By Mahoor Haya Shah

They stole it, the Pheran.

Not the fabric, not the wool, not the thread—but the soul of it. They dragged it from the dusty alleys of downtown Srinagar, from its smoky kangris and the whispers of grandmothers by the fire, into boutiques with names like ‘Artisanal Kashmir’ and ‘Rustic Reverie’. Suddenly, this winter armor of the valley, this shapeless, timeless robe of resilience, had price tags and runway struts, slapped with labels that read ‘Bohemian chic’ or ‘Ethnic elegance.’ And it burned. Like the ember hidden in a kangri basket—it burned.

The Pheran was never meant to be glamorous. It wasn’t meant for billboards or Instagram hashtags. It was meant for survival. It’s what you wore when the snow suffocated the world outside. When the mountains turned white, and the air cut like knives, the Pheran was what saved you. It carried the smell of home: smoke from wood fires, the sharp musk of almond oil, and the faint tang of survival. But now? Now it reeks of appropriation.

I remember my grandmother’s Pheran. It hung off her small, hunched frame like a second skin. The cuffs were frayed, the fabric patched in places where time had gnawed at it. She’d sit by the window, cradling her kangri like it was a living thing, mumbling a prayer or........

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