Meeting the Maestro / Memories of Husain
We met last autumn, exactly nine months ago. I remember walking into his posh apartment
on Mayfair, casually sipping a coffee grabbed from the Bistro downstairs as I was shown into
a small studio. And then it happened -- through a doorway at the other end I caught sight of
a majestic, frail white eagle from a different realm. The maestro was waiting. The space
around him seemed to throb with an energy I had never experienced before, almost as if he
was capable of transporting anybody who stepped into it to a different reality. I had never
really been a serious fan of his work and was merely carrying a letter from a friend in
Kathmandu. But the next thing I knew I was at his feet – speechless.
Over the next few weeks we had the opportunity to meet him at his apartment cum studio
quite a few times. And of course when he made an amazing appearance at my solo show of
paintings on The Mahabharata. He was an incessant talker once you got him started –
massive canvases lined the walls, arranged in yet unfinished triptychs – he was working on a
history of contributions made by Islamic cultures as well as a linear history of India. One was
meant for a museum in Qatar, the other for a museum dedicated to his works in London. It
was amazing to watch him gleefully explain the nuances of some of his pieces – his finger
pointing at an old man clutching an oil lamp at the back of a bullock cart, ‘That’s my
grandfather – he used to earn a living by making lamps – and that’s me in front, the child
driving the cart.’ I went back the next day with my husband and son, and again the next. He
was missing his homeland – we talked of the past, of common friends, of his self-imposed
exile, of his love for biriyani (which we had planned to share on a later trip), of the work he
hoped to do soon. He was very eager to visit Kathmandu, perhaps because that was the
nearest he could come to his home. The pain of separation was a wound he carried with him
everywhere. One morning, the sun filtered in on his iconic horses, huge, molded by Murano
craftsmen. Husain flicked a finger and his assistant switched on the turntable – the horses
circled around the table and cars slid across the glass tabletop – ‘these will be shown in
October as a choreographed piece,’ he grinned, exuding an unnerving joie de vivre. Later,
he autographed a sketch for us in Bangla.
Husain had stopped attending art shows. I showed him digital images of my work, not even
daring to hope that he would. ‘You are working on The Mahabharata too? – I am beginning
to work on it again. Show me some more…’. Afterwards, he promised to come to the
exhibition. That evening the Nehru Centre was filled to capacity with collectors, fans, old
friends – all waiting expectantly for the maestro. He hadn’t been to an art show for years. As
for myself, I had little hope since I was just another artist from this part of the world. Then
the sudden silence hit me. There he was – barefoot, radiant, with his signature brush in his
hand. Husain saab had indeed kept his word and was there for the closing ceremony. I have
very little memory of the rest of the evening, except that he kept going around, looking at
the artworks, posing with them, interacting with guests.
I used to take him flowers everyday on my short walk from the tube station to the gallery.
On the last day of our trip, he was caught in a BBC interview. I left the carnation plant in a
pot with the concierge. Later, when we talked on the phone from Heathrow, he said he had
put the plant on his windowsill and that we would be meeting soon in Kathmandu. That was
M. F. Husain. As far as I remember, he was also the only person by whom I had been moved
enough to kneel in a gesture of ‘pranam’. As we sit and watch the news channels repeat him
in an endless loop, we remember him from nine months ago – he had just walked us to the
elevator and the door slid shut across his smile and waving hand.
