Dr. Ratan Bhattacharjee
Rabindranath Tagore’s Kabuliwala remains one of the most unforgettable short stories in Indian literature. The image of the tall Afghan trader who came to Kolkata carrying dried fruits and nuts, selling shawls and finding a reflection of his own daughter in a little Bengali girl named Mini, is etched in our collective memory. Beyond the tenderness of that father-daughter bond, the story painted a vivid picture of a cultural encounter between distant worlds: Afghanistan and Bengal, connected by the shawls, raisins, and almonds carried by the Kabuliwala.Those who grew up in the 1950s, 60s, and even 70s remember the knock at the door when a shawl seller would appear, his heavy bundle on his shoulder, his sharp features softened by a smile. These were the Kabuliwalas, sometimes Afghans, sometimes Kashmiris, who carried with them not just shawls but also a romance of migration, trust, and shared humanity. They would sell shawls on credit, returning month after month until the middle-class families of Bengal or other Indian towns could pay. But where are they now? What happened to the Kabuliwalas, once so familiar in our streets and homes?
Tagore’s story was published in 1892, long before the Partition, when the Afghan traders had already created a presence in Kolkata. Their distinctive attire, turbans, and long coats set them apart from the locals. They were not merely traders; they were symbols of a faraway land and an enduring trust. The Kabuliwala became a cultural archetype—the foreigner who was not foreign, the trader who entered homes with dignity, often befriending children and women, and patiently waiting for his dues. His shawls and nuts were not just commodities; they were part of a human story.That archetype lingered long after the story was written. In many Indian households, even until the 1980s, when a shawl seller would arrive, elders would affectionately call him “Kabuliwala.” The literary Kabuliwala thus merged with the flesh-and-blood Kashmiri and Afghan traders who once thrived across the subcontinent. While Tagore’s Kabuliwala hailed from Kabul, the shawl sellers who became common in post-Independence India were often Kashmiris. Kashmir has for centuries been the heartland of exquisite shawls—the famed Pashmina, Shahtoosh (now banned due to wildlife protection), and fine woollens woven with artistry. The Kashmiri shawl seller was both a trader and an ambassador of his culture. He travelled across India, from the streets of Kolkata to the lanes of Chennai, from the towns of Assam to the cities of Maharashtra. Carrying bundles of carefully folded shawls, he would knock on doors and unfold his wares in middle-class drawing rooms.Unlike today’s instant-purchase consumerism, the trade was based on patience and trust. Shawls were expensive, but they were sold on long-term credit. The seller would maintain a notebook, recording the names and monthly payments of customers. For the families, buying a Kashmiri shawl was not merely about fashion; it was about owning a piece of tradition, something to be gifted at weddings or preserved as an heirloom.
These shawl sellers were storytellers too. They spoke of Srinagar’s Dal Lake, of snowfall in Gulmarg, of the beauty of the Chinar trees. For people in other parts of India, their words carried the fragrance of Kashmir, creating an intimate connection with the Valley.By the late 1990s and early 2000s, these figures of nostalgia began to vanish. Several reasons contributed to their disappearance.The insurgency in Kashmir since the late 1980s disrupted traditional patterns of trade. Many shawl weavers and sellers faced threats, curfews, and restrictions on mobility. With the Valley becoming a conflict zone, the age-old practice of seasonal migration for trade diminished drastically.
The rise of shopping malls, branded stores, and later, e-commerce changed how Indians purchased clothing. People no longer waited for the shawl seller to visit their homes. They could simply walk into FabIndia, Kashmiri emporiums, or click online to buy Pashmina. The intimacy of door-to-door selling was replaced by the anonymity of retail.The old system of selling on credit relied on mutual trust and long-term relationships. In a fast-paced, urbanized society, such trust weakened. Families moved frequently, nuclear households replaced extended ones, and cash transactions became immediate. For the shawl seller, it was no longer sustainable to carry debt for months.Machine-made and synthetic shawls flooded the market, often much cheaper than handwoven Kashmiri pieces. Many buyers could not distinguish between authentic Pashmina and its imitations. This reduced the value of the traditional trade and pushed many sellers out of business.For younger Kashmiris, the life of a travelling shawl seller was no longer attractive. Education, tourism, IT, and other professions offered better prospects. The children of shawl sellers did not wish to follow their fathers’ footsteps, preferring more stable and modern livelihoods.
The absence of the shawl-selling Kabuliwala is felt most keenly in the nostalgia of those who grew up with them. Elderly women in Kolkata or Lucknow often recall how the shawl seller would come year after year, sometimes even attending weddings of the families he traded with. The relationship was not merely economic; it was social and emotional.For middle-class women, buying a Kashmiri shawl was a matter of pride. It symbolized warmth, elegance, and status. The visits of the shawl seller were occasions of anticipation, as if Kashmir itself had arrived at the doorstep.Today, these stories are told with a sigh. When people see a Kashmiri shawl in a showroom, they remember the days when it was unfolded on their own sofa, with the seller describing its weave, its softness, and its origin.What makes the memory so powerful is not only the shawl or the trade but the element of trust. In a time when economic life was slower and more personal, the Kabuliwala represented honesty. He carried goods worth thousands of rupees, yet he would hand them over on credit, believing in the customer’s word.This trust is what Tagore captured in his story too—the idea that commerce could be human, that trade could coexist with affection, that strangers could become part of our homes.
Though the traditional shawl seller is gone from most Indian towns, the Kashmiri shawl itself has not disappeared. Kashmir continues to produce Pashmina, and global demand ensures that it finds markets abroad. In fact, many Kashmiri families now export directly to Europe, America, and the Middle East, bypassing door-to-door selling.Government emporiums, online platforms, and luxury boutiques now showcase the shawl as a premium product. But in this shift, the intimacy of the Kabuliwala has been lost. A shawl can still be bought, but the story, the conversation, the relationship cannot.
Interestingly, some NGOs and cooperatives are trying to revive direct trade by connecting weavers to customers online, ensuring fair prices. Yet the figure of the itinerant shawl seller, who carried his bundle from house to house, is unlikely to return. The disappearance of the Kabuliwala from our streets is more than an economic change—it is a cultural loss. It reflects how urban India has moved from personal, trust-based transactions to impersonal, market-driven consumption. It also reflects the fading of cross-cultural encounters that once enriched everyday life.In losing the Kabuliwala, we lose not only a trader but also a storyteller, a bridge between Kashmir and the rest of India, between faraway lands and familiar homes.
So, where are the Kabuliwalas now? Some have returned to Kashmir, some shifted to other trades, and some have sent their children to colleges and offices, leaving behind the bundle of shawls forever. They are gone from our streets but alive in our memories, in Tagore’s story, and in the nostalgia of generations.The Kabuliwala, whether from Kabul or Kashmir, was more than a salesman. He was a symbol of human connection, of trust that transcended distance and difference. His absence today makes us wonder whether our modern progress has come at the cost of such human bonds.
Perhaps the Kabuliwala still exists—in every small trader who travels far from home, in every act of trust between seller and buyer, in every story of migration and memory. But the shawl-seller who once knocked on our doors has become a part of history, a tender reminder of a world that valued human relationships as much as commerce.In remembering him, we remember a more humane way of living, where even a simple shawl could carry with it warmth, trust, and a story that bound people together.
International Tagore Awardee Poet Dr.Ratan Bhattacharjee a former Affiliate Faculty of Virginia Commonwealth University USA is the writer of the story .Email. profratanbhattacharjee@gmail.com
