Kashmir’s vanishing winter: How climate change is pushing the kangri tradition to the brink

The bone-chilling grip of Chillai Kalan, the 40-day period of harsh winter, typically stretching from 21 December to 31 January, that defines life in the Valley, felt like a distant memory. Instead of bracing against the cold, people were embracing the sun—an unusual sight for this time of year.

For two consecutive years, Kashmir has experienced alomost snowless winters, leaving people to abandon the warmth of the kangri—a portable fire pot wrapped in a delicate weave of twigs. Once a winter staple, the kangri is slowly fading from daily life as Kashmiris turn to the sun rather than embers for warmth.

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The kangri, known locally as kanged or kangir, is a centuries-old traditional heater filled with charcoal embers, carried inside the pheran, a woollen cloak worn to combat the harsh cold.

Its production follows an age-old cycle—during harud (autumn), rural communities make charcoal from dried leaves and twigs, which is then transported to towns and cities, where it sells for ₹500 to ₹700 per bag. Charcoal quality dictates the price, with almond-shell charcoal being the most expensive due to its ability to sustain warmth for up to two days.

But as Kashmir’s winters grow milder, kangri artisans face an existential crisis.

The decline of a time-honoured craft

Once an essential winter companion, the kangri is now struggling for relevance.

Kangri weavers across the Valley report a sharp drop in sales since 2021, as snowless winters threaten this time-honored craft and the livelihoods of thousands of artisans.

“This year, my sales are down by 95%,” said Ghulam Hassan Shakhsaz, a 55-year-old Kangri weaver from Tral, a town 40 km from Srinagar. “In 2021, I crafted 5,000 kangris, but this year, I have barely managed 500.” He attributes the decline to shifting weather patterns that have upended traditional ways of life.

“The climate has changed drastically over the past two years. Gone are the days when snow blanketed the Valley, and people tucked their kangris inside their Pherans before stepping outside. Now, with the sun shining brightly, no one needs them,” Shakhsaz told Mint.

The impact is visible across Kashmir. Snow, once a defining feature of winter, is becoming rare. Independent weather forecaster Faizan Arif notes that a decade ago, snowfall was the predominant form of precipitation in the Valley, but today, but that is no longer the case.

“The reduction in snowfall is primarily due to global warming and rising temperatures in the region. Temperature records, which were once broken every decade, are now being surpassed annually, further contributing to the reduced snowfall,” Arif explained.

Weather analysts confirm that Jammu & Kashmir is experiencing an unprecedented dry spell, making 2024 the driest year in the region in half a century. Official data shows that J&K received only 870.9 mm of rainfall in 2024—29% below the normal annual average of 1,232.3 mm—further compounding the crisis.

The kangri’s market shrinks

In the absence of bone-chilling cold, demand for the kangri has collapsed, pushing prices down. Artisans like Shakhsaz, who once earned ₹7-8 lakh per season, now struggle to make even ₹50,000.

“Five years ago, I sold a kangri for ₹300. Now, I’m forced to sell it for just ₹120,” he lamented.

This decline isn’t just economic—it’s cultural. With modern heating alternatives and changing lifestyles, younger Kashmiris no longer see the kangri as essential.

“They don’t even wear pherans anymore, so how can we expect them to carry kangris?” said Shameem Ahmad Ganaie, a 40-year-old master artisan. “With winter being drier, kangris are losing market share. Nowadays, people prefer thermal wear, electric appliances like blankets, heaters, Hamaam and blowers, or even carry hot water bags to stay warm,” he explained.

For centuries, the kangri was indispensable in Kashmiri homes, especially in areas plagued by electricity outages. Its deep cultural significance is reflected in an old saying: “What Laila was to Majnu, the kangri is to a Kashmiri.”

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Each year, Kashmiri families traditionally bought multiple Kangris, sustaining thousands of artisans. But today, the future looks bleak.

Survival at crossroads

Kangri-making may be a seasonal craft, but for hundreds of artisans, it is a year-round livelihood. Full-time weavers spend nearly the entire year gathering wicker, drying, processing, and weaving kangris, relying solely on this craft to sustain their families.

While women primarily peel the wicker, men handle the intricate assembly and finishing—a process passed down through generations. However, Kashmir’s shifting climate, rising raw material costs, and dwindling demand have pushed the industry to a precarious crossroads.

Ganaie, who completed his graduation in 2006, has witnessed the impact firsthand. “Just five years ago, 50 kg of twigs—the main raw material for kangri-making—sold for ₹500 to ₹600. By 2022, the price had shot up to ₹1,300. Similarly, an earthen pot (kondal), which used to cost ₹15, now costs ₹35,” he explained.

Hailing from Kaloosa in north Kashmir’s Bandipora district, Ganaie has involved his entire family in the craft. “I work from 7 am to 11 pm, while my wife and three children help for a few hours,” he said. Yet, despite their efforts, his Kangris remain unsold as the season nears its end.

Kaloosa in Bandipora, Okey in Pulwama, and Chrar-i-Sharief in Budgam are known for producing the finest Kangris, but declining demand and rising costs are threatening their survival.

In Kaloosa alone, around 500 households depend on Kangri-making, yet financial distress is mounting. Many artisans struggle to afford their children’s education, leading to an increase in school dropouts. The trade remains largely unorganized, forcing weavers into cycles of debt, selling their products at low prices just to recover costs.

As a result, a growing number of artisans have abandoned the craft or switched to other professions. Gulzar Ahmad, 43, from Tral, was once a skilled kangri maker but had to give up the trade due to personal hardships.

Six years ago, Ahmad was still weaving Kangris, but in 2019, he was diagnosed with chronic kidney disease. Despite his lifelong dedication to the craft, he received no government support or rehabilitation.

Shakhsaz’s street in Kanil Mohalla, Tral, once echoed with the sounds of Kangri-making in nearly every home. Today, warmer winters have slashed sales and demand, leaving only two artisans still carrying on the tradition.

“In our area, nearly 90% of people have abandoned this trade and turned to labor jobs. Our children face social stigma for being artisans, which has driven many to leave the craft. Even potters in our neighborhood, who once supplied the earthen pots for Kangris, have stopped their work, making production even more expensive,” Ahmad rued.

With each passing year, the kangri inches closer to becoming a relic of the past. Without intervention, the tradition that has warmed Kashmiri homes for centuries may fade into history, taking with it the livelihoods of thousands.

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“If we can’t even feed our families with this trade, how can we pass it on to the next generation?” Ganaie asked, his unsold kangris piling up as winter draws to a close.