The sitars of Miraj continue to resonate with the same rich sound that once captivated the world through the mastery of Pandit Ravi Shankar, Vilayat Khan, and the unforgettable strumming of George Harrison in Norwegian Wood. For now, the chisels still strike, the polish still gleams, and the strings still hum. But how much longer will this last?
For 300 years, the artisans of Miraj, located in Maharashtra’s Sangli district, have brought the sitar to life. Yet today, these skilled hands, weathered by generations of craftsmanship, are struggling to preserve a tradition that now feels more like an inheritance than a thriving profession.
In the timeworn workshops nestled in the narrow alleys of Miraj, artisans are at a crossroads. While the craft falters at home, Miraj’s sitars have found a steady market abroad, particularly in the US, UK, and Germany, where musicians highly value these handcrafted instruments. Demand has never been higher, yet the number of artisans who can still craft them continues to dwindle. Once made by thousands, today only a few hundred remain.
Mohsin Mirajkar, a seventh-generation sitar maker, understands this struggle deeply. At 43, he has spent his life carving, stringing, and tuning the instrument that defines his family’s legacy. However, he watches helplessly as younger generations turn away from the craft. “The effort it takes to make a sitar is immense,” he explains. “With less effort, they can earn more in IT or engineering. The demand is huge, but we can’t even meet 25% of it.”
The irony is striking. While the world clamors for the authentic sound of Miraj’s sitars, the very hands that shape them are contemplating a future without the craft.
“During the pandemic, only doctors and essential workers were in demand,” said Mohammed Saeem Shikalgar, a young sitar maker who juggles his passion for the instrument with medical studies. “I love making sitars, but I needed a backup. If this tradition fades, I will have something to fall back on.”
To an untrained eye, a sitar might seem like just another instrument—its shape familiar, its sound enchanting but distant. However, behind its curved frame lies a painstaking labor of patience. The process begins with a kaddu (gourd) that is soaked in water, softened, and then dried until the moisture evaporates, leaving behind a hardened shell. This humble vegetable is then carved into a hollow body, its curves sculpted with an understanding that blends instinct with technique.
Craftsman Imran Salim shared, “The polishing, the carving, the bridge, the turning pegs… everything has to be perfect. Each sitar takes about 20 to 25 days. You can’t rush it. It must be allowed to find its own voice.”
Yet time—once the ally of these artisans—is now their greatest adversary. The rise of mass-produced sitars, factory-made imitations that lack the warmth and soul of the handmade originals, has compounded their struggles.
Miraj’s fame was built on its rich musical heritage, drawing the attention of legends such as Pandit Bhimsen Joshi, Pandit Venkatesh Kumar, Ustad Rashid Khan, and sitar virtuosos Shujaat Khan and Ustad Shahid Parvez Khan. Even Hridaynath Mangeshkar sought out Miraj for instruments that conveyed not just notes but soul.
Miraj’s sitars still make their way across borders, finding their place in concert halls, in the hands of maestros, and in the quiet corners of music lovers who understand their value. Yet, amid the melodies, one cannot ignore the creeping silence that threatens this ancient craft.
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