Every morning before the city fully wakes, Ghulam Rasool boards the Smart City bus from Budgam to Srinagar carrying not just baskets woven from Kashmiri poosh kaani, but decades of labour, memory and quiet resistance.

At 68, his hands move with the certainty of a man who has repeated the same work for nearly six decades. The baskets, stacked carefully beside him, are light in weight but heavy with tradition. Each one is handmade, shaped from poosh kaani, the local reed material long used in Kashmir for household baskets, storage containers and decorative craft.

To most passengers, he is another elderly artisan travelling to sell his goods. But behind the calm expression and gentle smile is the story of a man who has spent his life protecting a craft many have abandoned.

“I was 11 when I started this work,” he says, adjusting the edge of one basket with his fingers. “At that time, I did not know it would become my whole life.

”Rasool lives in Budgam and travels regularly to Srinagar and nearby villages to sell his baskets. He says village customers still value handmade Kashmiri products, especially traditional baskets used for storing vegetables, bread and household items.

“People in villages still love these,” he says. “They know the worth of handmade things. Machine-made items come and go, but handmade work stays in the house for years.”

His destination changes depending on demand. Some days he visits local markets, other days he travels directly to villages where customers know him by name. Many wait for him because they trust the durability of his work and because the baskets carry something more than utility they carry familiarity.

For Rasool, the work does not end with the day’s travel. Most of the labour happens at home, often late into the night.

“I have four daughters,” he says simply. “I work till late night because responsibilities do not sleep.”

His voice carries no complaint, only fact. Supporting a family through traditional handicraft is not easy, especially in a market increasingly dominated by factory-made alternatives that are cheaper and faster to produce.

Yet he continues.

When asked why he chooses the Smart City bus instead of hiring a cab to transport his baskets, he laughs softly, as though the answer should be obvious.

“There is more space here,” he says, pointing toward the aisle where his baskets are placed carefully. “And the fare is less. I cannot afford a cab every day to move from Budgam to Srinagar.”

Public transport has become part of his working life. The bus is not just cheaper; it is practical. It allows him to carry multiple baskets without the burden of high transport costs that would eat into already small profits.

In a city where people often speak of development through roads, buildings and technology, Rasool’s presence on the bus offers another picture of urban life one where survival depends on daily calculation, where every saved rupee matters.

Watching him, it becomes difficult not to think about the invisible labour carried by ordinary men. Their struggle rarely becomes news. It moves quietly through bus stations, roadside tea stalls and village markets, unnoticed because it is so common.

Rasool represents that quiet economy.

When asked if he ever considered leaving this profession for another job, he pauses for the first time. Then he smiles a small, knowing smile that seems older than the conversation itself.

“I am not a follower of colonialism,” he says.

The answer is unexpected.He explains that for him, abandoning traditional handicraft would mean surrendering to the idea that only modern, imported or industrial work has value. It would mean accepting that local skills must disappear to make room for something considered more profitable or more respectable.

“I do not want handicraft to die,” he says. “If we all leave this work, then what will remain of us?”

His words are not political in the formal sense, but they carry the weight of cultural resistance. In Kashmir, where craft is deeply tied to identity from carpets and shawls to woodwork and wicker losing traditional artisans means losing part of collective memory.

Rasool knows the economics are difficult. Younger generations often do not want to continue because the income is uncertain and the work is physically demanding. He does not blame them.

Times have changed, he says, and survival asks different questions now.But he believes some things should not be measured only by profit.

Handicraft, for him, is not nostalgia. It is dignity. It is proof that labour done by hand still matters.

As the bus moves through Srinagar’s roads, passengers step on and off, barely noticing the elderly man beside the baskets. He remains quiet, watching the city pass by, preparing for another day of selling.

There is no grand performance in his struggle. No dramatic speech. Only the discipline of repetition: weaving, travelling, selling, returning, and beginning again.

In a world rushing toward convenience, Ghulam Rasool moves at the speed of patience.

And perhaps that is why his baskets matter.

They are not just containers woven from reeds. They are small acts of preservation, carried from Budgam to Srinagar, from one generation to another, by a man who refuses to let his inheritance disappear.

“I carry baskets,” he says before stepping off the bus, “but really, I carry my father’s work, and his father’s work before him.”