Zakir Hussain Page 5

  NMK: Many people love the idea of a list of top tens. Do you have a favourite Hindi film song?

  ZH: It is kind of hard to say because there are so many categories of film songs: sad songs, romantic songs, happy songs, and qawwalis—I have listened to quite a few songs. How to pick a favourite?

  Many composers and lyricists have written fabulous songs. Sometimes I am just sitting around and I remember a very beautiful song and I really love it. I forget about it and then another song comes to mind.

  When someone would ask me to name my favourite song, I would say: ‘Anything by Madan Mohanji is great.’ Consciously or unconsciously, I was aware that I could not tie myself to one song because that meant I would be limiting my vision and emotional growth. It’s like asking me which raga I like. There are a few ragas that I like very much. In the morning, I like listening to Lalit. In the evening, I like Shree.

  There is this need for human beings to establish the number one. And it cannot be—music is not sports. It’s not boxing where you become the number one ranking boxer. It does not mean you’re the best boxer around, it just means you are ranked number one at that point in time because you happen to have won a few more fights than someone else.

  NMK: You said the days when you were working as a session musician as a teenager are somewhat of a blur. How did you manage to juggle school and work?

  ZH: Did I tell you about Mr Sharma? He was my teacher and Abba’s fan. He explained to Father Bento, the principal of my school, that he thought I was talented and should be allowed to play music.

  A deal was struck, perhaps the first of its kind in a school in Bombay, where a kid could follow the school curriculum in his own way. Mr Sharma was the man who made it possible. He would leave my homework with Amma, I would go to the recording studio, and when I came home, she would give me my homework. If I had to travel for a concert to Patna or Hyderabad, Aurangabad or Ahmedabad, I would study on the train under the reading light.

  NMK: You started working at a very young age, as did your father in his time. I believe his family spoke Dogri as well as Punjabi and belonged to the Muslim Dogra community. Can you tell me something about the family?

  ZH: They were originally from a village called Phagwal, on the border of Jammu and Punjab. Later they moved to Ramri by the river Raavi in Shakargarh. Ramri is now in Pakistan and it was there that my grandfather, who was called Hashim Ali Qureshi Sahib, had settled. The family lived in a spacious house surrounded by mango groves. To get to Ramri, you had to ride a horse on a dirt road. I don’t know what it’s like now. I have not been there in thirty years.

  Essentially, Abba’s family was one of farmers. I once started writing a book about him and the first line was: ‘God made a mistake by having the stork bring my father to a farmer’s home when it should have been a musician’s home.’ [laughs]

  I know Abba was eleven or so when he ran away from home to stay with an uncle in Lahore. I don’t know my great-uncle’s name because Abba always referred to him as ‘Chacha’. In Lahore, Abba did a menial job in a shop. Music was always Abba’s thing and perhaps that’s why he went to Lahore because the city was a hub of cultural activity then and many musicians lived there.

  Every Friday, after prayers, a baithak was held in someone’s house. The Punjabi way of saying it was: ‘Aaj unke takiye pe baithak hai.’ In other words, musicians would be performing in the sitting area of a private home. These baithaks took place in the afternoon because the musicians had to play for the baijis later that evening. One day, Abba’s uncle took him to a baithak because he knew of my father’s passion for music.

  On that particular day, a Dhrupad singer was singing and his tabla player was unable to decipher the composition. So the host asked if there was another tabla player in the house who could play. Without realizing the enormity of the situation, or the protocol involved, Abba said he knew what to do, and so he went ahead. Everyone was amazed to see this young kid playing so well. Abba must have heard the composition somewhere and it had stuck in his mind.

  One of the musicians at the baithak asked which ustad was training the young boy, and was told that he did not have a teacher, but was very keen on studying the tabla. The musician spoke of an ustad who belonged to the Punjab gharana and who lived in the same neighbourhood. He suggested that Abba’s uncle should take his nephew there. That’s how Abba met his guru, Mian Qadir Baksh, and when he did, my father was convinced that he had seen Mian-ji in his childhood.

