Dec 16, 2024 20:45 IST
First published on: Dec 16, 2024 at 20:44 IST
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To lose one’s mentor is a different kind of loss — not many rituals, just a hole in one’s core. I saw this with Zakir when he lost his own guru abbaji (Ustad Allarakha Khan), perhaps the only time I saw him shaken. Otherwise, he was great at taking things in his stride. Today, I can’t imagine this world without Zakir and I am sure I speak for all his students here. Among them, I may seem the unlikely student, but that’s Zakir — he made a photographer out of me. At first by teaching me how to be invisible yet present with the camera — no flash, no loud shutter, just a shot or two at a time, no endlessly making photos. And then he taught me life — how to live the life of an artist, to try and reach a place when your riyaz is in your breath. He taught me how to learn.
Zakir is a genius, he revolutionised the tabla, elevating it from an accompanist instrument to a solo one. I was witness to that journey. His magic was not just in his hands but how he played with his entire being, body and mind. Filled with laughter and raunaq, he had a rare ability to engage with people in a manner few could match. Each person he met felt “seen” by him. Even on stage while many musicians retreat inwardly, often closing their eyes to immerse themselves in their internal world, Zakir’s inner world was so rich and expansive that he didn’t need to close his eyes; he could make eye contact with his listeners, absorb every nuance of the moment, and still play with unparalleled mastery. There are stories that he outdid the computer in creating taal.
I was only 18 when I first encountered Zakir, as a student at the National Institute of Design, having gone to photograph him at a concert in 1981. I didn’t have permission to photograph him on stage, and when the event organiser pushed me aside, I lost my balance and fell. But I got up and mustered up the courage to approach Zakir after the concert. I told him that though I was just a young student, one day I would become an important photographer and then we would see. He invited me to complete my assignment by photographing him during rehearsals. That moment marked the beginning of a lifelong connection. I became a student at the ‘Zakir Husain Academy of Focus’.
Through the ’80s, I travelled with him and his peers. Those years were a masterclass in learning. Zakir opened his world to me in ways I couldn’t have imagined. He said that he saw glimpses of his young self in me. He had left this country when he was 18, with $8 in his pocket, to perfect his art. By allowing me unfettered access to his life, Zakir showed me what it means to be an artist and to be committed to that choice.
What I learned most profoundly from him was rigour. The rigour of practice, of thought, and the relentless pursuit of excellence. He was encouraging and protective, but also a tough mentor. I remember when Hariji (Hariprasad Chaurasia) offered to teach me the flute. I was overwhelmed, but Zakir did not allow me to pursue it. He asked me, “Are you willing to dedicate 18 hours a day to this for the rest of your life?” When I hesitated, he said, “You take one thing, commit to it, master it, and then challenge it.” That lesson — of unwavering focus and discipline — became a cornerstone of my life.
Over the years, Zakir and I became like family. Even when he wasn’t around, I never had to inform ammaji (his mother — Bavi Begum) and abbaji (Ustad Allarakha Khan) before visiting; I could simply drop by. He shared a deep connection with my mother and would visit her when in Delhi. She would prepare his favourite meal, which included sarson ka saag and makki ki roti. He loved going to Karim’s near Jama Masjid, where one waiter recited the menu like tabla bols. Zakir loved the nihari there.
In 1986, I published my book on him. I tried selling it at his concerts but people were surprised by it, they thought it should have been about the tabla. In 2019 Steidl published the maquette of that same book and Zakir launched it at Artisans in Bombay. I feel my entire journey has been from Zakir Hussain 1986 to Zakir Hussain maquette 2019. I learned to learn and challenge one’s medium from him and how dissemination is part of one’s pursuit. He famously said ” If the Wah Taj ad can bring two more people into the concert hall, it’s worth it”.
In 2011, he served on a jury for a film festival at the Venice Biennale, and sent me a message saying, “So proud to see your work at the Venice Biennale.” This time, I felt like he’s not the only star in the picture, so I responded saying, “See I’m also a big star now”. He said, “Sweetheart, I hope you never start to believe that because the day you do is the day it’s over.”
The world is a lesser place without his presence — mine certainly is. But as he once said, “When a renowned musician passes, the world does not fall silent; their wisdom, their music, the words and emotions they shared stay with us… We arrive in this world with nothing, and we depart in the same way, but in the end, we leave behind all that we have learned.”
The writer is a photo artist
(As told to Vandana Kalra)
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