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By:
BBC
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Translated by: Edona Binaku
- August 3, 2025 19:30
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Ghulam Mohammed belongs to a line of craftsmen who have been making stringed instruments in Kashmir for more than seven generations. The family name, Zaz, has long been synonymous with makers of the santoor, rabab, sarang and sekhtar. But in recent years, demand for handmade instruments has waned, replaced by machine-made versions that are cheaper and quicker to make. At the same time, musical tastes have changed, further contributing to the demise of this tradition.
Bisma Farooq Bhat
In the quiet, narrow alleys of Srinagar, in Indian-administered Kashmir, a small, dimly lit workshop stands as one of the last supports of a disappearing craft.
Inside the shop is Ghulam Mohammed Zaz, who is widely believed to be the last artisan in the region to be able to make the hand-made santoor. The “Santoor” is a trapezoidal stringed musical instrument, similar to the “dulcimer” that is played with small hammers. It is known for its crystal-clear, bell-like sound, and has been the musical symbol of Kashmir for centuries.
Ghulam Mohammed belongs to a line of craftsmen who have been making stringed instruments in Kashmir for more than seven generations. The family name, Zaz, has long been synonymous with makers of the santoor, rabab, sarang and sekhtar. But in recent years, demand for handmade instruments has waned, replaced by machine-made versions that are cheaper and quicker to make. At the same time, musical tastes have changed, further contributing to the demise of this tradition.
“With hip-hop, rap and electronic music now dominating the musical landscape of Kashmir, the younger generations are no longer connected to the depth or discipline of traditional music,” says Shabir Ahmad Mir, a music teacher. As a result, demand for the santoor instrument has dropped significantly, leaving craftsmen without apprentices or a sustainable market, he adds.
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In his century-old shop, Ghulam Mohammed sits next to a hollow piece of wood and old iron tools – silent remnants of a disappearing tradition.
"There's no one left to continue the craft," he says. "I'm the last one."
But it hasn't always been like this.
Over the years, renowned folk artists have performed on the handmade santoors made by Mr. Zaz. A photograph in his shop shows the masters, Pandit Shiv Kumar Sharma and Bhajan Sopori, performing on his instruments.
The santoor is thought to have originated in Iran and reached India in the 13th or 14th century, spreading through Central Asia and the Middle East. In Kashmir, it took on a distinct identity, becoming an essential part of Sufi poetry and folk traditions.
“The santoor was originally part of Sufiana Mausiqi (an ensemble music tradition) and had a soft sound, similar to folk music,” says Shabir Ahmad Mir.
Pandit Shiv Kumar Sharma later adapted it for Indian classical music, he explains, adding strings, redesigning the braces for richer resonance and introducing new playing techniques.
According to Ahman Mir, Bhajan Sopori, who hails from Kashmir, expanded the range of its sounds and enriched it with Sufi expressions, helping to strengthen the place of this instrument in Indian classical music.
Another photo shows Ghulam Mohammed receiving the Padma Shri award from Indian President Droupadi Murmu in 2022. He was honored for his bravery, with the fourth highest civilian award in India.
Ghulam Mohammed was born in the 40s in Zaina Kadal, a neighborhood named after an iconic bridge that once served as the “main artery” of trade and culture in Kashmir. Throughout his childhood, he was surrounded by the sounds and tools of his family’s craft. Health problems forced him to discontinue his education at an early age, and it was then that he began learning the art of santoor making from his father and grandfather – both true masters of the craft.
"They taught me, not just how to build an instrument, but how to listen – to the wood, the air, and the hands that played it. My ancestors were invited by the courts of local kings and were often asked to craft instruments that could soothe hearts," he says.
Divided by the border, united by fear
In his workshop, a wooden bench filled with carving tools and wire sits next to the unfinished frame of a “santoor.” The air carries the faint scent of aged walnut wood, but there is no machinery in sight.
Ghulam Mohammed believes that machine-made instruments lack the warmth and depth of handmade ones, and the sound quality is incomparable.
Creating a santoori is a slow and deliberate process, the craftsman says. It begins with selecting the right wood, seasoned and dried for at least five years. The body is then carved and weathered to achieve optimal resonance, and each of the 25 bridges is shaped and placed with great care.
More than 100 strings are installed, followed by the long and precise tuning process, which can take weeks or even months.
"It's a craft of patience and perseverance," he says.
In recent years, several social media personalities have visited Ghulam Mohammed's workshop, sharing his story online. He appreciates the attention, but says it hasn't led to any real efforts to preserve his craft or legacy.
“They are well-meaning people,” he says, “but what will happen to this country when I am gone?”
With his three daughters pursuing other careers, there is no one in the family to continue his craft. Over the years, he has had offers, government grants, promises of apprentices, even suggestions from the state department of artistic crafts. But Ghulam Mohammed says he “is not looking for fame or charity.” What he really wants is someone to take the art form forward.
Now in his eighties, he often spends hours beside an unfinished "santoori", listening to the silence of what has yet to be completed.
"This is not just woodworking. It is poetry. A language that I give to the instrument. I listen to the 'santoor' before it is played. This is the secret. This is what needs to be conveyed," he says.
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As the world embraces modernity, Ghulam Mohammed's workshop remains untouched by time – slow, silent, and filled with memories and the scent of walnut wood.
"Wood and music, both die if you don't give them time," says Mohammed. "I want someone who really loves the craft and wants to continue it. Not for the money, or for the camera, but for the music."
