By: Shabina Akhtar ( Research Scholar)
The Santoor does not seek to dazzle. It does not declare its arrival in the concert hall with grandeur, nor does it compete for attention with its fellow instruments. Instead, it shimmers into space—brief, delicate, unforgettable. Its every note is a flicker of light: here, then gone.
And yet, it is precisely in this transience that its power lies.
Crafted from the wood of Kashmir’s walnut trees and strung with a hundred fine wires, the Santoor is more than an instrument—it is a philosophy. Played with a pair of slender mallets, it produces tones that hover just long enough to remind us of beauty, but not long enough to let us possess it. Santoor teaches us, again and again, that true art is not what endures forever, but what passes through us with grace. It asks of the listener not just attention, but presence. To listen to the Santoor is to learn to receive beauty without clutching it, to watch it pass without regret.
The instrument has a long lineage. Its ancient roots are traceable to the Shata-Tantri Veena, mentioned in classical Sanskrit texts, and it shares kinship with instruments like the Persian Santur and the Chinese Yangqin. But it is in Kashmir that the Santoor found its most luminous expression—not as a museum piece, but as a living companion to ritual, devotion, and memory. In Sufi shrines, in traditional Kashmiri households, in moments of solitary prayer or quiet celebration—the Santoor has always been there, never demanding a stage, always deserving one.
It never sought to impose. Its presence, even at its most resonant, has always remained gentle. That gentleness, however, is not fragility. It is its strength. The Santoor’s power is not in loud crescendos or forceful cadences. It lies in how it makes the silence between two notes feel sacred. In its refusal to overstay, it becomes unforgettable.
What the Santoor lacked for centuries was not relevance, but recognition. It remained outside the central canon of Indian classical music—not because it lacked depth, but because its voice was not yet understood. Its tonal brevity was mistaken for limitation. Its refusal to sustain meend was interpreted as weakness. And yet, in every village where Santoor melodies echoed across fields at dusk, the people knew otherwise. They knew the Santoor did not beg for inclusion—it waited for understanding.
That understanding came through one of the most extraordinary artists in modern Indian music—Pandit Shiv Kumar Sharma, born in Jammu, who made it his life’s work to bring the Santoor from Kashmir’s homes to the world’s greatest stages. He did not merely popularize the Santoor; he reimagined it. Through meticulous structural refinements, extended bridges, chromatic tuning, and years of experimentation, he enabled the Santoor to render complex
ragas with fidelity and soul. But what he preserved—and this is perhaps his greatest genius—was its spirit. He did not turn the Santoor into something it was not. He helped it speak more clearly, not more loudly.
Through Sharma’s hands, the Santoor began to sing in new spaces—in classical sabhas, in international music festivals, in cinematic scores. But it never lost its Kashmir. Every note carried a fragrance: of snow melting on rooftops, of rivers turning quietly at dusk, of the restraint that defines true strength. The Santoor was now not just a regional treasure—it was a national gift, a global offering.
Today, young musicians across India learn the Santoor with reverence. Institutions like the Institute of Music and Fine Arts, Srinagar, and music departments at central universities are nurturing new talent. Private academies in Sopore, Jammu, and Srinagar offer training, and YouTube has become a digital gurukul for aspiring Santoor players from far-off villages and towns. The instrument is no longer confined to the Valley—it is spreading, humbly, gracefully, as it always has.
But perhaps what’s most moving is that the Santoor continues to flourish in silence—in quiet rooms where elders teach grandchildren a single raga over months; in community gatherings where young girls play Raag Yaman not for applause, but to honour their lineage; in workshops where Kashmiri artisans still shape the wooden frame, smoothing each surface by hand, polishing it not for export but for continuity. These are not public performances. These
are acts of devotion—of people keeping alive something not because it is popular, but because it is precious.
In Anantnag, artisans like Rafiq Dar still craft Santoors by hand, working with wood that has been cured for years. He does not advertise. His clients come through word of mouth—students, musicians, and lovers of tradition. In his small workshop, surrounded by tools that have been passed down from his father, he speaks of the Santoor not as an instrument but as “a guest of honour”—something that deserves patience, attention, and a pure heart. In Kupwara, a group of college students recently formed a small Santoor collective—sharing recordings, learning from each other, documenting compositions from their elders. No one funds them. But they continue, because some traditions do not survive on funding—they survive on love.
In Budgam, there is a Santoor teacher named Mehraj Ud Din, who teaches four students in a modest room beside a stream. For him, teaching the Santoor is not about preserving an art form, but about nurturing listening itself. “The Santoor,” he says, “teaches you how to sit with silence.”
This is the Santoor’s true triumph. It did not demand legitimacy. It earned it. It did not reinvent itself for relevance. It revealed its depth, and the world responded. Its sound remains what it always was—an offering. Not loud, but lasting. Not assertive, but assured. Not ornamental, but essential.
In a world accelerating toward noise, amplification, and spectacle, the Santoor remains a gentle rebellion. It calls us to listen again—not for volume, but for truth. It reminds us that power can be soft, that depth can be brief, and that music, like life, is most profound when it is lived fully and let go.
To play the Santoor is to practice patience. To hear it is to receive a blessing. And to honour it is to realise that even the softest sound can carry the longest echo. The Santoor has never asked for attention—it has asked for care. And in that, perhaps, lies its
most beautiful message: that what is truly magical is not what commands, but what connects. It teaches us to listen not with urgency, but with reverence. And through this listening, a whole world unfolds—slowly, lightly, but forever.
And when that world unfolds, it is not noise that remains. It resonates.
