Alla Rakha on tabla, to set the context, was Ravi Shankar’s preferred partner – not sarod meister Ali Akbar Khan, with whom the sitar great spread soft power of Hindustani music to a world that needed healing from the ravages of WW2 and, soon enough, Vietnam. Alla Rakha’s tabla was both erudite and subversive, enabling the two masters of strings to cast their spell. Normally in traditional ethnic gear, Alla Rakha could occasionally be seen in Saville Row threads. Empathy – not just sermons – was a key trait his son Zakir would ably pick up.
At the Dover Lane Music Conference in the early 1990s, father and son were in performance in the persuasive Taal Vadya Kacheri. The patriarch was clearly in retirement mode, an occasional flourish brightening his technical mastery. The heir apparent was on call to bear the baton of imagination and interpretation. Sheer magic was the outcome.
For a novice listener, the establishment of ‘tehzeeb’ – manners – was a revelation. During that performance, Sultan Khan on sarangi was rightfully introduced as a notable peer, not an accompanist. This non-negotiable adherence to tradition was, indeed, as remarkable as Hussain’s flair for innovation.
In yet another concert in the ’90s, an overzealous organiser tried to give Hussain first billing over another ‘instrumentalist’. Hussain took to the mic with trademark alacrity and went on to tell the audience that he was on stage to give ‘sangat’ – fellowship – to the musician on strings. Stardom would not interfere with protocol. Throughout the evening, he insisted on offering sublime ‘theka’ – the musical phrase establishing beat – disappointing the popcorn-munching cohorts in search of non-stop flamboyance. In the ‘theka’ – the ability to build bridges with sitar, sarod, santoor or voice – lay Hussain’s truest genius, even as he was feted for his solo bursts of exuberance.
In his alliances with Ali Akbar Khan, Vilayat Khan and Ravi Shankar, his mode was sotto voce, and stroke-play was unleashed only when summoned as a breezy interlude, or as a subtle breather. In collabs with sarod master Amjad Ali Khan, the licence to indulge was more pronounced, as they matched each other in performance bravado. In sitar genius Nikhil Banerjee’s company, the mood was always measured. When on stage with an emerging star, he switched to discreet mentoring, helping folks like sitarist Purbayan Chatterjee and the Bangash brothers on sarod to fulfil their performance potential.When accompanying Bhimsen Joshi or other vocal legends, Hussain was restrained, earnestly seeking to enrich the maestro’s craft. Many believed that santoor maestro Shiv Kumar Sharma was his finest accomplice. The bonding was effortless, and outcome stunningly unified. Hussain’s solo gigs were certainly deeply accomplished. But unlike in the universe of beverages, his blends always seemed superior to ‘single malts’.Hussain was captain of the A team of tabla exponents of his generation, a line-up that would include Swapan Chowdhury (Lucknow gharana), Sabir Khan and Anindo Chattopadhyay (Farrukhabad), and Kumar Bose (Benares). As the torchbearer of the Punjab gharana, Hussain was the pole star.
Hussain’s global footprint was spectacular. He represented the second wave of Indian classical music‘s cultural expansionism, building on the foundation of Vilayat Khan, Ravi Shankar, Alla Rakha and Ali Akbar Khan. He was the proud member of the iconic band Shakti, which was formed in 1973, with the original line-up that included John McLaughlin on guitar, Vikku Vinayakram on ghatam, and L Shankar on violin.
He was winner of four Grammy Awards, including three as recently as this year, two of which were Best Global Music Album for Shakti’s ‘This Moment’, and Best Contemporary Instrumental Album for ‘As We Speak’ by the quartet of Bela Fleck (banjo), Edgar Meyer (double bass), Rakesh Chaurasia (flute) and Hussain. Other notable global collaborators included cellist Yo-Yo Ma and saxophonist Charles Lloyd.
Any everlasting memory of Zakir Hussain would have to be on a concert stage, whether in Uttarpara, Pune or Delhi. First, the ustad, in zen-like state, imbibes the alaap, jor and jhala of the sitar. Then he gently preps his tabla for imminent artistry, seeking blessings of the elders. A calm build-up in the Madhyalaya gat (mid-tempo melody set out for improv) follows, leading to the fiery crescendo of the finale, with inspired answers for the probing Sawaal-Jawaab (call-and-response) stretch. Then, finally, post-exhilaration, he respectfully greets those in the audienecast in his spell.
There were others before him. There will be others after him. But in his time, and on his day, there was nobody quite like Ustad Zakir Hussain.
