Where do you get your furniture from?

My grandparents' home was straight out of the 1970s. A low ceiling hung above a dimly lit living room with walls of yellowing paint. The room had a mild antiseptic smell, and a small coffee table added to its seasoned appearance.

As the story went, my grandfather was the first in a long line of carpenters to attend university. This table was one of the few pieces that his great-grandfather had worked on, and it had been passed down to him, with each generation maintaining it and adding their signature to it. Nana Abu was an amateur tarkhan at best, but he, too, had left his imprint, integrating a small compartment for books and magazines, the darker veneer of which was in sharp contrast with the rest of the table. Like the rest of the home, it was imperfect and utterly unique. 

Since moving to DHA, I have seen a number of “modern” homes. Yet none possess the ineffable quality that my grandparent’s home did. That is because the furnishings, decorations, accessories and miscellaneous items make a house a home soulless and generic. Where once a writing desk was an heirloom made by hand from local artisans and carpenters, a signifier of high taste, there are now a number of pre-fab, ready-to-assemble options made from cheaper materials. Where once the paintings that hung on our walls spoke volumes of the artist, there now stand uninspiring drawings and designs bought unthinkingly in bulk at branded homeware stores, or any cheaper alternatives. The list goes on. Look around your home, around the milleiu that makes up your life. What is the story behind it? Have you ever wondered at all about where your homewares come from?

One could be excused for dismissing this observation for a few valid reasons. Firstly, it simply does not matter. The kind of conscientious homemaking that I am describing could not interest the vast majority of people. I advise the reader to think about why that is the case. Why do we take such little pride and interest in truly personalising the space that is so, well, personal to us? Why should every corner of it that is not purely functional speak volumes about our identity? There is the more critical retort. Affordability. The sort of taste I may appear to be advocating for may betray me as an elitist. Can the average person be blamed for not investing in a pure Shisham writing desk in this economy? The simple answer is no. Like most structural phenomena associated with late-stage capitalism, the blame does not fall on the individual consumer. However, our thoughtless purchasing and alignment with the goals and values of mass consumption are not just errors in taste; they are neglects that actively impact a huge class of people. 

Once, the act of purchasing furniture was a conscious, thought-out decision. A shop visit was not just a sale; it was a conversation, promising quality and craftsmanship. The artisan was not unknown but a familiar face, someone whose skill was acknowledged and whose labour was valued. That was before industrialisation cut through the fabric of our lives, replacing it with something more efficient, more forgettable.

Now, we step into sleek, air-conditioned stores where identical, mass-produced items are piled high on the shelves. We do not need to visit an artisan's workshop or wait for a product to be crafted with care. After all, the decision is made for us before we even consider it. A wooden table, a marble vase, an intricately carved mirror—once symbols of a region’s artistic heritage—are now available in homogeneous designs that blur the distinction between countries, cultures, and histories.

At first glance, it is a matter of convenience. We go to whichever shop is closer, with lower prices and endless options. But is it just convenience, or do we just not care? While we may claim that our local artisans are cut off, that their products are difficult to access, and that their prices are unreasonably high, the reality is that we have simply stopped looking for them. The distance is not measured in miles but in our unwillingness to step beyond the industrial system that has conditioned us to value speed over substance, quantity over quality.

However, as far as supporting craftspeople is concerned, we must focus on necessity rather than nostalgia. A craftsman’s work is not simply a product; it is an imprint of a place, its people, and a way of life. When we choose them, we are not just buying a product—we are preserving a craft, sustaining a livelihood, and keeping a tradition alive.

Yet, a dire problem—a lack of awareness—remains despite the best of intentions. Understanding the value of preserving craftsmanship is one thing, but knowing where to locate craftspeople is another. It is easy to say we should support them. But is it easy to walk past the bright, eye-catching signs of stores and seek out the quiet, unmarked workshops where a craftsman works?

This is the invisible struggle of artisans—not just a lack of customers, but a lack of awareness. Even those who want to support them often do not know where to look. Their shops are hidden in the folds of old city streets, tucked away in alleys. Multani blue pottery remains confined to small workshops in Southern Punjab, limiting it to a smaller customer base. Similarly, Chitrali wool weaving is found in the northern areas of Pakistan, where weavers create handmade products like Pakol shawls and caps. Their work does not show up on our social media feeds; their names are not on the storefronts we pass daily. We do not see them in the places where we make our buying decisions, and so we forget they are there at all. 

Why is this the case? The answer is not just neglect; we follow a system that favours the loudest, the most visible, the most marketable. Large corporations pour an extensive amount of money into advertising, ensuring their products are always within reach and in sight. On the other hand, artisans operate in a world where marketing is a luxury they cannot afford. Their work spreads by word of mouth, and their success depends on a dwindling number of people who still remember them. The gap between them and the consumer grows wider, not because their craft is any less valuable, but because no one is telling their story on a scale large enough to matter.

It is the hidden power of our shopping cart that makes the difference. The solution is not just to buy from artisans but to make them visible again. We must speak about them, write about them, and bring them into the spaces where consumers are. It is not enough for their work to exist—it must be seen, understood, and desired. Whether through the internet, community events, or even something as simple as telling a friend where to find a handwoven garment instead of a factory-made one, we can transform how we shop. These can include artisans such as Haq Nawaz, who specialises in the art of Okair Sazi, one of Multan’s most popular crafts; Malik Abdul Rehman Naqash, who preserves heritage through Naqashi art; and Samina Ijaz, who creates handcrafted beaded bags.

Therefore, next time you pick up an item for your home decor, think to yourself, is this product sustainable? Or will it just gather dust in a corner, its origin unknown and value forgotten? Because ignorance is not always a choice, but awareness is. In this globalised world, these are the artists who represent our culture. Their work deserves to be in our homes, offices and studios, enriching our lives.