Dec 16, 2024 20:45 IST
First published: Dec 16, 2024 at 20:44 IST
Losing your guru is a different kind of loss—not so much ritual, just a hole in your core. I saw it with Zakir when he lost his own mentor Abbaji (Ustad Allarkha Khan), maybe I just saw him shaken. Otherwise, he was great at taking things in his stride. Today, I can’t imagine this world without Zakir and I’m sure I speak for all his students here. Among them, I may seem like an unlikely student, but that’s Zakir – he made a photographer out of me. First by teaching me how to be invisible but still present with the camera — no flash, no big shutter, no one or two shots at a time, no making endless pictures. And then he taught me life – how to live the life of an artist, to strive and reach where your riyaz is in your breath. He taught me how to learn.
Zakir is a genius, he revolutionized the tabla, elevating it from a companion instrument to a solo instrument. I was a witness to that journey. His magic was not only in his hands but how he played with his whole body, body and mind. Full of laughter and cheerfulness, she had a rare ability to connect with people in a way that few would. Every person he met felt “saw” by him. Even on stage many musicians retreat inwardly, often closing their eyes to immerse themselves in their inner world, Zakir’s inner world was so rich and vast that he didn’t need to close his eyes; He could make eye contact with his audience, absorb every nuance of the moment, and still play with unparalleled mastery. There is a story that he beat the computer in creating a poem.
I was 18 when I first met Zakir as a student at the National Institute of Design who went to photograph him at a concert in 1981. I didn’t have permission to photograph her on stage and when the event organizer pushed me. On the other hand, I lost my balance and fell. But I got up and got up the courage to approach Zakir after the concert. I told him that even though I am just a young student, one day I will become an important photographer and then we will see. He invited me to complete my assignment by photographing him during the rehearsal. That moment marked the beginning of a lifelong relationship. I became a student in ‘Zakir Hussain Academy of Focus’.
In the 80s, I traveled with him and his friends. Those years were a masterclass in reading. Zakir opened up his world to me in ways I could never have imagined. He said that he saw a glimpse of his youth in me. When he was 18, he left this country with eight dollars to perfect his art. By allowing me unfettered access to his life, Zakir showed me what it means to be an artist and commit to that choice.
What I learned most profoundly from him was toughness. Rigor of practice, of thought, and relentless pursuit of excellence. He was encouraging and protective, but also a tough mentor. I remember that Hariji (Hariprasad Chaurasia) offered to teach me the flute. I was overwhelmed, but Zakir didn’t let me 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 the cornerstone of my life.
Over the years Zakir and I have become like family. Even though he was not around, I did not have to inform Ammaji (his mother – Bavi Begum) and Abbaji (Ustad Allarkha Khan) before meeting him. I can just leave. He shares a deep bond with my mother and visits her whenever he is in Delhi. She would prepare his favorite food, which included sarson ka saag and makki ki roti. He loved going to Karimaj near the Jama Masjid, where a waiter read the menu like a tabla bol. Zakir loved Nihari there.
In 1986, I published my book about him. I tried to sell it at his concert but people were shocked by it, they thought it must be about tabla. In 2019 Steidl published a maquette of the same book and Zakir launched it at Artisans in Bombay. I think my whole journey has been from Zakir Hussain 1986 to Zakir Hussain Maquette 2019. I learned from him to learn and challenge one’s means and how diffusion is part of one’s search. He famously said, “If a Wah Taj ad can get two more people into a 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, “Very proud to see your work at the Venice Biennale.” This time, I felt like I wasn’t the only star in the picture, so I replied, “See now I’m a big star too”. He said, “Honey, I hope you never start believing because the day you do is the day it ends.”
The world is a smaller place without His presence—mine is. But as he once said, “When a famous musician passes away, the world is not silent; Their wisdom, their music, the words and feelings they shared remain with us… We come into this world with nothing, and we depart as such, but in the end, we leave everything we have learned.”
The author is a photo artist
(As told to Vandana Kalra)
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