In the Newa settlement of Khokana, the sound of chisels against wood echoes through narrow alleys lined with centuries-old architecture. For generations, woodcarving has been an intrinsic part of the town’s identity; a craft passed down like an heirloom. Yet today, as rapid urbanisation, changing market demands, and the indifference of new generations threaten its continuity, Khokana’s woodcarving artisans find themselves at a crossroads.

The owner of Lachhi Learning Centre, Hari Nath Dangol, deeply involved in promoting this field, speaks of his growing fear that “Craftsmanship is disappearing. And with it, our work will suffer.” His sentiment echoes across the community: woodcarving, despite its historical significance, is slowly losing its grip.

Dangol says the local ward office hired artisans to reconstruct Rudrayani Temple. However, such projects provide temporary employment and do little to ensure the craft’s survival. And despite the prestige attached to working on temples, he notes a sharp decline in local demand for customised woodwork. “People don’t ask for intricately carved doors or windows anymore. The local market does not promote this art,” he laments. Without sustainable demand, artisans are forced to seek work outside their communities, making the craft’s future even more precarious.

For woodcarvers like Nanda Dangol, woodcarving is more than a profession—it’s a lifelong pursuit. These days, he can be found inside the temple, carefully carving intricate designs into wooden beams. He began working in this field for his livelihood, drawn in by friends already involved in the trade.

Over the years, he has witnessed shifts in both the craft and its market. “There have been changes in the designs, especially for god statues in temples,” he notes. Despite the growing demand for temple works, he acknowledges that woodcarving remains a fragile profession. “No one from outside comes specifically to buy what we make. We work mainly for temples.”

Laxmi Das Maharjan, another woodcarver from Ward No 21, has been in the field for over eleven years, contributing to the restoration of Hanuman Dhoka, Changunarayan, and Dakshinkali temples. He feels proud of his work despite the meagre earnings. “I may not have made a fortune, but I feel like I’ve carved my name into history,” he says. His family was not traditionally involved in woodcarving, but his mother encouraged him to follow his father’s footsteps in carpentry. “I started learning from class four in Bungamati,” he recalls.

Maharjan then explains how the tools of the trade have evolved over time, how chisels have diversified into various forms—straight chisels (chapancha), V-shaped chisels (sushalincha), and curved chisels (lancha)—each playing a unique role in carving intricate patterns. Yet, while the technique has advanced, he firmly believes temple work should retain its traditional style. “Old designs are more attractive,” he asserts, cautioning against excessive modernisation.

While temple restoration has remained a steady source of work, the market beyond that has been sluggish. According to Maharjan, the problem is not a lack of craftsmanship but the industry’s financial structure. “If we got work directly from the government instead of brokers, it would be better,” he explains. “Brokers take a cut from our earnings, leaving us with less than what we deserve.”

Despite the uncertainties, Maharjan remains hopeful about the future of woodcarving, believing it will eventually reach an international audience and endure over time. While he acknowledges the challenges, he is confident those with deep expertise will sustain the craft.

Rabindra Maharjan, the ward chairperson, acknowledges that municipal budgets once supported woodcarving but have recently been halted. “If artisans show interest, we can allocate funds for training programmes,” he assures. However, he remains optimistic about the future. “As long as temples exist, woodcarving will never die.” Yet, for many artisans, survival in the industry is difficult.

Baburam Dangol, owner of Jyasha Woodcraft Centre, who trained at Lalit Kala Campus, notes a stark difference between the past and present. “Our ancestors carved for identity and skill development; today’s generation does it for financial stability,” he says. The shift in priorities has contributed to the decline of the craft.

Even in traditional Newa homes, where once every window and door was adorned with elaborate carvings, practicality has taken over. “People now prefer faster, cheaper options like metal grills,” Dangol observes. “Sustaining this profession is hard with such a mindset.”

The challenge extends beyond demand; production costs also hinder the trade. Dangol explains that crafting an Akhi Jhyal, a traditional latticed window, can take an entire day. If made in bulk, a single piece fetches Rs800 in wholesale, but if crafted individually, it costs Rs500—barely covering expenses.

Further complicating matters is a lack of awareness among customers. “Many clients don’t understand the symbolic importance of traditional motifs. They compromise on the number of symbols just to cut costs,” he says. “For example, in an Astamangala door, all eight auspicious symbols should be present, but clients often settle for just one, which defeats the cultural and artistic purpose.”

The absence of structured market opportunities and an unregulated pricing system leave artisans vulnerable to exploitation by middlemen. “The person marketing the product profits the most, while the actual artist barely earns enough to sustain themselves,” Dangol laments.

Still, not all hope is lost. “If the government provided direct funding for woodcarving projects, it would ensure fair pay for artisans,” Dangol suggests. However, he also emphasises that financial incentives alone won’t be enough. “This work needs respect, not just money.”

Training the next generation remains another pressing concern. While some INGOs have attempted to train young artisans, most trainees are more interested in financial prospects than mastering the craft. “They want to know how much they’ll earn before starting,” Dangol notes. “Back in our time, we wanted to learn first and worry about money later.”

Khokana’s woodcarving stands at a delicate juncture, caught between tradition and modernity, survival and decline. The artisans who shape the valley’s temples and heritage structures are committed to their craft but cannot carry it alone. Without institutional support and conscious efforts to preserve its legacy, this intricate craft, once the pride of Newa artisans, may soon become a relic of the past.

For now, the chisels still tap against wood, but for how much longer?