Today is the birthday of the legendary dhrupadiya Ustad Zia Fariduddin Dagar. Facebook memories reminded me of his first posthumous birth anniversary in June 2013. He left this world in May of the same year. We were all at the gurukul - a baithak was held to commemorate his recent passing. It rained heavily that day, and in all the hullabaloo we had forgotten to get flowers to complete the ritual of honouring his memory. Some of us, his younger students, and family members, were engaged in attempting to get these flowers, even as the rain refused to relent. Perhaps I shared this on my facebook wall that evening, as I remembered the situation.
“the romantic/wishful side of me can think of only one man who could conjure up the rains like this with his art. that man is out there somewhere laughing at us, giving gaali in his idiosyncratic, explosive, and tongue-in-cheek manner, as we scrambled around trying to remember him today... sigh”
There is not much more left to say about Ustad. I listen to his recordings regularly, and his voice, like dynamite, never fails to blast me out of whatever I’m doing then, and pull me into the vortex of his music. I remember him, always through his gaalis, his humour, and his quiet concern.
Perhaps I have related this story before - forgive me if that is the case. I share it with you today, simply to remember: A few days before he died, when I spent a night with him at the hospital, he became suddenly serious. I sensed in his voice an anxiety that I had never felt before. He was always certain - any worry or fear would be dissipated with rage, or humour. But this time, I felt a tenderness that comes, perhaps, with the creeping awareness of imminent death. I had felt this quietening, only in his music before, when he paused after a slow phrase, and let the silence speak. He turned to me and asked me about my mother, about home, about my work, and eventually, he asked me about my music. Before I could respond, he held my arm and pulled me towards him. He said, ‘Tum aana abhi gurukul ko. Aate rehna. Har weekend’ (You come to the gurukul. Keep coming. Every weekend.) I used to go to the gurukul then, on weekends to learn, and be with him. During weekdays I had to go to work. He was urging me, softly, to come more often. He told me he will teach me, and that I have a lot to learn.
I felt, at that moment, a slight release. The tone in which he said what he said, and the urgency with which he called me to him, felt like an acceptance. I had not really felt this for many years. I felt that he would never acknowledge me as his student in public. There were always other better or more accomplished students. I had decided, when he told me, to go more often to the gurukul.
Then he said, suddenly, in his familiar confident booming voice: ‘Main do din mein theek ho jaaoonga. Tu dekh le. Tera Ustad bohot strong hain’ (I will become fine in two days. Just you wait. Your Ustad is very strong.’). He passed away soon after, in that same hospital. Even Ustad could not cheat death, with all his art, and anarchy.
I share with you a poem that I wrote for Ustad. I wrote this more than 15 years ago, when he was still alive.
I apologise for 2 consecutive posts with my own poems. I did not want to distract from the memory of Ustad with a poem by some other poet. Many poems about art convey with some accuracy, the impact and beauty of his work, but I do not know any poems that speak to his persona.
Perhaps you recognise your own loved ones or mentors in this sharing?
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Feel free to mail poetly@pm.me with any questions, queries, or comments. I will write back as soon as I find the space, and the time.
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so beautiful !
So beautifully written! And what a perfectly written poem! With tears in my soul...