PESHAWAR: In a small workshop tucked inside the narrow streets near Peshawar’s old city, 78-year-old Riaz Ahmad sat cross-legged on the floor, shaping thread-like lines of soft, off-white paste into swirling floral patterns. His hands were steady, his posture fixed, his expression one of practiced calm.


He has been doing this work for more than 60 years, long enough to know that with him, an entire art form might disappear.


“This work used to be everywhere,” he told Pakistan TV Digital, his voice steady but thoughtful. “They would make these patterns and paste them on the wooden ceilings of houses. First, they would apply sand, then mica, so that the design shimmered under the light.”


He paused, remembering a piece he once treasured. A ceiling panel he had kept for decades.


“I did not want to sell it,” he said. “But an Englishman insisted, at Lok Virsa [cultural festival in Pakistani capital of Islamabad]. I quoted Rs2,000 [$7.12]. He gave me Rs20,000 [$71.20] instead.”


The piece left his hands, but the memory never did.


Art passed down generations

Riaz traced the origins of this craft through his family line, a lineage older than the border that now divided Pakistan and India.


“My great-grandfather, Mian Muhammad, used to do this work before partition,” he said. “After partition, my grandfather came here. He had money then, around Rs20,000 to Rs25,000. He bought five or six houses. One of those is the house we still live in.”


His grandfather worked at Kabuli Gate. His father later moved to Saddar. And Riaz? He joined as soon as he finished his matriculation.


“The first design I made was the Taj Mahal,” he recalled, smiling softly.


What began as an apprenticeship turned into a life. Through his art, he raised his children and built his home. “I got my children married and settled through this work,” he said.


Craft built by hand, heart, and pain

The process behind each piece was slow, physical, and unforgiving.


Riaz explained how the paste, the foundation of the design, came from flax seeds heated and stirred in large cauldrons in Bara and Jamrud. Once cooled and kneaded, it turned into a workable dough. “We take a little in the hand,” he said. “We roll it into a thin string… and we create the design, line by line.”


Then came the brushwork. Then the sun. Only after drying under open sky would the piece be ready.


“It looks easy,” he said quietly, “but it is very hard work. Every single joint in your body aches. Your head spins. Your back hurts. You sit in one position and just keep making, keep making.”


Yet he continued, not out of obligation but devotion.


“I could never make such beautiful designs in my youth as I could now,” he said. “Because skill and knowledge are learned with the passion of the heart.”


Recognition, honor, and silence

Riaz’s talent did not go unnoticed. In 2004, he represented Pakistan in New Delhi under the theme “Dost-Kari.” There, he received the Seal of Excellence. Later, in 2012, he was awarded the “Tamgha-e-Imtiaz” by the President of Pakistan.


“It was a tremendous honour,” he said simply.


Once, in 1997, he recalled meeting the daughter of US President Bill Clinton. “She said I should not be sitting there,” he recalled. “She said I should be placed on a pedestal.” Her words stayed longer than the moment itself.


But acclaim did not mean survival. Not for the craft, not for the craftsmen.


The last two practitioners

Today, only Riaz and his eldest son remain.


“My eldest son and I — that’s it. No one else in the world,” he told Pakistan TV Digital. “The others in the family left the work. Some got sick. Some just left it. The art was too difficult.”


His son, now in his 50s, received orders from Japan and France, yet even he struggled to find time to create the older, traditional pieces. Demand was small. The labor was immense.


Riaz sold small works for Rs500 [$1.78]. Larger peacock designs sometimes for Rs3,000 [$10.68] to Rs5,000 [$17.80]. Each piece could take days. Sometimes weeks. Always, the price seemed too little for the time.


Riaz did not speak in regret. He spoke in hope, even if fragile.


“This art has been good for me,” he said. “But people should learn it, so this ancient art of Khyber Pakhtunkhwa lives on… even after me.”