  NMK: I read an article on your father in which he said that he had seen his guru’s face reflected in a river, and so when, as a teenager, he met Mian Qadir Baksh, the master of the pakhawaj and tabla, he was sure this was the guru that he had been seeking. Is this true?

  ZH: I try to explain these things rationally. There are certain powers at play but something like music is rooted in tradition, so you want to make sure that it’s not all myth. There must be some reality attached for it to be valid. That is very important to me.

  It is possible that a musician passing through Abba’s village might have showed him the guru’s photograph in a newspaper. Someone could have been listening to the radio and said: ‘Mian-ji is playing.’ So his guru’s name and face was somewhere at the back of Abba’s mind, and when he met him, Abba felt he had seen his guru sometime earlier.

  NMK: How did your father know how to play before that fateful day at the Lahore baithak?

  ZH: Travelling musicians and nautankis used to perform in the village square in Abba’s childhood. They were known as ‘mirasis’. My father would watch the musicians, but his attention was on the tabla player and probably that’s how he learned—by observation.

  When Mian-ji was teaching Abba the tabla, it is clear to me that it was he who told him to learn singing as well. So Mian-ji sent Abba to Ashiq Ali Khansahib who belonged to the Patiala gharana and who had also mentored Bade Ghulam Ali Khansahib. I think it was common for most rhythm players to know about vocal music because they had to understand what was expected of them when they were accompanying a singer, because singing was the top thing in those days. Instruments were not as much in vogue as they are now.

  When Abba taught us, he would tell us about ragas and music compositions and talk about their emotional features, and how to support these compositions rhythmically. That was all part of the learning process.

  NMK: In Mickey Hart’s Drumming at the Edge of Magic, you have described the time that your father trained under Mian Qadir Baksh in these words: ‘Often the teacher was busy. Weeks would pass and then he wouldn’t spend any time with my father, being busy with concerts or other students. But then he’d sit down with my father and for two or three days they’d do nothing but play the tabla together. In time, and with much practice, my father became a master.’ Your father spent six years studying under his guru in Lahore. Was he working at the same time?

  ZH: In 1936, when he was seventeen, Abba joined All India Radio (AIR) in Lahore. Because of his obvious talent, he was offered a job as a staff musician at AIR in Delhi in 1938. Two years later he was transferred to AIR, Bombay.

  One day he decided to go back to his village and that’s when he got married to my mother who was from a village some distance away. It must have been an arranged marriage, though my father and mother were cousins. I don’t know when they got married, but I think it was in the early 1940s. Abba found a place to stay in Bombay and my mother joined him.

  You know I never once heard my mother call Abba by his name. She would say: ‘Unko bulao’ [Call ‘him’].

  NMK: That was the tradition—a wife did not usually address her husband by name. I saw a charming thirty-minute black-and-white documentary titled Allarakha, made in 1970 by Chandrashekhar Nair of Films Division, in which your father said that twenty-five of the films in which he composed the music were hits and fifteen among these celebrated a fifty-week run, or what they called a golden jubilee hit in those days. In his interview, your father also proudly said that you were away in America at th
e time of filming. There was an evocative shot of your old Bakelite telephone with the number ‘359494’.

  The short interview in the documentary with your mother was fascinating. She talked about how attached your father was to the family. It must have been hard on your mother, given that your father was away for months on end.

  ZH: We were little kids, so the emotional stress that she must have felt was not obvious to me. I was busy playing cricket and hanging out. But I am very sure it was difficult for her because she had been thrown into this amazingly different life, from village to big city, and by the time she had adjusted to it, her husband was off travelling around the world for five or six months at a stretch. Abba could read Urdu but not write it, so he had to find someone to write his letters for him. So letters were rare.

  I once overheard Amma telling a friend—and it really stuck in my head—that she missed Abba a lot. There was nothing romantic about her comment—it was more about missing someone to talk with—just to have Abba around for support and advice.

