Zakir

1951-2024

“You are Shruti, and I am Laya,” he quipped when I introduced myself backstage after one of his concerts. Shruti is Sanskrit for sound, pitch, and melody. Laya – the word used for meter, rhythm, tempo, and time in Indian classical music – and Zakir Hussain was the man who mastered her. His timing faltered just once – he left us too soon.

Born to another family and gender, they might have named him Laya. Zakir, which means one who does zikr, is a form of devotion that involves rhythmically repeating Allah’s name. One could say he inherited this relentless riyaaz and devotion. When he was born, like other Muslim children, his father should have first whispered a prayer in his ear. Instead, the great Ustad Alla Rakha whispered a theka – rhythms – into his ear, making his mother Bavi Begum livid. Alla Rakha responded that rhythm was his prayer.

They could have named him Amir Khusrau – the 13th-century itinerant who merged Persian, Arabic, and Indian musical traditions, laying the foundation for what would become Hindustani classical music. Zakir would go on to blend Hindustani classical with traditions around the world – Western classical, jazz, rock, bluegrass, Celtic, and African.

Perhaps fittingly, Zakir wasn’t named Khusrau or even known by Qureshi – the family name. Nor was he named after India’s third president. He was a singular musician with his own signature. When Zakir was born, his father was ailing with a serious heart condition. A neighborhood fakir, Gyani Baba, sought Zakir’s mother, Bavi Begum: “You have a son. The next four years will be dangerous for him; protect him well. He’ll save his father. Name him Zakir Hussain.” And now, like Bach, Thyagaraja, and Mozart, he is known the world over as Zakir.

The Syncretic

India has had many syncretic legends merging musical and religious traditions – Khusrau for Hindustani and Muthuswami Dikshitar who introduced western elements and the violin to Carnatic classical. Or closer home to Zakir, Ahmed Jan Thirakwa, the giant who could blend different tabla gharanas with ease. In other traditions, one can think of Coltrane, who did it for jazz. Zakir belongs on that list.

Zakir played with everyone. His tabla accompanied Hindustani legends – Bismillah Khan, Bhimsen Joshi, and Ali Akbar Khan, and famously, the trinity of the sitar, Nikhil Banerjee, Vilayat Khan, and Ravi Shankar. Carnatic masters too – Lalgudi G. Jayaraman, V. Lakshminarayana, and Balamuralikrishna. With the great Umayalpuram Sivaraman and Palghat Mani Iyer on mridangam and a decades-long partnership with Vikku [TH] Vinayakram on ghatam. He was initiated into the world of rock by George Harrison, who encouraged him to stay true to the tabla. And he played extensively with Grateful Dead drummer Mickey Hart. Zakir’s forays into jazz started with guitarist John McLaughlin – a lifelong collaboration. He played with saxophone great Jan Garbarek, and most recently banjoist Béla Fleck and bassist Edgar Meyer. And then came the Western classical orchestras. He collaborated with Yo-Yo Ma. Even composed a tabla concerto. He composed for Bollywood films and accompanied everyone from Lata Mangeshkar to Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan to Shankar Mahadevan.

Zakir, at his core, was syncretic – which was odd given his circumstances. Normally, the oldest son born to a legendary tabla player would have lived in an insular world – within the gharana. He would have received his musical education/taleem from his father, uncles, and cousins. Taught the younger cousins and nephews. Married within the kin. And performed with legends playing other instruments in his tradition. He would have earned his stripes and become an ‘ustad’ and eventually retired from public performances into a senior mentor role.

But Zakir was born in India’s most cosmopolitan city – Bombay (now Mumbai, though Zakir preferred Bambai), in 1951. Born to a father who had run away from home to pursue his art, and who constantly toured the world. It went beyond rhythm – Hindustani classical is not just the merging of Persian and Indian sound but also of Hindu and Islamic religious influences. Alla Rakha attributed the rhythms he whispered in Zakir’s ear to his devotion for Saraswati – the Hindu goddess of learning – and Shiva – whose cosmic beat was transcribed by Ganesha.

Alla Rakha left his home in Jammu at 12 and moved to Punjab to pursue music. There, Ustad Mian Kadir Baksh, without heirs of his own, not only trained him in the Punjab gharana but adopted him as its next leader. Unlike the Delhi-rooted tabla gharanas, Punjab traced its origins to Pandit Lala Bhavani Das Pakhawaji, who infused tabla with the bold, open-palmed ‘Thapiyaa Baaj’ of the pakhawaj tradition. Alla Rakha added his own layers, blending Punjab’s foundation with vocal training under Ustad Ashiq Ali Khan of the Patiala gharana and the influence of Bade Ghulam Ali Khan. He also introduced chakradhars, not typical of Punjab.

Yet, Alla Rakha did not sound like his teacher, nor did he expect Zakir to sound like him. Zakir, firmly rooted in Punjab’s gharana—its intricate layakari, dynamic open style, and rapid relas—crafted a voice all his own. He mirrored the path of Ahmed Jan Thirakwa, synthesizing styles across gharanas into something singular. Zakir extended this fusion further, drawing from Brazilian shamans, Cuban percussion, and rock masters. He incorporated the Carnatic tani avartanam—a solo showcasing the percussionist’s creativity and technical skill that starts as a monologue and evolves into a collaborative, rhythmic dialogue.

A different kind of syncretic push really came from his mother, a devout Muslim housewife, who was not a huge fan of Zakir limiting his education to Hindustani music. Tabla was an accompanying instrument, not taking center stage in solos, receiving both lower status and pay. She insisted that in addition to 3 a.m. tabla practice followed by Madrasa prayers, Zakir receives a more secular education in English. She enrolled him at St. Michael’s School in Mahim, founded in 1850 by Catholic missionaries. In his free time, he played cricket and listened to The Doors.

