When I Think of Zakir Hussain

a tribute to my favourite musician

When I think of Zakir Hussain, I think of water, and the sound of water. A single drop, echoing in a vast underground cavern. The patter of raindrops on a tiled roof. The crash of rollers on a rocky shore. A stone dropped in a pond: the deep boom, the spreading ripples. The tinkle of icicles, the bubble of a boiling pot, the spray of a waterfall. The ferocity of the monsoon, the soft muffle of snowflakes.

With two drums and ten fingers, he produced sounds that nobody else ever had, or ever could. When he played, it wasn’t just rhythm, wasn’t just melody, wasn’t just tone or timbre. It was all of them; it was music, the very heart of music.

When I think of Zakir Hussain, I think of curiosity. It would have been easy, in the rigid, traditionalist, hierarchical, often ego-driven world of Indian classical music, to become rigid and traditionalist oneself: to say, “this is the way to do it, and no other”. But Zakir Hussain was restless, and curious, and always willing to explore.

He played with everyone, and he played everything: classical and jazz and fusion and “world” music, bluegrass and acid rock, electronica and trance, soundtracks and pop songs and even ad jingles. His curiosity expanded the frontiers of his playing, while making the core ever richer and deeper.

When I think of Zakir Hussain, I think of generosity. The tabla is an accompanist’s instrument, and Zakir Hussain accompanied all of the greats – Ali Akbar Khan, Ravi Shankar, Shiv Kumar Sharma, Vilayat Khan, Hariprasad Chaurasia – with the perfect mix of deference and daring.

But he also accompanied youngsters and unknowns, strangers and newbies, with equal respect and commitment: always happy to sit at the side of the stage, always using his tabla to accentuate and highlight and strengthen.

What does it mean, for an accompanist to be the maestro? Generosity, not just of gift or word or deed, but of spirit. A generosity born of abundance, confidence, and belief.

When I think of Zakir Hussain, I think of craft. Such mastery is not easily bought; it must be earned. We see the virtuosity, but we don’t see all that lies behind it. The long hours of practice, starting in childhood. The apprenticeship with his father and with other teachers, legends all. The patience and discipline underlying his incredible precison. The stillness behind the blur of fingers; the effort it takes to make a thing look effortless.

Yet above and beyond all these things, when I think of Zakir Hussain, I think of joy. Indeed, I can’t name another musician for whom joy is so clearly their defining characteristic. His recordings are a pale shadow of his live performances, because they don’t capture the sheer exuberance of his playing – the impish humour, the showmanship, the delight in technical mastery, the delight with which he shared his gift with the world – and the adoration his audiences gave back to him. Joy multiplied.

Over 100 billion humans have lived and died on our planet; I will always be grateful that my time overlapped with Zakir Hussain.

Rest in peace, Ustad.

Toronto, December 2024