“Quae loca fabulosus lambit Hydaspes“
(What places the magnificent Jhelum washes!)
- Ode 1.22, Horace, Circa 3rd BC
With these lines, M. Aurel Stein began his authoritative Ancient Geography of Kashmir, written in 1899. Stein, deeply smitten by Kashmir and its rivers, was the first to translate Kalhana’s epic Rajatarangini—literally River of the Kings—into English.
The Jhelum—also known as Behat, Vyeth, Vitasta, and Hydaspes—has indeed washed legendary places like Srinagar, Baramulla, Anantnag, and Sopore. But it has also "washed" something far more delicate, something as much a fruit of the river as of Kashmir itself: the feather-light Pashmina shawl.
For at least the last 400 years, washing Pashmina shawls in the currents of the Jhelum at Srinagar has been an irreplaceable, final step in the shawl-making process. Travelers and connoisseurs of the past, along with the weavers and washers of today, attest that it is the Jhelum’s water which lends the Pashmina its unique, legendary softness. In this way, the river flows through the light, warm folds of the shawl—an adornment loved by many, from Emperor Akbar to Empress Josephine. But is this ancient link between a river and an artform unbroken today?
While walking along the maze of new and very ancient bridges in old Srinagar, a rhythmic whistle pierced the air. It was not coming from the pariah kites circling overhead—an all-too-common indicator of garbage and pollution. It came from the river.
Peering down at Ali Kadal, we saw the ancient Daeb Ghat, or Washerman’s Steps. There, Abdul Rashid Bhat, dressed in tattered shoes and a plastic apron, was beating a fragile Pashmina on a wooden slat. He would slosh it into the dark water of the Jhelum and repeat the motion. This washing is essential to free the fiber and release the natural adhesive that binds it during weaving. Every beat of the shawl against the riverbank was accompanied by a whistle, creating a melody that felt like a happy laundry-day song. Nearby, ivory-white Pashminas fluttered on a clothesline along the cobbled bank. The Jhelum ran ink-black, yet the shawls drying above it appeared untouched, cloud-like.
Bhat told us he has been washing Pashminas here for thirty years. The polluted river water causes itching on his hands and feet, but this is his life. He is one in a long line of people who process hand-spun Pashminas. As we spoke, two people sauntered along Ali Kadal and casually dumped a sack of food waste into the river. The pariah kites swooped down instantly. I shouted in disbelief. Bhat did not even look up. "This keeps happening. Someone needs to stop this," he said.
The Jhelum Riverfront Development Project moves steadily along, but one wonders about the logic of beautifying the ghats of a river that is clearly carrying raw sewage. Nearby, an enthusiastic worker pointed out the ancient slats once used for washing. They had been thrown into the river and lay half-submerged, resembling animal carcasses.
At another yarbal near Zaina Kadal, we met Danish and Akit, brothers who trade in Pashmina and Kani shawls. "We've lived here for generations. We can see the river from our windows. We've washed Pashminas here since my grandfather's time, at least." Washers they employ toil inside the river, while spinners and dryers work on the steps. Large, bouncy bundles of freshly washed shawls sparkle on the riverbank. "A family works at each yarbal," they explained. "It's not a written contract, but an understanding. We've been on this yarbal for ages. Earlier, the washing and polishing of Pashmina was a secret known only to five families. Now it's widespread. With that, the use of soaps and chemicals has increased—just as the river itself has grown dirtier."
The historical texts paint a picture of a process once in harmony with nature. The Ain-i-Akbari records the whimsy of Pashmina, noting the riot of colors favored by Akbar and the organic dyes used—blues from indigo, yellow from the Flame of the forest, green from grasses in Kashmir, orange from wild rhubarb, rust from pomegranate and walnut rind. The color palette reads less like chemistry and more like ecology.
Walter Lawrence's 1895 gazetteer, The Valley of Kashmir, notes the organic soaps used in the process. Roots of plants like Sahour and Krist were used, while colored shawls needed no soap at all. Soap was made locally from the alkaline ashes of pine and elm, mixed with mutton fat and bean flour. The region around Sopore was once renowned for this soap manufacture.
The story of the shawl begins long before it reaches the Jhelum. The wool comes from the highlands of Ladakh, from the Changthangi goats reared by the Changpa tribe. This is an ancient trade, with records dating back to the 14th century, when the Sufi saint Shah-e-Hamadan is said to have brought shawl-weaving techniques to Kashmir from Central Asia, along with the fine wool from the goats of Greater Tibet.
Today, every link in this long chain is under threat. Climate change is altering snowfall patterns on the Changthang Plateau, affecting the very source of the wool. In April 2024, the Pashmina March highlighted the plight of shepherds losing animals to cross-border violence along their traditional grazing grounds. In Srinagar, periods of unrest disrupt the trade as well.
The iconic paisley motif, so often found in Pashmina, is steeped in syncretic origin stories. One connects its graceful curve to a bend in the Jhelum. Furthermore, the famous "map shawls" woven in the late nineteenth century often depicted the azure Jhelum flowing through the heart of Srinagar, complete with boats, bridges, fish, and birds. The river was literally woven into the fabric.
And then, there was the unique quality of the Jhelum's waters. The French traveler Francois Bernier, who visited Kashmir in the 17th century, observed that great pains were taken to manufacture similar shawls in Patna, Agra, and Lahore, but they never acquired the delicate texture and softness of the Kashmiri originals. He speculated that this unrivalled softness might be due to "the specific powers of the waters of the country."
Frank Ames, in Woven Legends, notes that it was not unusual to ship textiles long distances for special processing; just as the rich dyes of the Pashmina shawls were brought to life by washing them in the Jhelum, the special qualities of Srinagar’s waters were legendary. This connection was formally recognized when Pashmina received its Geographical Indication (GI) tag in 2005. The official GI journal explicitly states that the fabric is finally washed by traditional washers in the running waters of the tributaries of the river Jhelum, in clear, cold water on the banks of streams in Srinagar.
Across India, similar river-fabric relationships exist: the chintz of Machilipatnam with the Krishna, Bagh prints with the Baghini, Kanchipuram silks with the Palar. These links live not only in stories but are enshrined in their own GI registrations.
Can the bond between Jhelum and Pashmina continue?
It is heartbreaking to see the storied Jhelum—rising resplendently at Verinag—so thoroughly decimated. Solid-waste management and sewage treatment in Srinagar appear nonexistent. The ancient yarbals lie in shambles, and the river carries near-undiluted sewage. The riverfront project, in this context, looks garish, like applying rouge to the cheeks of an unwell patient.
Our friend Babur Hussain, who works on the Jhelum, says, "It’s a miracle how this dirty water cleans the Pashmina." The question of whether washing Pashmina contributes to pollution is nuanced. The process can easily be made river-friendly through the use of natural soaps and bio-enzymes, within a framework of environmental governance. What is missing is not tradition or technique, but governance. The polluted Jhelum is destroying the very people who stand knee-deep in its waters to bring a shine to the world’s most elegant shawls.
Washing Pashmina on the banks of the Jhelum could be a dignified, living heritage—a meaningful cultural attraction in a city sustained by such invisible labor. It is not so today. Rejuvenating the Jhelum would also mean rejuvenating this ancient occupation, an occupation that binds beauty, art, and local livelihoods to the river.
Of all the places that the Jhelum, or Hydaspes, washes, perhaps the Pashmina shawl is the most elusive and the most precious.
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Source: South Asia Network on Dams, Rivers and People (SANDRP) website. Parineeta Dandekar is with SANDRP. This piece was first published as a part of the River Ethnographies Project supported by The Ohio State University. Pix: Abhay Kanvinde
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