into willow frames before winter sales begin.
“Over time, local craftsmen have adapted the design to their unique preferences,” Dar says. “You see it in the sizes, wicker patterns, and embellishments.”
“During a normal winter season, I make approximately 300 to 400 kangris,” he continues. “It depends on how much demand there is and whether materials are easily available.”
A call to preserve a legacy
Despite the pressures of a changing world and declining interest among younger generations, Dar remains dedicated to his craft. He says he is willing to share his knowledge with anyone interested in learning.
“When winter really sets in, you realise how widespread the kangri still is,” Dar says. “Lakhs of households across the valley rely on it during the coldest months, the way our parents and grandparents always did.”
Many potters learned the craft at home and continue without formal schooling.
As Kashmir faces winter’s hardest weeks, this centuries-old firepot continues to provide warmth and comfort, carrying forward the region’s cultural heritage and the resilience of its people.
Kashmir’s winter wife
“The kangri is not just a firepot; for us it is a lifeline,” Sayida says. “This small earthen pot, filled with glowing embers and wrapped in a woven wicker case, is kept close to the body under the pheran.”
“Our elders used to say that even if there is no food or water in the house, there must be a kangri,” she says. “That is why they called it the winter wife.”
She adds that, unlike modern heating systems, which frequently fail during power cuts, the kangri offers steady, portable warmth.
“It travels with you, inside homes and across lanes,” she says. “More than heat, it represents how we endure winter, with patience, holding on to traditions that continue to keep us alive.”
As winter deepens, Sayida continues to rely on the same source of warmth she grew up with.
The kangri stays.
“It has protected us, healed us, and supported our way of life,” she says.
Even today, during the coldest nights of winter, the firepot rests close beneath her pheran, steady and familiar.
