Ghulam Mohammed Zaz, the final hand-maker of the santoor in Kashmir, faces the extinction of his craft amid changing musical tastes and a decline in demand for handcrafted instruments.
**Preserving Tradition: The Struggle of Kashmir's Last Santoor Artisan**
**Preserving Tradition: The Struggle of Kashmir's Last Santoor Artisan**
In a rapidly modernizing world, one Kashmiri craftsman fights to sustain an ancient musical heritage.
In the narrow, winding lanes of Srinagar, an age-old workshop echoes with the history of Kashmir’s musical heritage. Ghulam Mohammed Zaz, the last surviving artisan of the traditional santoor, dedicates his life to preserving this exquisite trapezoid-shaped string instrument, renowned for its enchanting tones. Handed down through seven generations, the Zaz family has long held a revered place in the art of crafting string instruments including the santoor, rabab, sarangi, and sehtar.
However, as the popularity of machine-made instruments rises at the expense of their traditional counterparts, Ghulam's profession faces unprecedented challenges. "The youth today are captivated by modern genres like hip hop and electronic music, which diverts attention from traditional sounds," laments music educator Shabir Ahmad Mir. With fewer admirers, the santoor’s once-thriving market has turned barren, leaving artisans like Ghulam isolated as they struggle to pass on their skills.
Once celebrated by legendary performers, Ghulam Mohammed's handcrafted instruments brought joy to many. His workshop, adorned with photographs of maestros like Pandit Shiv Kumar Sharma, is a testament to the santoor's evolution within Indian music. Tracing its roots to Persian origins, the instrument became pivotal in Kashmiri folk traditions and Sufi poetry, further enhanced by innovative musicians over the years.
Now in his eighties, Ghulam recalls the rich legacy of craftsmanship imparted to him by his father and grandfather. "They taught me not just the mechanics of building a santoor, but the artistry behind listening - to wood, air, and the hands that play," he reflects. Indeed, each instrument is a painstaking labor of love; from selecting aged wood to finely tuning over a hundred strings, the process is both an art form and a reflection of cultural memory.
Despite a surge of interest from social media, Ghulam finds himself in a race against time, yearning for a passionate apprentice who truly cherishes the craft—beyond fame or financial gain. With his daughters pursuing different paths, the specter of an uncontinued lineage looms large.
As the world outside shifts towards instant gratification, Ghulam’s workshop remains a sanctuary of patience and tradition. "Wood and music die without time," he states solemnly, emphasizing his belief in the connection between craftsmanship and soulful artistry. The legacy of the santoor rests not just on Ghulam's hands, but on a newfound commitment to nurture the rich tapestry of Kashmir’s heritage. As he continues to carve each note into the silence, he hopes for a revival of purpose in the melodies that have long been a heartbeat of the valley.
However, as the popularity of machine-made instruments rises at the expense of their traditional counterparts, Ghulam's profession faces unprecedented challenges. "The youth today are captivated by modern genres like hip hop and electronic music, which diverts attention from traditional sounds," laments music educator Shabir Ahmad Mir. With fewer admirers, the santoor’s once-thriving market has turned barren, leaving artisans like Ghulam isolated as they struggle to pass on their skills.
Once celebrated by legendary performers, Ghulam Mohammed's handcrafted instruments brought joy to many. His workshop, adorned with photographs of maestros like Pandit Shiv Kumar Sharma, is a testament to the santoor's evolution within Indian music. Tracing its roots to Persian origins, the instrument became pivotal in Kashmiri folk traditions and Sufi poetry, further enhanced by innovative musicians over the years.
Now in his eighties, Ghulam recalls the rich legacy of craftsmanship imparted to him by his father and grandfather. "They taught me not just the mechanics of building a santoor, but the artistry behind listening - to wood, air, and the hands that play," he reflects. Indeed, each instrument is a painstaking labor of love; from selecting aged wood to finely tuning over a hundred strings, the process is both an art form and a reflection of cultural memory.
Despite a surge of interest from social media, Ghulam finds himself in a race against time, yearning for a passionate apprentice who truly cherishes the craft—beyond fame or financial gain. With his daughters pursuing different paths, the specter of an uncontinued lineage looms large.
As the world outside shifts towards instant gratification, Ghulam’s workshop remains a sanctuary of patience and tradition. "Wood and music die without time," he states solemnly, emphasizing his belief in the connection between craftsmanship and soulful artistry. The legacy of the santoor rests not just on Ghulam's hands, but on a newfound commitment to nurture the rich tapestry of Kashmir’s heritage. As he continues to carve each note into the silence, he hopes for a revival of purpose in the melodies that have long been a heartbeat of the valley.
