For more than 150 years, the rhythmic clang of hammer on metal in Hoshiarpur’s lanes signaled the birth of exquisite brassware destined for homes across North India. Today, that once-thriving cottage industry teeters on the brink of extinction, its workshops dwindling from a pre-Independence high of 70 to barely 20, with only half still producing traditional utensils.
A Craft Carved in Time
The story of Hoshiarpur’s brass craftsmen began in the late 19th century, when a handful of families took to hand‑forging “valtohi” (deep cooking pots), “gagar” (water vessels), tumblers and decorative pieces. Demand surged, especially in the hills of Himachal Pradesh and the plains of Punjab, where the gleaming brass “kadi‑wale glass” reigned supreme for serving lassi. By the mid‑20th century, nearly 70 workshops dotted the town, attracting buyers even from as far as Peshawar.
Post‑1947, government‑regulated quotas for brass and copper fuelled expansion, lifting numbers to over 100 enterprises. Craftsmen celebrated prosperity, their products finding homes from Delhi to Lucknow. Yet, this golden era was not to last.
The Quota Cuts and Their Aftermath
In 1990, the government abruptly scrapped raw‑material quotas for small‑scale brass units. Without guaranteed access to affordable metal, scores of workshops fell silent almost overnight. A resilient 40–45 artisans tried to soldier on, purchasing brass on the open market, but soaring input costs and razor‑thin margins forced most to shutter their forges or seek work as laborers elsewhere.
“It became impossible for small operators,” explains local historian Priya Sethi. “Profit margins of just ₹80–150 per piece couldn’t cover rising fuel, labor and material expenses. Younger family members abandoned the trade for safer, steadier jobs.”
Survival on the Margins
Today, barely 20 workshops remain in Hoshiarpur. Of these, just six continue the full spectrum of utensil-making, while others carve religious symbols—“kalash” pots, “trishul” tridents and temple finials—tailoring to niche devotional markets.
One of the handful of survivors is 58‑year‑old craftsman Amar Singh, whose anvil still rings from dawn till dusk. Flanked by his sons—ages 33 and 23—he shapes heavy “valtohi” for a clientele rediscovering brass’s health merits. “People are waking up to the dangers of aluminum and non‑stick pans,” Amar says, pausing to wipe sweat from his brow. “But without government support, our art will vanish. My boys help me now, but I doubt their children will.”
A Call for Revival
Advocates and artisans alike urge policymakers to intervene with subsidies, craft fairs and heritage‑industry grants. “Brassware from Hoshiarpur is more than utilitarian—it’s living history,” asserts cultural preservationist Anjali Mehra. “If we lose these workshops, we lose a unique chapter of Punjabi craft.”
Some signs of revival glimmer: health‑conscious consumers are again seeking brass vessels, while boutique kitchenware shops in Delhi and Chandigarh have begun showcasing handcrafted pieces. But for a full resurgence, artisans need stable raw‑material supplies, training in modern design trends and platforms to reach wider markets.
As the sun sets over Hoshiarpur, the last few craftsmen oil their hammers in preparation for another day’s toil. Their legacy—shaped by centuries of tradition, skill and resilience—awaits a lifeline. Without it, the clang of brass on metal may soon echo only in memories and museum displays.
