The last generation of rafugars
A preference for fast fashion is putting darners out of business, killing a centuries-old form of fabric recycling
“It’s like losing a family member," says Manmeet Kaur Bindra, her five friends nodding in agreement. The neighbours in Delhi’s Kalkaji are discussing the locality’s darner or rafugar, Wasim Khan, who died, aged 85, on 17 March.
The six women, in the 45-55 age group, have many stories about masterji—a tall, lanky bearded man who sat hunched on a wooden stool, under a peepul tree, from 11am-6pm, darning clothes. Bindra says her mother-in-law introduced her to Khan when she moved to this part of Delhi as a 25-year-old bride two decades ago. She recalls the time he refused to darn a hole in her chiffon duppatta at the last minute, which meant she had to change her whole outfit before a family wedding.
He was a jaadugar (magician), the six insist. “You couldn’t even make out where the tear was (after he’d fixed it)," says Bindra, a private school teacher.
“Do you know how difficult it is to find a good rafugar," Arti Joshi, a marketing head at an advertising firm, asks. “They are getting rarer."
So rare that even after weeks of searching, the six women haven’t managed to find a reliable rafugar. “Masterji’s son knows the work but refuses to do it (he chose to be a rickshaw puller)," says Bindra. “My children say just one thing to me, ‘throw the clothes’."
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Their stories illustrate the change rafugiri, or the art of mending clothes, is going through across India. The history of rafugiri is probably as old as the creation of the first piece of cloth; all garments need repair at some point. Yet, this craft isn’t recognised as a craft.
That’s among the reasons why its practitioners—those who work independently and not with designers or brands—who once flourished in most neighbourhoods given India’s long-held belief in upcycling and recycling, are fast disappearing. The other reasons are similar to those that afflict any traditional craft: very little money for labour so physically and mentally intensive, and little interest among younger generations to carry forward this craft. Plus, there’s the growing trend of use-and-throw fashion, encouraged by social media and increased spending power.
There are no official numbers to convey the strength of rafugars across India, but if you ask your neighbours, friends or colleagues, chances are they will say they see fewer of them.
Javed Ashraf, a rafugar in Mumbai’s Crawford Market, and Ghulam Mujahib in Bengaluru’s Jumma Masjid Road agree.
“Mine is the last generation of rafugars," says Ahsan Mirza, 83, who lives in Najibabad, a small city 200km from Uttar Pradesh that’s historically famous as the hub of rafugars.
Like his father, grandfather and great grandfather, he’s been practising rafugari since he was a child. Mirza mostly mends old pashmina and kani shawls from clients in Delhi and Kashmir, who have known him for at least two decades.
“Thirty years ago, there were at least 10 khandaans (families) who used to practise rafugiri. Now, there’s one or two," he says. “My children know it but they are more interested in selling shawls."
A big part of the reason for their drop in numbers is the lack of demand, points out Saleem Beg, convener, INTACH (Indian National Trust for Art and Cultural Heritage; Jammu & Kashmir chapter).
“About 10 years ago, we had two rafugar centres but now they are shut because nobody comes. Twenty years ago, when I used to go to parties in other cities, I used to see many people in old, antique shawls that had been restored... people wanted to flaunt their heirlooms. Now, spotting an old shawl comes as a surprise."
He isn’t sure what has prompted this change. “Maybe people, in general, have lost interest in old things and are giving them away? The youngsters of today definitely don’t seem that interested in repairing old things; they have very different equation with fashion."
Fashion seems more transactional for the young. “They would rather buy a new shirt or a pant they saw on Instagram and dump their old clothes," says Mirza, “instead of getting their clothes fixed".
The demand for new clothes is reflective in the growth of India’s fast fashion segment: 30-40% in 2023-24, according to a report by Redseer Strategy Consultants last year.
The drop in demand for the services of rafugars over the past decade is also because older adults, too, prefer to buy than repair. “We have become busier, patience levels have dropped," says Lucknow-based Naghma Praveen, the founder of an eponymous brand that reimagines traditional Awadhi chikankari for modern wear. She’s been going to the same rafugar, Shahid Hussain, for the past two decades. He has a “thriving" business, earning ₹15,000-18,000 a month after working 12 hours a day.
“It takes about a week to learn rafugiri; it’s not that hard. What’s hard is sitting all day on a stool with one knee up with the cloth tucked between the legs, and hands, eyes and mind engaged at all times. You miss one thread, and all the work goes to waste. All this effort to earn ₹200-300 (per garment)," says Hussain, 74, fondly called Jannan by his customers, most of whom are women over the age of 35.
Hussain learnt the skill from his mamu (uncle) after dropping out of school at the age of 10. “Everyone around me was doing it, so were some of my family members," says Hussain, “There used to be over 25 rafugars in Hazratganj when I started 60 years ago, now it’s just me. After covid, a lot of my friends left the work. I think it will die with me; I didn’t teach my children."
Why? “I get respect, yes, but I don’t think rafugiri gets as much respect. People are coming to me because they have no other rafugar to go to. One day, they will also disappear. So will I. And nobody would even notice."
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