Zakir Hussain leaves behind a treasure trove of values

There is no single day I dreaded more in my life than today. The news of the demise of Ustad Zakir Hussain, or Z Ji, as I and many refer to him, is not only shocking but a humongous vacuum, which leaves the entire music community strangled, with many fans and admirers surely despondent. As someone who looked up to him as an idol, then teacher, and most recently a friendly guide, I still do not understand his absence. Maybe, I am just learning how to be still.

I had come to take it for granted that Z Ji was to be a permanent fixture in music, always among us in the iconic and charismatic physical form, which immediately induced a cherubic smile from me. The mere thought of those russet-coloured locks, the beautiful hands and the conversational naughtiness is almost a necessary daily vitamin for me and many who were fortunate to interact with him.

Also read: Tabla loses its vibrant voice

Musically, it is difficult to find another person who has made the entire music fabric of the world come together with a purposeful amalgamation. It was Z Ji and his tabla that made connections and bridges where one thought they did not previously exist. It is said the perfect instrument between the heart and the mind is the voice, but his tabla sang like no voice before. The dimensions of exploration of what a tabla can do has been defined by his personal creativity. The asymptote firmly approaches Z. From bluegrass, to electronic, to orchestral concertos, and without question Indian music, the Z Ji tabla sound was a natural embodiment of the most heightened aesthetics, erudition, and playful virtuosity.

As a teenager growing up in New Jersey, I first saw him live at Wesleyan University with Pandit Birju Maharaj in 1997 and then at the Town Hall in NYC where he performed a double header with Pandit Jasraj and M. Balamurali Krishna. These two live experiences changed me profoundly and suddenly the desire to learn the tabla became uncontrollable.

To this day, I can’t imagine that my fate allowed me to attend his annual tabla workshops in San Anselmo, play a mridangam solo in front of him at the Abbaji Barsi in 2014, get called to go on the Masters of Percussion tours, and eventually subside at a place of a personal mentorship under him speaking of family matters and life lessons. I must be the luckiest guy in the world.

As a teacher, he showed the greatest respect for that which has come before: the elders, the repertoire, the protocols and, at the same time, a thorough creative rationalist, he swiftly batted away blatant kowtow ideologies and discriminations. As a performer, his vision of music was at all costs an uncompromising preciousness that lived in improvisational moments.

Sound was his personal arrow like Cupid’s, released into the audience from the tablas. We fell in love with the romance of his music making, the vulnerability, the exhilaration and the depths of storytelling. When Z Ji was on stage, an audience of 2,000 thought he was playing personally for each person.

As I write this, the pain is slowly setting in that he is in fact gone. However, there is an incredible treasure trove of values he has left behind for me and many others to ponder, decode and eventually inculcate. For all the success, which found him, he wore it so easily and plainly. He always kept mentioning the best place to be is that of a student, always learning and seeking from the fire of knowledge.

The greatest loss, I think, even beyond all of the Himalayan music he has made, is the unlimited humanity he personified. He gave himself willingly to every single fan, every musician, organizer, etc. The list goes on. I remember so vividly, an excited cab driver calling India from Manhattan to put Z Ji on the phone to his relatives. And of course, Z Ji spoke freely and happily to give them joy even though it was right before his concert. Like this, I am sure everyone has a Z Ji story and it’s equally authentic, personal and the most delectable currency of magnanimity we have come to encounter.

I take his humanity to be his greatest legacy, which is also the most difficult to emulate. He was the true embodiment of the phrase, “it’s nice to be important, but it’s more important to be nice”.

Z Ji, you are missed dearly – Love and respect always!

(The writer is a noted percussionist)