Master’s CLASS

It is hard to imagine that as I write these words, you are being buried halfway across the world. The truth is, you are buried forever in the hearts of everyone you touched in your extraordinary life. I witnessed that first-hand in all the years I photographed you. As a full-page tribute in a daily aptly put it, when people think of Taj Tea, they don’t think of the Taj Mahal, but of you. Wah Ustad Wah.

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One of my earliest paid photography assignments was shooting stills for the same Taj Tea advertisement. I believe it was you who insisted that the agency give this young photographer a chance. (The truth is, this young photographer only became a photographer because of you, but that’s a whole other story).

I remember how some senior musicians disapproved of your decision to do a tea ad. You dismissed their concerns with your characteristic clarity, saying, “If I can get two more people into the concert hall, it’s worth it.” Along with everything else, this was one of the most important lessons I learned from you: the power of dissemination, of sharing one’s art unapologetically with the world. That understanding is now one of the key foundations of my work.

You taught me the value of rigour, discipline, and total immersion in one’s work. “Understand your medium like the back of your hand,” you said, “and only then start to play with it.” I took those words to heart. And when you received the Kyoto Prize in 2022, one of the world’s most prestigious honours celebrating those who have bettered humanity through their craft, I couldn’t help but marvel at the synchronicity that, in the same year, I was awarded the Hasselblad Award for photography. The master and the student — both laureates in the same year. I wish I had thanked you more in my acceptance speech for instilling that sense of focus and commitment in me.

It didn’t matter how many trains we’d taken to reach a concert hall, or how tired you were from back-to-back performances. The moment the tabla was placed before you, exhaustion melted away, and magic filled the air. Watching you was an education in itself — a masterclass in transcending physical limits through sheer love for your medium.

But what stood out most was your humility, which was as profound as your mastery. No matter the stage, the accolades, or the reverence you commanded, you always carried yourself with the simplicity of someone in service of their art. You once told me, “The tabla is the master; I am only its servant.” That humility was your true greatness. You treated every sound, every beat, and every audience member with the same respect and reverence. You made everyone feel seen, and in doing so, you elevated not only your art, but also the people fortunate enough to witness it.

I still think back to the annual musicians’ bus tour that Vijay Bhai had started at the Sangeet Research Academy in Calcutta. Three weeks of travel with some of the greatest musicians in a bus, where we removed the seats and placed mattresses to sleep on. We were in Agra, I remember, when Hariprasad Chaurasiaji offered to take me on as a student. I was over the moon but you stopped me from going through with the ganda-tying ceremony. You said, “Only do what you can give 18 hours a day to. Otherwise, don’t waste Hariji’s time.” That’s why my CV humourously states, “Educated at Zakir Hussain Academy of Focus.” Because what I learned from you wasn’t through lectures or formal instruction, it was by watching you live your life. I saw how your music was in your breath. Even when the tabla was not near you, you were busy composing, sometimes to the tune of the other person’s conversation. I often wondered if you were half-listening to the person, but you had heard even more than they could articulate. And that’s what embedded you in people’s hearts; you truly heard them, they felt seen by you.

Next year would have been 45 years since I met you and started to photograph. I thought I would spend guru purnima with you. Now I carry your teachings with me — in my work. You taught me to chase mastery, to embrace perseverance, to remain humble, and, above all, to share my art freely with the world. You will always remain my mentor. For, it is from you that I learned to learn. And to always be a student.

As you have said repeatedly: “We are born a student, and we go a student.”