By Shereen Naman
In the narrow alleys of old Srinagar, where copper engravers once sat hunched over glowing plates, there existed a silent companion to their art — a humble herb called kraich, known in English as dried Iberian knapweed. Valued for its medicinal power to treat weak eyesight, kraich was more than just a plant — it was a trusted healing ally in artisan households. Beyond its curative role, kraich held a respected place in Kashmir’s winter food culture, forming an important part of hokh suen, the region’s famed collection of sun-dried vegetables preserved for the long, harsh winters. Today, however, this once-revered herb sits in obscurity — known to a fading few, forgotten by many — a perfect example of something rich in value, but poor in use.
Kraich was especially revered by craftsmen in Kashmir who worked with extreme focus and fine detailing — copper engravers, woodcarvers, and calligraphers. Their art demanded microscopic attention, often in dimly lit workshops. Eyestrain was a natural occupational hazard. But they had a remedy that modern optometry doesn’t prescribe: the kraich plant.
A native herb with cooling and rejuvenating properties, kraich was typically dried and used as an infusion. Elders recall how it was steeped like saffron, its essence drawn out in copper cups, drunk slowly as part of a craftsman’s daily care. In some households, it was even boiled and used as a wash for tired eyes. The belief in its efficacy wasn’t blind tradition — it came from lived experience, where nature was the first pharmacy, and knowledge passed quietly from master to apprentice.
Despite its effectiveness, kraich has quietly vanished from the shelves of apothecaries and the lips of modern herbalists. You will rarely find it in urban dispensaries, and it is almost unknown to the younger generation. This once-reliable herb, part of Kashmir’s rich tapestry of folk medicine, is now relegated to fading memory — an unfortunate casualty of rapid medical commercialization and cultural neglect.
Its decline is not due to lack of value. On the contrary, kraich is believed to have multiple benefits — cooling the eyes, easing inflammation, and aiding concentration. But in an age dominated by instant solutions — eye drops, pills, and laser surgery — few have the patience or curiosity to seek out nature’s remedies. What we are witnessing is a break in the chain of oral knowledge — the kind that carried the legacy of kraich from one artisan’s bench to another.
Kashmiri traditional medicine, or hikmat, has long balanced nature with need. Plants like suranjan, banafsha, soonth, tethwain, and kraich were everyday allies in homes and workshops. Each had its place and season. The loss of kraich is not just the loss of a plant — it is the loss of a worldview. One in which healing was slow, respectful, and deeply rooted in the environment.
There is also an ecological side to this story. As urbanization spreads and traditional cultivation fades, plants like kraich are not being grown, harvested, or protected. With no demand, the supply vanishes. With no awareness, the habitat suffers. What we once considered ordinary is now at risk of becoming extinct.
The way forward is not difficult, but it requires attention. Universities and local research institutes can document kraich’s botanical identity, test its pharmacological properties, and make it available again through herbal pharmacies. Folk medicine practitioners should be interviewed, their recipes preserved. And more importantly, awareness must be raised — not only about kraich’s medicinal use but its cultural role in the lives of artisans.
Workshops, exhibitions, or short documentaries focusing on Kashmiri artisan lifestyles could spotlight kraich as part of a holistic heritage. Just as copper engraving, papier-mâché, and wood carving are being revived, so too should the natural remedies that supported those crafts. Even a small act — like reintroducing kraich into traditional household remedies — could go a long way in bringing it back to daily life.
In the age of consumerism, value is often measured in profit and packaging. But kraich reminds us that some of the most valuable things are quiet, modest, and forgotten. It offered care to those who gave their eyesight to beauty. It was nature’s way of thanking the hand that carved, etched, and created.
Today, as screens dominate our vision and stress takes its toll, kraich could be more relevant than ever. Yet it sits abandoned — not because it failed us, but because we failed to remember it.
It’s time to look back — not with nostalgia, but with respect. To reclaim the wisdom of plants like kraich is to heal not just our bodies, but our broken connection with nature itself.
