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TAXILA, Pakistan: The scent of turpentine and chalky plaster filled the modest workshop in Dheri Shah, a neighborhood tucked away in the ancient city of Taxila, where millennia-old ruins still murmur stories of Gandharan emperors and Buddhist monks.

Amid shelves lined with delicate vases and ornate pots, 65-year-old Ishfaq Ahmed Siddiqui dipped a fine brush into dark blue paint and carefully trailed it along a pristine white surface. The floral motif bloomed under his hand, petal by petal, on an object molded not from clay or stone, but from plaster of Paris.

Siddiqui is a solitary figure in a fading tradition. For over three decades, he has shaped everyday materials into works of art, channeling the ancient spirit of Taxila, a city once renowned across Asia for its intellectual brilliance, artistic mastery, and Buddhist heritage.

“I am the first person to design on plaster of Paris with paint, who painted on plaster of Paris in Taxila,” Siddiqui told Arab News, his voice weathered with time and hard work.

Once known as Takshashila, the “City of Cut Stone” in Sanskrit, Taxila flourished from the 5th century BCE to the 6th century CE as a Buddhist cultural and educational hub. Its stone-carved stupas and statues still attract archaeologists and pilgrims from around the world.

But where generations of craftsmen once chipped away at granite and schist, Siddiqui reached for plaster.

It wasn’t always this way.

Traditional clay was the medium of choice for local potters in Taxila, but as climate change altered soil availability and water levels, craftsmen were forced to import clay from distant regions, driving up costs.

“I used to face a lot of difficulties in buying and working with clay,” Siddiqui explained. “Now it’s not available easily because of climate change and other factors, so plaster was easily available and cost-effective, and we could mold it into different forms and shapes easily.”

When he began experimenting with plaster of Paris, a material more accessible and easier to mold, Siddiqui was met with skepticism.

“A shopkeeper wondered who would buy them. I told him, ‘Keep them, display them in the morning and put them back inside in the evening. When they get sold, give me the money’.”

The next day, the pieces were gone:

“With the grace of Allah, they sold the very next day.”

THE CRAFT OF STILLNESS

Inside Siddiqui’s workshop earlier this month, time appeared to slow. He began with a simple white powder, plaster of Paris, mixed with water to form a creamy paste. From there, the material was poured into molds and left to set. Once hardened, each piece was smoothed, painted, and often gilded, transforming from a lifeless lump into a vessel of elegance.

“It started simply,” Siddiqui says, his fingers still chalky from his morning’s work. “I was fascinated by the way plaster could be molded, how it could capture the essence of something as fleeting as a flower.”

Siddiqui’s floral motifs — delicate jasmine vines, rose buds, tulip swirls — draw inspiration from nature and history alike. With customized tools, many of which he has crafted himself, he engraves and embellishes each piece, hand-painting them in vibrant hues or subtly gilding them for emphasis. These pieces, whether wall décor or architectural embellishments, radiate a timeless elegance that harks back to Taxila’s artistic golden age.

“There’s a tranquility in it,” Siddiqui said, gesturing to a half-finished panel adorned with curling vines. “You lose yourself in the detail, in bringing something beautiful into existence.”

His items, which sell for anywhere between Rs700 and Rs2,000 ($2.45–$7), might not fetch gallery prices, but they carry the weight of heritage.

Renowned cultural expert and folklorist Uxi Mufti, based in Islamabad, said Siddiqui’s work carried particular historical weight.

“The use of floral motifs in plasterwork has deep roots in South Asian and Islamic art,” Mufti said.

“From the ancient Gandharan stupas in Taxila itself, which often featured intricate stucco decorations, to the Mughal architecture adorned with exquisite floral carvings, this tradition speaks to a long history of appreciating natural beauty in artistic expression.”

In the context of plasterwork, Mufti said, the flower motifs “beautify a space but also connect it to a rich tapestry of artistic and philosophical traditions. Siddiqui is not just creating decorative items, he is preserving and continuing a living cultural legacy.”

Many artisans historically used stucco, a fine plaster made of lime, to create decorative reliefs on stone structures.

“It’s very difficult to carve granite, so artisans turned to stucco. But now, from stucco it has degenerated or rather it has come down to an easier, much easier medium which is plaster of Paris,” Mufti said.

But the tradition is teetering on the edge of extinction.

“Over the past 70 years, many of our master artisans have grown old. Some have passed on, and those who are still practicing don’t want their children to learn the art because they can’t make enough money. So many of our great art traditions are vanishing.”

Indeed, in a world that prizes speed and scale, handcrafted work like Siddiqui’s is struggling to survive. Machines produce faster, cheaper, and more uniformly. What is lost, however, is the soul of the work, the intimate connection between creator and creation.

“In an age of rapid industrialization and mass production, the skilled hands of craftsmen like Siddiqui are invaluable,” Mufti said.

“They maintain a direct link to historical techniques and aesthetic sensibilities that might otherwise be lost. Their work serves as a tangible connection to our heritage and keeps traditional arts vibrant.”

Siddiqui too admitted his was a drying craft. Orders had dwindled, and younger artisans were reluctant to enter a craft that promised more passion than profit.

But for him, the work was still its own reward.

“I only used to paint. There are no hand painters anymore,” Siddiqui said. “I feel sad that the real culture of Taxila is no more. Everything has changed.”