  NMK: When you were growing up, was money a problem? Or were you well off?

  ZH: Oh no, we were poor. The big houses and big cars that we saw were in the movies. We would see well-dressed people arriving in their fancy cars to attend concerts. But I do not remember ever feeling: ‘Oh, I want a car like that.’ Many of my friends were living in homes that were far more modest than ours.

  You must remember tabla players were on the lower rung of the hierarchy. The singer was the highest paid, the instrumentalist was next and the tabla player’s fees finally depended on what the singer or instrumentalist decided to pay him. Even though my father was famous, he was paid 10 or 12 per cent of what the lead musicians earned.

  NMK: Are we talking about 5,000 rupees a concert?

  ZH: No! Are you kidding? In the 1960s, Abba may have been paid 500 or 1,000 rupees while the lead musician was paid 15,000.

  I remember once when Abba was on tour and the money that he used to send home had not come. Amma was down to her last five rupees and did not know if she could buy food for the next day, and so she went to sleep praying that some money would arrive.

  That night she had a dream and Abba was in the dream. He gave her something wrapped in a handkerchief and when she unfolded it, there was a little bag with some money in it. The next morning, she said: ‘Chal, Zakir’ [Come, Zakir] and we headed towards Khar. We took a bus and got down opposite the Sacred Heart School on S.V. Road and made our way to the home of Rajendra Shankarji [Ravi Shankarji’s brother] and his wife, Lakshmiji. When we arrived at their house, they welcomed us warmly. ‘Aao, Bhabhi, kaisi ho? Sab theek hai?’ [Come, sister-in-law, how are you? All well?]

  My mother was not the kind of person who could ask if her husband had sent anything for her—she was shy about such things—so she said nothing. Half an hour later, Lakshmi Shankarji said: ‘Bhaiya has sent this for you.’ And she handed Amma a handkerchief with a small bag wrapped in it. Some folded bank notes were in that bag.

  Isn’t that amazing?

  NMK: Extraordinary! Your parents must have been deeply connected to each other.

  ZH: They were. When Abba was home, they used to talk for hours at night. The story of her dream has stayed with me ever since.

  NMK: Did those years of struggle influence your attitude towards money?

  ZH: No. I was just grateful to do what I was doing. When I was thirteen or fourteen, I got to travel, nobody was watching over me, I did what I wanted, ate what I liked, and when we went on tour, I slept in a room of my own and didn’t have to share it with four others. I had a radio and all that stuff. It was luxury. I got a lot of adulation too. I was as content as I am now. I was studying in an English-medium school and could read and write Urdu. I had memorized most of the Quran and am what they called at the madrasa, a hafiz. I was sometimes asked to read the Fatiha [the opening verse of a prayer] because I have a good memory.

  NMK: Are you a religious person?

  ZH: What is a religious person? I am a Muslim; my wife, Toni, is a Catholic; my daughters, Anisa and Isabella, were baptized; Taufiq’s wife, Geetika Varde, is a Konkan Maharashtrian; Fazal’s wife, Birwa, is a Gujarati from Ahmedabad—our family is a beautiful mix of universal oneness.

  The fewer fences there are to climb, the better. I believe in the universality of humanity and that we are all one. None of the prophets, the Zoroastrians, Buddha, Mahavir or Guru Nanak have said anything different. They have all spoken of loving one another and striving for peace.

  Being a musician has given me a how-to-be rulebook. The way I accompany the lead musician is the way I react to people in life. My solo performances are the way I hold court at a party, if I’m asked. Being a student, teacher, performer, composer—it’s all of one piece. Ultimately everything for me revolves around music.

  NMK: You said you had a good memory—for music you obviously do—but does that also apply to people and places?

  ZH: I can recall a face almost in the place that I first saw it. I am a little hesitant in terms of names. But if someone tells me his or her name, I can remember what we talked about.

