In the narrow streets of Srinagar's Zaina Kadal neighborhood rests a well-worn workshop, a sanctuary for craftsmanship slowly succumbing to the waves of modernity. The artisan, Ghulam Mohammed Zaz, holds the esteemed title of Kashmir's last traditional hand-maker of the santoor, a distinct trapezoidal string instrument renowned for its crystal-clear timbre.
Craftsmanship in the Zaz family can be traced over seven generations, where the art of building santoor, rabab, sarangi, and sehtar flourished. But the demand for handmade instruments is dwindling, undermined by the proliferation of machine-made versions and shifting musical preferences among the youth. "Hip hop and electronic music dominate the soundscape now, leaving traditional instruments like the santoor in the shadows," notes Shabir Ahmad Mir, a local music educator.
Once celebrated by esteemed Sufi and folk musicians, Ghulam Mohammed's santoors have resonated through a rich tapestry of Kashmir's musical history. His workshop features relics of this legacy, including photographs of legendary performers like Pandit Shiv Kumar Sharma, who transformed the instrument for Indian classical music, and Bhajan Sopori, who infused it with Sufi emotional depth.
At the helm of this craft for decades, Ghulam Mohammed has earned accolades, including the Padma Shri, India's fourth highest civilian honor, recognizing his exceptional skill. Yet, he laments the absence of successors to his craft, asserting the urgency of preservation.
The santoor, believed to have reached India in the 13th century, adapted significantly in Kashmir, becoming integral to Sufiana Mausiqi—the ensemble music tradition known for its folk resonance. Despite the instrument's lineage and importance, contemporary indifference poses a threat to its existence.
"Today, I am the last," Ghulam Mohammed reflects, as he works on an unfinished santoor, surrounded by tools that echo the history embedded in the craft. Each instrument, he explains, requires deliberate care—from selecting the right wood to perfectly shaping the body and tuning the strings—making the process both an art form and a meditation.
Though modern platforms have begun to uncover his story, Ghulam Mohammed stresses that true preservation requires more than mere recognition. He yearns for someone with genuine passion to continue the legacy—not for fame or charity, but out of love for the music.
As he nears the end of his journey and with no family members willing to carry on his work, he finds solace in the memories and the melody, urging, "Wood and music both die if not given time." Ghulam Mohammed's dedication reflects the pride and resilience of a culture's heritage, reminding us of the importance of holding onto oh-so-fragile legacies in an ever-evolving world.
Craftsmanship in the Zaz family can be traced over seven generations, where the art of building santoor, rabab, sarangi, and sehtar flourished. But the demand for handmade instruments is dwindling, undermined by the proliferation of machine-made versions and shifting musical preferences among the youth. "Hip hop and electronic music dominate the soundscape now, leaving traditional instruments like the santoor in the shadows," notes Shabir Ahmad Mir, a local music educator.
Once celebrated by esteemed Sufi and folk musicians, Ghulam Mohammed's santoors have resonated through a rich tapestry of Kashmir's musical history. His workshop features relics of this legacy, including photographs of legendary performers like Pandit Shiv Kumar Sharma, who transformed the instrument for Indian classical music, and Bhajan Sopori, who infused it with Sufi emotional depth.
At the helm of this craft for decades, Ghulam Mohammed has earned accolades, including the Padma Shri, India's fourth highest civilian honor, recognizing his exceptional skill. Yet, he laments the absence of successors to his craft, asserting the urgency of preservation.
The santoor, believed to have reached India in the 13th century, adapted significantly in Kashmir, becoming integral to Sufiana Mausiqi—the ensemble music tradition known for its folk resonance. Despite the instrument's lineage and importance, contemporary indifference poses a threat to its existence.
"Today, I am the last," Ghulam Mohammed reflects, as he works on an unfinished santoor, surrounded by tools that echo the history embedded in the craft. Each instrument, he explains, requires deliberate care—from selecting the right wood to perfectly shaping the body and tuning the strings—making the process both an art form and a meditation.
Though modern platforms have begun to uncover his story, Ghulam Mohammed stresses that true preservation requires more than mere recognition. He yearns for someone with genuine passion to continue the legacy—not for fame or charity, but out of love for the music.
As he nears the end of his journey and with no family members willing to carry on his work, he finds solace in the memories and the melody, urging, "Wood and music both die if not given time." Ghulam Mohammed's dedication reflects the pride and resilience of a culture's heritage, reminding us of the importance of holding onto oh-so-fragile legacies in an ever-evolving world.
