AN ERA PASSES

I haven’t even begun to process Zakir Hussain’s passing. Loved him, utterly and absolutely, his tabla, his persona, everything.

His tabla always sounded so melodious, it rang sweet and crystal clear, every bol polished. He had light hands, not just gifted and skilled. The thaap on the daaya resonated perfectly, never harsh, and that on the baaya was timbered and respectful, reminding us that that was where the essence of the taal lay. I heard him play live so often, sometimes several times a year too, accompanying his father Ustad Alla Rakha, performing solo, accompanying instrumentalists.

He was hailed as THE child prodigy when he started off with his first few performances. So true. He soared to stupendous heights, but he always remained grounded, ever humble. He was probably his father’s best shagird, and he trained intensively, continuing with his riyaz, experimentation, that fertile brain of his always playing with more and more kaydas, his padhant as mellifluous as his tabla bol. I remember how when an instrumentalist would escalate the speed of his bandish towards a blinding, climactic finish on the jhala, Zakirbhai’s fingers would fly and yet his every dha and dhin, ta and tin remained clear, distinctly audible and true. Dexterity, virtuosity, fearless experimentation, superb confidence, a well-earned celebrity stature, an Ustad himself. And yet he was always accessible, would meet everyone graciously. He had a marvellous sense of humour too, that added to his popularity. Great spontaneous wit.

Over the decades that he played, and I listened to him, I never heard anything untoward about him. Of course, he was human, and he must have had his share of flaws. But the good in him always seemed real. Genuine.

I remember a story about a celebrated sitarist having a full-blown tantrum, demanding a heftier fee than agreed upon just before his turn at Sawai. Pt Bhimsen Joshi, who curated and ran the festival, was disgusted and threatened to cancel the sitarist’s performance, announce the reason too. Zakirbhai took Bhimsenji aside, urging him to let the man play, that he would forfeit his own fees instead. Zakir Hussain’s point was, let’s not dent the celebrity’s image so publicly, and let the audience hear what had been promised to them. And then he stayed on till the last day and accompanied Bhimsenji too for his vocal concert, a rare occurrence. I still remember that Miyan ki Todi, Bhimsenji in his element and a young Zakir playing with reverence.

I remember when Shafat Ahmed, another great tabalchi, passed away, I was almost inconsolable for days and days. This was years ago, Shafatbhai died young. Then I heard Zakirbhai with Hariprasad Chaurasiya and felt relieved that the best is safe yet.

The best is now no more. Music isn’t safe, I fear. The true stars are fading away, Rashid Khan left us. Shivkumar Sharma too. Shahid Parvez plays less nowadays. Hariprasad Chaurasiya’s hands quiver. The illustrious greats are thinning fast. Now we mostly have some cheap imitation shine that looks hollow and stale as soon as it gets up to perform. More eager to impress with their tayyari than in creating that magical mahaul and mood that Ragasangeet promises.

Dear, dear, Zakirbhai, I don’t know yet what missing you will feel like. I suspect that there will be silence, a deathly vacuum, where I would have expected to hear your imaginative teentaal playing. That ecstasy that I saw on your face when you were immersed in your taal, the ecstasy that you transported us to with such consummate ease, how do we recreate that now? I feel fortunate that I and many others lived in your era and witnessed your rare genius. I know that in our ears and hearts your dha-dhin will still echo with fidelity. Farewell, dear Ustadji, may the heavens continue to dance to your beat.