by Peerzada Arshad Hamid
NEW DELHI, Oct. 18 (Xinhua) -- Inside the courtyard workshop of his two-story home, Mushtaq Ahmad Dar examines each chisel with meticulous attention. Holding one in his left hand, he runs his right index finger along the bevel, then reaches into a water-filled jug for a soaking whetstone. He hones the blade until a faint smile crosses his face, then braces another dull chisel and rubs it steadily across the stone.
"My father says that it is always the tools that work wonders," said Dar, a traditional Kashmiri musical instrument maker.
At 10 a.m., his apprentice places a half-done Kashmiri rabab, an ancient, plectrum-plucked stringed instrument carved from a single piece of mulberry wood, before him. Dar drives a sharpened chisel into the wood, hammering its butt with his adze as shavings curl away, gradually shaping the rabab's deep, concave bowl.
Dar tells Xinhua that he learned the craft as a boy from his father, continuing a tradition dating back to his grandfather, a locally renowned singer.
"Not only am I, but my three brothers are also well-versed in the craft," Dar said. "We live in a joint family, and I am hopeful our children too will carry forward this legacy."
Among his brothers, Dar has perfected the skill and now often discusses the instruments' intricacies with clients on behalf of his father, who, because of his advanced age, can no longer devote himself fully to the trade.
At Dar's workshop in Budgam district, a 25-minute drive northwest of Srinagar city, the summer capital of Indian-controlled Kashmir, traditional string instruments, including the rabab, santoor, sarangi, Kashmiri sitar, and Sikh rabab, are being made.
Dar spends months crafting a single instrument, carefully selecting mulberry and walnut wood and prioritizing quality over speed. His instruments are in demand across India.
"For most of the instruments, we use mulberry wood, but for santoor, we use walnut wood," he said. "I am lucky enough that I have a good clientele. This craft has given us everything we have today. People place orders at my workshop in advance for the instruments of their choice."
"The music runs in our blood, as our forefathers have been associated with it for generations," he said. "I know how to play every instrument that I make. These objects communicate with me."
Dar is seen as one of the torchbearers of a craft many feared would die with the Indian-controlled Kashmir's last santoor maker, 85-year-old Ghulam Mohamed Zaz of Srinagar.
Surrounded by the vibrant walls of his room, Zaz ran his frail fingers across the sharp edges of a newly fashioned, trapezoidal box of walnut wood. He checked its precision with a scale, his movements slow and deliberate.
"A craft doesn't simply die -- it endures," he said. "What kills a craft is the flood of fakes and inferior copies replacing the authentic work. I hold the line for this art today, but I do not know who will carry it into tomorrow."
He is the last of the eighth generation in his family to carve the classical instrument and claims that all the acclaimed artists of the region played on the santoors made by them.
The word santoor in Persian means "a hundred strings." The traditional Kashmiri santoor typically has 100 strings. Worldwide, santoor varieties differ mostly in their string count.
In his uptown Srinagar office, Nazir Ganaie, the founder of Kashmir Rabab Academy, an institute that works to preserve the region's musical heritage, is busy putting the final touches on an upcoming concert schedule. The event offers a rare chance to hear a performance played entirely on traditional Kashmiri instruments.
Driven by a passion to protect these indigenous folk traditions, Ganaie built this platform to bring local artists together and showcase their talents.
"For me, the rabab is not merely a musical instrument. It is an emotion deeply etched into our collective soul. The moment I strike its strings, I am transported to the mountains and valleys of Kashmir, where every note carries a story, a memory and a sense of belonging," Ganaie said.
His love for playing the Kashmiri rabab took him to Dar some years back to place an order in bulk for Kashmiri handmade rababs.
Ganaie often visits Indian-controlled Kashmir's master instrument makers to chronicle their personal histories and the resilient spirit driving them to preserve their craft.
"Today Kashmiri rabab, santoor, and sarangi stand distinct from their global counterparts," said Muzaffar Ahmad Bhat, a Srinagar-based musicologist. "They are now deeply woven into the region's folklore, defining the vibrant rhythm of folk songs and the spiritual depth of classical Sufiana Mausiqi, a centuries-old classical choral ensemble music. Far more than mere tools for performance, these instruments have become inseparable fragments of Kashmiri society, culture, and identity."
The traditional craftsmanship required to make these instruments is rapidly vanishing. At the heart of this decline is the loss of aging master craftsmen, with few apprentices stepping up to fill the void.
"Low financial returns and shrinking demand make it difficult for remaining artisans to earn a living. Ultimately, the shift toward electronic music and cheap, machine-made instruments has severely threatened a legacy that once thrived on human hands," he said.
Ganaie, however, feels the internet and social media have opened up avenues for the musicians as well as makers of the musical instruments to keep the art thriving and prevent it from vanishing into the thin air.
"It is heartening to see rabab and santoor makers and other traditional instrument artisans finding renewed hope as online orders and social media open up new markets for their craft. The growing visibility of these instruments in major productions of Bollywood and music platforms has also helped introduce the region's rich musical heritage to wider national and international audiences," he said.
Meanwhile, a young musical instrument maker Altaf Ahmad Sheikh is hard at work in another Srinagar neighborhood. His hands steady, engraving delicate floral and foliage designs that weave gracefully between the bird motifs on a sarangi. The design has transformed a plain wooden instrument into an ornate work of art.
He has spent months crafting this sarangi, an instrument that represents not just his devotion to the craft, but his very livelihood.
Sheikh, a school dropout, learned the craft from his father, a renowned sarangi maker.
"I am striving hard to keep the craft alive," Sheikh said as his young son sat in front of him, perhaps trying to imbibe the skill. ■
