Nagrota couple keeps Kangra’s fading bamboo craft alive

It is a late November evening. A soft veil of mist clings to the valley as I enter the modest courtyard of the bamboo weaver, Pachangal, and his wife, Kamla Devi, in quiet Dhaloon village of Nagrota. The pine and oak hills around fade gradually into darkness, their silhouettes blending with the deepening sky. A gentle chill hangs in the air, softened only by the faint aroma of burning “bhabhar” grass drifting from the hearth.

I have come here to place an order for bamboo baskets, changers, “patawadis” for serving rice, and a few other handmade utensils for the upcoming “dham”. For decades, this household has remained a sanctuary of Kangra’s bamboo craft. Mud-cum-cement walls bear quiet imprints of passing seasons. A large “kilni” hangs from the verandah beam, while bundles of split bamboo lie stacked neatly in a corner, waiting for the craftsman’s patient hands. Standing here, a wave of nostalgia washes over me, bringing memories of a time when bamboo craft was not merely an occupation but an essential part of Kangra’s rhythm. Homes once depended on artisans like Laloo, Rato, Misru, Lachan, and Bihari — the ancestors of Pachangal — and countless others who carried forward the traditions of our hills.

Before the age of plastic and stainless steel, these baskets carried freshly harvested maize; “chabris”, changer, and “patawadis” held steaming rice during “dham”; and sturdy containers accompanied farmers to the fields. Every item, however, ordinary it may have seemed, was shaped with care, purpose and inherited skill. I recall earlier visits when the courtyard buzzed with the rasp of knives and deft fingers weaving bamboo.

Each family member knew their role, carrying on a living tradition. During harvests and weddings, orders poured in and the family worked late into the night. The craft was alive and cherished. Today, however, the courtyard feels unusually still. A few unfinished baskets lie stacked against the wall, waiting for hands that no longer come.

When I ask why his sons, Bahadur and Raju, are not helping, Pachangal gives a faint, tired smile - a smile shaped by years of labour and the quiet disappointment of watching a tradition fade. “Neither do they have good professions, nor do they want to work with us. Orders are few. Why should they cut their hands on bamboo when plastic is cheaper and ready-made? They say this work has no future,” he says softly.

His words hang heavily in the dusk. I gaze at his calloused hands — hands that have shaped thousands of baskets, hands that carry the memory of generations — and a deep ache wells within me for what is being lost. The younger generation’s reluctance is understandable; the world has shifted.

Convenience has replaced craftsmanship, mass production has overshadowed handmade beauty, and quietly, a heritage slips away. Yet as long as artisans like Pachangal continue to weave, even in these quiet corners, Kangra’s bamboo craft endure fragile whisper of the past, persistent and resilient, carrying the heart of our hills.

Everything feels familiar, yet painfully fragile. The baskets around me are not just bamboo, they carry the scent of Kangra’s soil and the warmth of hands that once shaped our days. They remind me of a time when traditions lived in every home. I tell Pachangal that I will take whatever he can prepare for the dham. It may not change much for him, but it feels like a small offering to a craft that nurtured our villages. He nods and hands me a nearly finished “patawadi”. Its tight weave, shaped by decades of patience, rests in my hands like a faint heartbeat of old Kangra.

As I walk back through Dhaloon’s dim paths, a quiet ache lingers. With every fading craft, a part of our shared soul slips away. Yet as long as artisans like Pachangal keep weaving in their silent courtyards, Kangra’s bamboo legacy will endure — perhaps only as a whisper, but one still strong enough for those who pause to listen.