In the winding, dimly lit lanes of Srinagar, Indian-administered Kashmir, resides Ghulam Mohammed Zaz, notably recognized as the last artisan capable of handcrafting the santoor, a trapezoidal string instrument synonymous with Kashmir’s rich musical heritage. His small workshop stands as a sanctuary for a craft that stretches back over seven generations in his family. The santoor, played with mallets, has delivered a crystalline tone that has graced the region's musical landscape for centuries, but today faces the looming threat of extinction.
The dwindling demand for traditional instruments, overshadowed by cheaper, machine-made alternatives and changing musical tastes like hip hop and electronic genres, has tightened its grip on this once-thriving craft. Music educator Shabir Ahmad Mir notes that younger generations struggle to connect with traditional styles, further mitigating the santoor's presence in modern performance. “They no longer feel the depth of traditional music,” he reflects.
Despite these challenges, Mr. Ghulam retains hope as he crafts each santoor in his century-old shop filled with worn tools and aged wood—a testament to a trade that emphasizes patience and love for the art. A graduate of his family's legacy, he recalls how his father and grandfather taught him not only the technicalities of instrument making but the soul of the craft: “The air, the wood, and the hands that will play it,” he remembers.
Through the years, his hand-crafted instruments have been played by celebrated musicians, leaving their mark in the annals of Indian classical music. He received the Padma Shri, India's fourth-highest civilian award, in 2022 for his contribution to this craft, yet his success is shadowed by concerns over its future. Despite attention from social media influencers, Mr. Ghulam finds himself yearning for genuine efforts aimed at preserving the art. With his daughters pursuing different careers, he fears that his craft may die with him.
As he sits alongside uncompleted instruments, the artisan expresses a longing not for fame but for a dedicated apprentice: “I want someone who truly loves the craft to carry it forward,” he states. The world around him may rush towards modernity, but his workshop remains untouched—a space where "wood and music" intertwine in a silent dialogue of creation.
“We die if you don’t give them time,” he warns, reminding the world of the undying spirit enshrined in traditional music, pleading for a revival that honors both the wood and the melodies awaiting their first breath.
The dwindling demand for traditional instruments, overshadowed by cheaper, machine-made alternatives and changing musical tastes like hip hop and electronic genres, has tightened its grip on this once-thriving craft. Music educator Shabir Ahmad Mir notes that younger generations struggle to connect with traditional styles, further mitigating the santoor's presence in modern performance. “They no longer feel the depth of traditional music,” he reflects.
Despite these challenges, Mr. Ghulam retains hope as he crafts each santoor in his century-old shop filled with worn tools and aged wood—a testament to a trade that emphasizes patience and love for the art. A graduate of his family's legacy, he recalls how his father and grandfather taught him not only the technicalities of instrument making but the soul of the craft: “The air, the wood, and the hands that will play it,” he remembers.
Through the years, his hand-crafted instruments have been played by celebrated musicians, leaving their mark in the annals of Indian classical music. He received the Padma Shri, India's fourth-highest civilian award, in 2022 for his contribution to this craft, yet his success is shadowed by concerns over its future. Despite attention from social media influencers, Mr. Ghulam finds himself yearning for genuine efforts aimed at preserving the art. With his daughters pursuing different careers, he fears that his craft may die with him.
As he sits alongside uncompleted instruments, the artisan expresses a longing not for fame but for a dedicated apprentice: “I want someone who truly loves the craft to carry it forward,” he states. The world around him may rush towards modernity, but his workshop remains untouched—a space where "wood and music" intertwine in a silent dialogue of creation.
“We die if you don’t give them time,” he warns, reminding the world of the undying spirit enshrined in traditional music, pleading for a revival that honors both the wood and the melodies awaiting their first breath.
