The narrow lanes of Kainchi Bazaar—literally “Scissors Market”—in Meerut once echoed with the sound of grinding metal from scores of workshops. Sparks flew from sharpening wheels, hammers struck heated iron, and artisans worked shoulder to shoulder in cramped rooms filled with the smell of metal and oil. For generations, the market has been known for turning scrap metal into durable handmade scissors that travelled from this small corner of Uttar Pradesh to barbers, tailors, and craftsmen across India and beyond.

Unlike mass-produced tools, these scissors are built to last for decades and can be sharpened and repaired repeatedly instead of being discarded. The workmen proudly repeat an old saying: Dada le, pota barte (“The grandfather bought it, the grandson still uses it”). Today, however, the sound is fading.

In 2013, Meerut’s handmade scissors received a geographical indication (GI) tag, recognising the craft as unique to the region. It has deep roots in local history. Some say the tradition dates back to the Mughal era, when blacksmiths began producing specialised cutting tools. Others believe it evolved from the making of sarota, a tool used to cut betel nuts for paan (betel leaf wrapped around a filling of areca nut and slaked lime). Over time the skill expanded into the making of scissors for textile, leather, and other delicate work.

The industry grew steadily over the centuries. Families built their lives around the trade. Workshops passed from fathers to sons. Children grew up watching blades being heated, hammered, and polished.

Now many of those workshops are closed.

Kainchi Bazaar today wears a desolate look. Rows of shuttered shops line the narrow street. Some artisans sit quietly inside dim rooms, waiting for customers who rarely come. Many have already left the profession.

Mohammad Akhtar Ziya, who runs a shop called Central Scissors, has watched the decline unfold over the years. Standing outside his workshop, he points to the growing competition from cheap imported scissors. Mass-produced tools from China now dominate markets across the country. “Families have worked here for generations. But people buy what is cheaper. That is pushing the craft to its end,” he said.

According to artisans, the financial pressure has grown heavier with the introduction of GST. Handmade scissors fall under the 18 per cent GST bracket, which many small manufacturers struggle to absorb. Rising costs of raw material and shrinking demand have made survival increasingly difficult.

There was a brief moment of hope during the COVID-19 lockdown. With imports disrupted, locally made scissors saw a rise in demand. Workshops became active again. For a short while, the bazaar felt alive. The revival did not last. As global trade resumed, imported scissors returned to the market and orders declined once again.

Inside the workshops that still operate, work continues much as it always has. Scrap metal from discarded automobiles is cut into rough shapes. The pieces are heated and hammered into blades. Workers grind the edges against spinning wheels that throw fine metallic dust into the air. The blades are then polished, aligned, and assembled into scissors.

A single pair passes through several hands before it is ready to to sold. Blacksmiths, sharpeners, polishers, and assemblers all play a role in the process. The artisans who spend years inhaling the tiny metal particles released during sharpening often end up suffering from respiratory illnesses. But they continue because this trade is all they know.

Some leave though. Mohammad Saeed once ran a scissors manufacturing unit in the market. Today, he operates a small confectionery shop nearby. “I could not support my family with that work any longer,” he said.

Others continue despite uncertainty. Haji Siraj opens his workshop only for a few hours. There is barely enough business to keep the shop open throughout the day.

Meerut’s scissors embody the idea of sustainability, being made from recycled scrap and created to last for generations. At a time when sustainability is upheld as the survival mantra, it is ironic that this age-old craft is floundering.

Abeer Athar is a freelance journalist and author with experience in radio broadcasting and editing.

Also Read | Poisoned by growth

Also Read | A city stirred by dissent