The Last Custodian: A Kashmiri Artisan’s Battle to Save a Musical Legacy

In the quiet, narrow lanes of Srinagar in Kashmir, managed by the Indian, is a small, poorly lit workshop as one of the last holdouts of a disappearing vessel.

In the store is Ghulam Mohammed Zaz, who is generally considered the last craftsman of the region who can make the santoor by hand.

Santoor is a trapezoidal cutting music instrument, similar to a dulcimer, which is played with hammers. It is known for its crystalline calling tone and has been the musical signature of Kashmir for centuries.

Mr. Ghulam Mohammed belongs to a origin of craftsmen who have been building string instruments in Kashmir for more than seven generations. The surname Zaz has long been synonymous with the makers of the Santoor, Rabab, Sarangi and Sehtar.

But in recent years, the demand for handmade instruments has been taken, replaced by machine-made versions that can be produced cheaper and faster. At the same time, music flavor has changed, which contributes to the decline.

“With hip hop, rap and electronic music that now dominates the soundscape of Kashmir, younger generations do not connect to the depth or discipline of traditional music,” says Shabir Ahmad Mir, a music teacher. As a result, the demand for the Santoor collapsed, so that artisans without students or a sustainable market are left behind, he adds.

In his age -old store, Mr Ghulam Mohammed lies next to a hollow block of wood and worn iron tools – the quiet remains of a fading tradition.

“There is no one left anymore [to continue the craft]”He says.” I am the last one. “

But it wasn’t always like that.

Over the years, renowned Sufi and Volks Artists have played Santoors who have been handmade by Mr. Ghulam Mohammed.

A photo in his store shows Maestros Pandit Shiv Kumar Sharma and Bhajan Sopori that perform with his instruments.

Believed to have originated in Persia, reached the Santoor India in the 13th or 14th century and spread through Central Asia and the Middle East. In Kashmir it assumed a clear identity and it became central in Sufi poetry and folk traditions.

“Originally part of Sufiana Mausiqi (an ensemble music tradition), the santoor had a soft, folk-like tone,” says Mr. Mir.

Pandit Shiv Kumar Sharma later adapted it for Indian classical music, he says, by adding strings, to re -design bridges for richer resonance and introducing new playing techniques.

Bhajan Sopori, who has Kashmiri roots, “deepens his tonal range and drunken it with Sufi Expression,” adds Mr. Mir, cementing the place of Santoor in Indian classical music.

Another photo shows Mr Ghulam Mohammed who received the Padma Shri from President Droupadi Murmu in 2022, honored for his craftsmanship with the fourth highest civil prize in India.

Ghulam Mohammed was born in the 1940s in Zainina Kadal, a neighborhood named after an iconic bridge that once served as the lifeline of trade and culture in Kashmir. When he grew up, he was surrounded by the sounds and aids of the trade of his family.

Health issues forced him to leave formal education at a young age and then he started to learn the art of making santoor from his father and grandfather – both master -craftsmen himself.

“They didn’t just teach me how to make an instrument, but how to listen – to the wood, the sky and the hands that would play it,” he said.

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

In his workshop there is a wooden bench covered with chisels and strings next to the skeleton frame of an unfinished santoor. The sky smells vague to outdated walnut wood, but there is no machines in sight.

Mr. Ghulam Mohammed believes that machine-made instruments miss the warmth and depth of those made by hand and the audio quality comes close.

Making a santoor is a slow, deliberate process, says the professional. It starts with selecting the right wood, outdated and seasoned for at least five years. The body is then cut and hollowed out for optimum resonance and each of the 25 bridges is precisely formed and placed.

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

“It is the craft of patience and perseverance,” he says.

In recent years, influencers of social media have visited the workshop of Mr Ghulam Mohammed and shared his story online. He appreciates the attention, but says that it has not led to real efforts to maintain the vessel or the estate.

“These are good people,” he says, “but what will this place be when I’m gone?”

With his three daughters who pursue other careers, there is no one in the family to continue his work. Over the years he has had offers – government subsidies, promises of students, even suggestions from the disability department of the state.

But Mr. Ghulam Mohammed says that he is “not looking for fame or charity”. What he really wants is someone who carries art ahead.

Now in his eighties he often spends hours next to an unfinished santoor, listening to the silence of what still has to be completed.

“This is not just woodwork,” he says.

“It’s poetry. A language. A tongue that I give to the instrument.

“I hear the santoor before he plays. That is the secret. That is what must be passed on,” he adds.

While the world embraces modernity, Mr Ghulam Mohammed’s workshop remains untouched through time – slowly, quiet and filled with the smell of walnut and memory.

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

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

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