The battle of Kashmiri craftsman to save music heritage

In the quiet narrow canvases of Srinagar in India, Kashmir, a small, slightly illuminated workshop stands as one of the last detainees of a disappearing craft.

Inside the store is Gulam Mohammed Zaz, who is thought to be the last craftsman in the region to make Santoor by hand.

Santoor is a stringed trapezoid -shaped musical instrument similar to Dulcimer, which is played with Mallets. He is known for his crystal bell tone and has been a music signature of Kashmir for centuries.

G -H Gulam Mohammed belongs to a genealogy of craftsmen who build string instruments in cashmere more than seven generations. ZAZ’s surname has long been synonymous with the creators of Santoor, Rabab, Sarangi and Sevtar.

But in recent years, demand for handmade tools has been reduced, replaced by machine-made versions that are cheaper and faster to manufacture. At the same time, the tastes of the music have changed, adding to the decline.

“With hip -hop, rap and electronic music that now dominate the sound of cashmere, the younger generations are no longer associated with the depth or discipline of traditional music,” says Shabir Ahmad Mir, a music teacher. As a result, Santoor’s demand collapsed, leaving masters without apprentices or a sustainable market, he adds.

In his eternal store, G -H Glam Mohammed sits next to a hollow block of wood and worn iron instruments – the quiet remains of a faded tradition.

“There is no one left (to continue the craft),” he says. “I’m the last one.”

But this was not always the case.

Over the years, the famous Sufi and People’s Artists have played Santoors made by Gh -Ghulam Mohammed.

A photo at the store shows that Maestros Pandit Shiv Kumar Sharma and Bhajan Sopori perform with their tools.

It is believed to have originated in Persia, Santur reached India in the 13th or 14th centuries, spread through Central Asia and the Middle East. In Kashmir, she gained a clear identity, becoming central to Sufian poetry and folk traditions.

“Initially, part of the Sufian Mausiki (the musical tradition of the ensemble), Santoor had a soft, folklore tone,” says Mr. Mir.

Subsequently, Pandit Shiv Kumar Sharma adapted it for Indian classical music, he says, adding strings, redesigning bridges for more resonance and introducing new play techniques.

Bhajan Sopori, which has the roots of cashmere, “deepen its tonal scope and infuses it into Sufi expression,” adds Mir, helping to cement at Santoor’s place in Indian classical music.

Another photo shows that Mr Ghulam Mohammed, who received Padma Shri from President Droupi Murmu in 2022, awarded his fourth highest civil award in India.

G -H Gulam Mohammed was born in the 1940s in Zayna Cadal, a neighborhood called an emblematic bridge that once served as a rescue line of trade and culture in Kashmir. Growing up, he was surrounded by the sounds and instruments of his family’s trade.

Health problems forced him to leave his official education at an early age, and then he began to study the art of Santur, creating by his father and grandfather – both the craftsmen themselves.

“They have taught me not only how to make an instrument, but how to listen – to the tree, air and hands that would play it,” he said.

“My ancestors were summoned by the courts of the local kings and were often asked to build tools that could calm hearts,” he says.

In its workshop a wooden bench, lined with chisels and strings, is located next to the skeletal frame of unfinished Santor. The air smells weak of aged walnut wood, but there are no machines in sight.

Mr Ghulam Mohammed believes that machine tools do not have the heat and depth of those made by hand, and the quality of the audio does not come anywhere.

Doing Santoor is a slow, intentional process, says the craftsman. It begins with the choice of the right tree, age and for at least five years. The body is then carved and carved for optimum resonance, and each of the 25 bridges is precisely shaped and placed.

More than 100 strings are added, followed by the diligent setting process, which can take weeks or even months.

“It’s a craft of patience and perseverance,” he says.

In recent years, social media influenants have visited G -H Gulam Mohammed’s workshop, sharing his story online. He appreciates the attention, but says that this has not led to real efforts to preserve the craft or her inheritance.

“These are good people,” he says, “But what happens to this place when I’m gone?”

With their three daughters who pursue other careers, there is no one in the family to continue their work. Over the years, he has had offers – state grants, promises of apprentices, even proposals from the State Crafts Department.

But G -n Gulam Mohammed says he “does not seek glory or charity.” What he really wants is someone to bring art forward.

Now, in his eighties, he often spends hours to unfinished Santur, listening to the silence of what is yet to be completed.

“It’s not just a wooden joinery,” he says.

“This is poetry. Language. The language I give to the instrument.

“I hear Santoor before playing. That’s the secret. It’s what’s to give up,” he adds.

While the world outside encompasses modernity, the workshop of G -n Gula Mohammed remains untouched by time – slow, silent and filled with the aroma of walnut and memory.

“Tree and music,” he says, “they both die if you don’t give them time.”

“I want someone who really loves the craft to take it ahead. Not for the money, not for the cameras, but for the music.”

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