  We meet so many people and you shake hands, etc., but I still remember people whom I am introduced to, because if you see them again you don’t want to make them feel you’ve forgotten them. I think it’s nice to remember names. When I am flying, I look at the badge of a stewardess, so that I can call her by her name, as opposed to saying: ‘Excuse me, stewardess!’ It establishes a different kind of interaction.

  NMK: When you were telling me about the most unusual encounter your mother had with Gyani Baba around the time of your birth, I forgot to ask if you were born at home or in a hospital.

  ZH: I was born on 9 March 1951 in a nursing home in Mahim at about 9:45 p.m. on a Friday. I don’t remember the name of the nursing home, but I know it does not exist anymore. It was not far from our first place in Mahim. I used to pass it when I was a child, and someone pointed it out to me and said: ‘That’s where you were born.’

  I came into this world after three girls—my elder sisters: Bilquis, Khurshid and Razia. There is a four-year gap between Khurshid Apa and me. I had a younger brother, Munawar, whom we called Munna, but we lost him when he was very young. Then came Fazal and Taufiq. There is a ten-year gap between Fazal and me, and an eleven-and-a-half-year gap between Taufiq and me. When we were growing up, I was more like an uncle to my brothers. Abba was travelling a lot, so I would often get them to practise the tabla. They told me that they were more scared of me than they were of Abba. [smiles]

  I was very close to my sisters because we were about the same age. My elder sister Khurshid Apa is somewhat of a sentinel for our family. From the time that we were young, she has played the role of the eldest sibling and has continued to do so. She is concerned for each one of us. She keeps in touch with the extended family, sending wishes and gifts in time for all occasions. Caring for everyone’s needs has made her the information-and-help junction. From time to time, she would even call Toni’s mother in New York because that’s a natural form of showing familial respect.

  After her marriage to Ayub Bhai [Ayub Aulia], who is a published writer and poet, they settled in London. In Abba’s name, her house is wide open to all visiting artists who are passing through London—they are invited for meals and given any help they need. She has kept in touch with the music community and kept us all connected. She has done all this while raising three children of her own, a daughter, Ghazal, and two sons, Ameer Najeeb and Mukarram Zaki.

  Khurshid Apa is an Urdu poet and a writer. I still remember being so proud of her when her poem was published in the daily Urdu paper Inquilab.

  After Abba’s passing, she established the Alla Rakha Foundation, and in his name has presented many young and deserving artists from India as well as those living in London. Khurshid Apa has kept the light on, and it is well known in the music community that her home is always open to them, in the same way that our home was a place of welcome for dec
ades.

  NMK: You said you lost a young brother.

  ZH: The brother we lost was Munawar. He would have been a great musician. He could sing rhythms effortlessly when he was just a toddler. A rabid dog mauled him when he was three or four. They rushed him to the hospital and gave him every possible injection, but they could not save him. I was twelve years old at the time, and have always felt very guilty that I was not with him that day.

  NMK: What a terrible trauma for the family.

  ZH: It was. We also lost two sisters, the eldest, Bilquis Apa, passed away when she was very young. The family did not talk about it, but obviously it was painful. I don’t know how she passed away. She died before I was born.

  The second sister that we lost was Razia Apa. She was only fifty. That fatal day—2 February 2000—was a disastrous day for us. My brother Fazal and I were flying that morning to Kozhikode [Calicut] to play with Sultan Khansahib. We were at the Bombay airport and I just happened to call home and spoke to Razia Apa who said she was going for her cataract surgery that morning. A year or two earlier my father had the same procedure at the same clinic and there had been no problem. It was a routine surgery, a piece of cake. Razia Apa said: ‘I’ll go today and get it done. Pray that it goes well.’ I told Razia Apa to be careful, wished her luck, and asked her to keep me posted.

  They were supposed to give her a local anaesthesia, so she had a little breakfast and went to the clinic on her own. Before the procedure could start, she apparently felt uneasy. The nurses did not know what was wrong with her, so they decided to postpone the surgery. After a short while, someone there suggested general anaesthesia, thinking it would be easier for Razia Apa. My sister probably agreed so that it would be over and done with.