An angelic presence has gone from our lives and I am grappling with that loss. Zakir was the gentlest of souls, a beacon of warmth for everyone he encountered -- be they stalwarts such as Pt. Ravi Shankar, Shivji (Pt. Shiv Kumar Sharma) myself, or be they younger artistes, students, people handling lights, sound at the concerts or those serving chai — he treated everyone with the same openness and respect.
When I first heard of his ill-health, I told myself, ‘He’s in the US, surrounded by state-of-the-art health care and the best doctors, surely he’ll pull through; he has to…’ Even now, though it’s been some hours since his death, a part of me expects to hear his ringing laughter any moment, as if he will call to lighten the heaviness in my chest.
People say Zakir carried forward the legacy of his illustrious father, Ustad Allahrakha Khan saab but I believe he did much more than that — he elevated tabla-playing to heights never scaled before. Even his abba once told me, with understandable pride: “Zakir has taken the tabla to heights I could have only dreamed of, he mesmerises even those who have little knowledge of music. I may have taught him but his signature style is uniquely his own. I marvel at how audiences — children, elders, everyone — seem to hang onto every beat.” I could only agree with this assessment. Zakir’s playing was not just about technique or the classical paradigm but also about making something deeply pure and divine accessible to one and all. He could, for instance, riff on the galloping of a horse, the revving of a motorbike or the sound of a kid bouncing a ball on concrete but just when he had hooked the audiences in, he would segue into the classical. It’s difficult to put his extraordinary calibre into words.
I first met him when he was a shy 10-year-old at Bombay Lab Studio. His had accompanied his father who was recording for the film Jagga. There must have been over 80 musicians and the mighty Mohammed Rafi saab at the microphone, but even in that crowded recording studio, this radiant little moppet, playing the manjira with impeccable rhythm, stood out.
{{/usCountry}}I first met him when he was a shy 10-year-old at Bombay Lab Studio. His had accompanied his father who was recording for the film Jagga. There must have been over 80 musicians and the mighty Mohammed Rafi saab at the microphone, but even in that crowded recording studio, this radiant little moppet, playing the manjira with impeccable rhythm, stood out.
{{/usCountry}}Soon, that radiance would became a fixture in the world of music. Zakir would often accompany his father during recording sessions for legends like Madan Mohan and Shankar-Jaikishan. Like many of us musicians, Khan saab’s life revolved around his art, leaving his wife to take care of the children. And though Zakir occasionally bunked school to watch a movie or play cricket, his father’s gentle and encouraging teaching style allowed him to grow organically into the prodigy he was meant to be. Khan saab trusted his son deeply, a trust that kept Zakir grounded and focused, endearing him to everyone he met.
The only time I saw Khan saab truly distraught was when 14-year-old Zakir accidentally broke one of my left fingers during a game of cricket. For a flautist, it was a serious injury. That moment seemed to leave a mark on Zakir too, I felt. Thereon, after his father’s lecture, he displayed a new level of seriousness and commitment to his art and that intensity showed in his every performance.
I have countless memories with Zakir. Back in the day, when we couldn’t afford flights, we would drive from New York to San Francisco, sustained by McDonald’s and deep conversations about life and music. During one such drive he told me about accompanying his father to private mehfils in the homes of South Bombay’s elite. While the hosts wined and dined, Zakir and the musicians would wait in the kitchen until called to perform. Often, the leftover food in large tiffin carriers was their only payment. From those humbling beginnings to becoming a global icon, Zakir’s journey was nothing short of a miracle.
Maestros like Pt. Ravi Shankar and Zakir didn’t just perform — they created audiences for Indian classical music where none had existed. They made the world sit up and take notice of our musical heritage. Zakir’s work with Shakti in 1973, alongside John McLaughlin, L Shankar, and Vikku Vinayakram, broke barriers between genres. When the group reunited decades later as Remembering Shakti, Zakir invited me to join them as a guest at a few of the concerts. Even there, he went out of his way to put the spotlight on other artistes rather than hogging the limelight for himself even though he was a huge star by then. It was his vision that bridged the divides of Carnatic, Hindustani, or Western music — he only ever saw the larger, universal picture.
Zakir’s encouragement of younger artistes was another testament to his generous spirit. He championed talents like my nephew Rakesh Chaurasia, vocalists like Devki Pandit and Rahul Deshpande, showering them with praise and guiding them with the same warmth he extended to all of us. Though settled in the US, he stayed deeply connected to the Indian music scene, aware of its pulse. Every year he would be in Mumbai for the many concerts he participated in the memory of his father or his friend Jennifer Kapoor at Prithivi Theatre. I last saw him this January when he came to perform at my gurkul in Andheri, Vrindaban.
In Zakir’s passing we have lost one of the strongest pillars of our musical heritage. The world feels a little dimmer without his radiance, his laughter, his genius. I will find it difficult to reimagine a world without Zakir. Truly, an irreplaceable light has gone out.
(The writer is a renowned flautist who collaborated with Hussain for a number of projects. As told to Yogesh Pawar)