A Vanishing Heritage: Kashmir’s Last Traditional Oil Mill

Sheikh Mustafa

SRINAGAR: Defying the march of time, a solitary flame flickers amidst the verdant valleys of Pulwama district in Kashmir to keep alive an age-old tradition. In the unassuming village of Namblabal, Ghulam Mohammad Wani stands as the custodian of a fading art, the last remaining ox-driven oil mill in Kashmir – a living relic from a bygone era.

Wani’s mill, a testament to the resilience of tradition, stands in stark contrast to the whirring machines and neon lights of modern processing units. This quaint, mud-brick structure with a weathered tin roof hums with a different kind of energy – the rhythm of heritage, the gentle creak of seasoned wood, and the resolute steps of an ox named Sheru, the silent partner in this unique endeavour.

For over 80 years, this mill, locally known as ‘Teli Waen Waan,’ has been extracting Kashmir’s essence through its golden mustard oil. Wani, a man seasoned with time and experience, has been at the helm for over six decades, carrying forward a legacy passed down through generations of his family, the ‘Telis’ or oil pressers.

“My grandfather taught my father, who taught me,” he says, his weathered hands guiding the heavy wooden wheel that crushes mustard seeds. “Now, I fear this knowledge will die with me.”

The process is labour-intensive and time-consuming. Mustard seeds are first roasted, then ground between two massive wooden wheels pulled by a bullock. The resulting paste is wrapped in grass mats and pressed to extract the oil. This method, unchanged for centuries, yields oil that is not only flavourful but also rich in health benefits.

A Glimpse into the Past

Stepping into Wani’s workspace is like being transported into the past.

Here the air is pregnant with the heavy natural scent of freshly pressed oil. The sunlight shines dimly through the holes in a tin roof throwing light on old wooden machines constituting the mill. A pole, made of wood and placed at its centre, acts as an axis of this place. Connected to it by a rope is Sheru, a gentle and quiet but bulky creature. Sheru walks on his fours around this whole structure making a beam tied with a yoke to press some mustard seeds on the ground down the log. In this way, slow and rhythmic pressure gradually produces the golden oil.

As the massive wooden wheel, driven by Sheru’s steady gait, grinds the oil seeds, it echoes the cadence of a vanishing way of life. With a deep reverence for his craft, Wani meticulously guides the process, ensuring each step adheres to the time-honoured methods passed down to him through generations.

“This mill,” Wani says, his voice a gentle rasp, “has been in my family for over two hundred years. My father, and his father before him, all knew was the art of oil pressing. It’s in my blood.”

However, as simple as it may seem, the process is hardly simple. It’s an intensive work of skill and passion. Each batch needs to be carefully prepared from cleaning and sun-drying seeds to determining the right pressure for maximum oil extraction. Quality takes time, its absence is rushed. But what comes out of it is the oil, rich in aroma and flavour, unlike commercial oils. Made in small quantities, this oil is a speciality, each bottle narrating the tale of Wani’s commitment and Sheru’s mute hard labour.

Wani’s mill is more than just a place of production, it is a repository of memories. The rhythmic creak of the wooden press evokes a sense of nostalgia, a connection to a time when life moved at a slower pace, and communities thrived on self-sufficiency. Visitors from all walks of life find their way to Wani’s doorstep, drawn not just by the exceptional oil, but also by the opportunity to witness a disappearing art form.

Ninety-year-old, Mohd Ramzan Sheikh sheds light on the significance of these mills. “Traditionally,” he explains, “almost every village in Kashmir boasted of an oil mill. They were the backbone of the local economy, providing not just cooking oil, but also oil for lamps and medicinal purposes.”  “These mills,” Sheikh adds, “were more than just businesses. They were community hubs, fostering social interaction and a sense of shared identity.”

Beyond Oil

Wani’s mill is not just about the oil, but it is a cultural quilt made out of stories and melodies. Stepping into his little house transports people to another age. A unique sensory experience is produced by the rhythmical clatter of the wooden press against the wooden base, repeated trudges of oxen and low hums of Kashmiri folk music. “Not only for oil,” Wani reveals, “but even an experience was something that led them to their heritage.”

Wani always has a smile on his face and sings Kashmiri folk songs as he sits down to work. He ascended the old wooden stairs to the attic at 9.00 AM every day where he had set up the mill and tied an ox to the wooden crank.

Wani, a nonagenarian with a twinkling smile, embodies the spirit of resilience. Despite the challenges of a changing world, he remains committed to his craft. “This is not just a job,” he confides, “it is a way of life. It connects me to my ancestors and keeps their legacy alive.”

The Heart of the Matter

But for Wani, it’s not about profit. It’s about preserving a legacy, a connection to his roots. The slow, deliberate process allows him to extract the purest form of oil, free from chemicals and adulteration. “There’s a distinct flavour to this oil,” he explains with pride, “a richness that commercially produced oils lack.” His customers, a loyal few who appreciate the quality and the tradition behind the product, echo his sentiment.

“There’s a difference,” Wani explains, his gaze fixed on the rhythmic movement of the oxen, “between this oil and what you find in stores. This is pure, unadulterated. It carries the taste of our land, the sweat of our brow.”

“It brings me joy,” he says, with a twinkle in his eye, “to see the appreciation in people’s eyes. To know that this legacy, even if on its last legs, still holds value.”

A Dying Art

However, with the advent of commercially produced, machine-pressed oils, these traditional mills began to vanish. Convenience and affordability won over the masses, leaving Wani’s mill as a solitary survivor.

“Technology has taken its toll,” Wani laments, a hint of sadness in his eyes. “The younger generation doesn’t see the value in this work. It’s hard, time-consuming, and frankly, not very profitable.”

The future of this unique mill hangs in the balance. Modernization has brought a wave of efficiency, and commercially produced oil floods the market. Younger generations, lured by faster-paced lifestyles, are less inclined to carry forward this labour-intensive profession. Sheru, too, is nearing the twilight of his working life.

“People tell me to shut down,” he says with a wry smile, “that it’s not profitable anymore. But for me, it’s not just about money. It’s about keeping this tradition alive, about showing the younger generation where we came from.”

Wani’s mill stands as a defiant symbol of a bygone era, a testament to the enduring human spirit. It’s a reminder that progress doesn’t always necessitate discarding the wisdom of the past. The rhythmic dance of Sheru around the central pole, the creaking of the wooden press, and the gentle hands of Wani guiding the process are more than just the mechanics of oil extraction. They are a symphony of tradition, a testament to a way of life that deserves to be preserved.

In a rapidly changing world, Kashmir’s last traditional oil mill stands as a poignant reminder of a heritage at risk, of wisdom passed through generations, and of a community’s struggle to hold onto its roots.

Perhaps, the future of Wani’s mill lies not just in nostalgia, but in innovation. Can this age-old technique be adapted to the modern world? Can it be integrated into sustainable, small-scale production models that cater to a growing niche market? The answers may lie in collaborations with chefs, entrepreneurs, and heritage conservationists.

Meanwhile, Wani continues his work, his determination as steady as his mill’s ancient wheel. As the sun sets over the Jhelum, casting long shadows across his workshop, he reflects, “This oil has lit our homes, cooked our food, healed our bodies. It’s the essence of Kashmir. As long as I’m here, this flame won’t die out.”

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