Ghulam Mohammed Zaz embodies Kashmir’s rich musical legacy as he works meticulously to sustain the craft of the santoor, a symbol of cultural depth increasingly overshadowed by modern music trends.
The Last Maestro: Preserving Kashmir's Santoor Heritage
The Last Maestro: Preserving Kashmir's Santoor Heritage
A craftsman fights to keep alive the traditional art of santoor-making amidst dwindling demand for handcrafted instruments.
In the winding lanes of Srinagar, within a dim workshop, Ghulam Mohammed Zaz diligently carries forward the age-old tradition of creating the santoor, a trapezoid-shaped stringed instrument cherished in Kashmiri music for centuries. Mr. Zaz, hailed as the last artisan in this craft, belongs to a lineage of craftsmen with over seven generations dedicated to the making of string instruments such as the rabab and sarangi. However, his craft faces an existential threat from the rise of machine-made counterparts that flood the market with quicker, cheaper alternatives.
The shift in musical tastes, dominated by genres like hip hop and electronic music, has left the traditional santoor largely forgotten among younger audiences. Music educator Shabir Ahmad Mir laments this cultural gap, noting that students are less inclined to embrace the depth of traditional music. "The demand for the santoor has collapsed," he states, putting the future of this once-celebrated craft at risk.
Inside his aging workshop, surrounded by the scent of walnut wood and his faithful tools, Mr. Zaz reflects on his legacy. Once an esteemed craftsman, connected to celebrated artists like Pandit Shiv Kumar Sharma, who adapted the santoor for Indian classical music, he now faces solitude in his quest. With health challenges disrupting his formal education, he learned the intricate craft under the guidance of his father and grandfather, both master artisans who imparted not just techniques, but a profound auditory connection to the materials they worked with.
Making a santoor is an art steeped in patience; from selecting seasoned wood to tuning over a hundred strings, the process can extend over weeks or months. “It requires an understanding of the wood, the air, and the hands that will play it," says Mr. Zaz, highlighting the soulful nature of the craft that machine production cannot replicate.
While social media has helped bring attention to his workshop, Ghulam Mohammed desires more than fleeting recognition. As he nears his eighties, he worries about who will uphold his tradition after he is gone, with his daughters pursuing different careers and no apprentices to continue the legacy. "What I truly want is for someone to love the craft enough to carry it forward," he expresses.
His reflections carry an urgency. Without a passionate successor, both the santoor and its accompanying stories may fade into silence. "This is poetry, a language," he poignantly states. "If you don’t give wood and music time, they will die." As modernity advances, Ghulam Mohammed Zaz stands resolute, embodying a silent yet vibrant heritage on the brink of disappearance, urging future generations to embrace and preserve this cultural treasure.
The shift in musical tastes, dominated by genres like hip hop and electronic music, has left the traditional santoor largely forgotten among younger audiences. Music educator Shabir Ahmad Mir laments this cultural gap, noting that students are less inclined to embrace the depth of traditional music. "The demand for the santoor has collapsed," he states, putting the future of this once-celebrated craft at risk.
Inside his aging workshop, surrounded by the scent of walnut wood and his faithful tools, Mr. Zaz reflects on his legacy. Once an esteemed craftsman, connected to celebrated artists like Pandit Shiv Kumar Sharma, who adapted the santoor for Indian classical music, he now faces solitude in his quest. With health challenges disrupting his formal education, he learned the intricate craft under the guidance of his father and grandfather, both master artisans who imparted not just techniques, but a profound auditory connection to the materials they worked with.
Making a santoor is an art steeped in patience; from selecting seasoned wood to tuning over a hundred strings, the process can extend over weeks or months. “It requires an understanding of the wood, the air, and the hands that will play it," says Mr. Zaz, highlighting the soulful nature of the craft that machine production cannot replicate.
While social media has helped bring attention to his workshop, Ghulam Mohammed desires more than fleeting recognition. As he nears his eighties, he worries about who will uphold his tradition after he is gone, with his daughters pursuing different careers and no apprentices to continue the legacy. "What I truly want is for someone to love the craft enough to carry it forward," he expresses.
His reflections carry an urgency. Without a passionate successor, both the santoor and its accompanying stories may fade into silence. "This is poetry, a language," he poignantly states. "If you don’t give wood and music time, they will die." As modernity advances, Ghulam Mohammed Zaz stands resolute, embodying a silent yet vibrant heritage on the brink of disappearance, urging future generations to embrace and preserve this cultural treasure.