Film music was another melting pot. Alla Rakha had composed music for over 25 films but stopped once he started touring the world. As a teenager, Zakir went on to play for great composers like Madan Mohan, Khayyam, Roshan, and Shankar-Jaikishan. His mother encouraged him to take on these well-paying sessions, which eventually helped her buy their family home in Bombay.

Other than his mother, and sisters Razia and Khurshid, another important female influence as a child was Bibi Bai Almas. Zakir’s mother sent him to live with her friend Almas as a teenager so that he could focus on his schoolwork. But Almas also taught dance, and her daughter Habiba Rahman learned kathak from Sitara Devi. Instead of escaping his taleem, Zakir played alongside these kathak lessons. It turned out to be a blessing in disguise.

Typically, the tabla players who accompany musicians don’t accompany dancers. Partly because it was a different kind of skill, the ability to follow a dancer’s rhythm and expression. Another matter was one of status, not all dancers were considered high status within the classical tradition. And even in the 1960s, many tabla players would only accompany male dancers. Zakir talked about the invaluable learning in accompanying young kathak students that eventually helped him play for Sitara Devi and Birju Maharaj.

The same push to be open and syncretic also came from his wife, Antonia Minnecola (Toni), whom he met in 1971 at the Ali Akbar Khan School of Music. An Italian-American Catholic, she was learning Indian classical music and dance. A grand love story, overcoming many years of parental resistance. And like the happy ending to a good Bollywood film, they had a civil ceremony and nikah and a church wedding seven years later in 1978. This partnership lasted his lifetime. If his mother’s efforts led him to converse with a new world, it was Toni who introduced him to a whole new world of the music of Charles Lloyd; and to Edgar Meyer and Béla Fleck, with whom he would go on to win multiple Grammys.

Zakir and Toni managed the impossible, having a wonderful family with their two daughters – Anisa and Isabella – with Zakir touring and playing 150 concerts every year for 50 years. And unlike other world-famous touring musicians who played over 150 concerts, not a whiff of drama or scandal. One never heard of a cancelled show, or a delayed start, or a tantrum or an affair.

Another source of strength - Shakti - also started at Ali Akbar Khan’s School. McLaughlin frequented a Greenwich Village shop called The House of Musical Traditions, a hub for instruments from around the globe. One day, the owner introduced him to Zakir. Their first meeting ended with an impromptu vocal lesson by Zakir, an unusual session that ended in laughter. They parted ways, but three years later, McLaughlin, now leading the Mahavishnu Orchestra, reconnected with Zakir during a charity concert for the Ali Akbar Khan School of Music. Zakir saw McLaughlin perform and realized he had underestimated the guitarist’s genius. The next day, they played together, and continued for the next five decades.

In 1973, while McLaughlin was studying the veena at Wesleyan College, he met mridangam player Ramnad Raghavan, who introduced his nephew, violinist L. Shankar, to McLaughlin. McLaughlin, Zakir, Shankar, and Raghavan began performing locally. But what eventually became Shakti – McLaughlin, L. Shankar, Zakir, and Vikku Vinayakram would create a new sound, in India and abroad.

Shakti was both deeply rooted in Indian classical and jazz improvisations at its best. The 1976 Montreux performance was greater than the sum of the different parts of Shakti – and jazz greats like Wayne Shorter and Sun Ra would stand in the wings just to hear them. The original lineup changed – L. Shankar moved on and Shakti did a tour with Hariprasad Chaurasia. Then, Carnatic prodigy on the mandolin U. Srinivas joined, and with Vikku unable to travel, his son, Selvaganesh stepped in. Shankar Mahadevan sang a piece in the Remember Shakti concerts. I heard Shakti live for the first time in 2006 (I think) in New Delhi. With the passing of U. Srinivas, by 2023, Shakti 3.0 had Zakir, McLaughlin, Mahadevan, Ganesh Rajagopalan (violin), and Selvaganesh. On Shakti’s 50th anniversary tour, the magical bond between McLaughlin and Zakir was visible. I have never seen two musicians have so much fun on stage, like they would never run out of musical conversation. Backstage, when I met them, both were thrilled with my name, and that my substack is an ode to a Shakti song.

The Performer

It is hard to explain the aura of Zakir to someone who has not sat in the audience and felt it. You can try to break it down—rationalists will call it genius, the sort of brilliance that defies analysis. Others might invoke his charisma, his ability to connect with any audience, that mischief dancing in his eyes. The spiritually inclined go a step further, claiming his rhythms channel something divine, as though the tabla becomes a vessel for forces we cannot name. I have heard Zakir live at least 25-30 times—concerts scattered across cities, years, moods—and I can tell you it is all of the above. Still, I will try to describe these moments as best as I can articulate, where Zakir speaks to every audience member in their language.

There are a few different types of Zakir concerts. The first is Zakir as an accompanist to very senior musicians. At 12, he accompanied Ustad Bismillah Khan in Patna, and by 20, he was playing with Ravi Shankar in New York. He has been an accompanist to Ali Akbar Khan and Hariprasad Chaurasia, and he has played with their children. At a performance with Shiv Kumar Sharma on the Santoor in NYC’s Town Hall, Zakir touched Shivji’s feet, then sat on stage for 40 minutes listening to him improvise on raag Bhupali before sounding the beat for the main piece, followed by the sawaal-jawaab. The charm lay in Zakir’s respect for the seniority of the artist—or darja—of the main instrument and in his ability to hold his own in the playful sawaal-jawaab. Live, he showed incredible rapport with Shivji, formed over 50 years. Another memorable exchange was with N. Rajam at a concert in Pune, where she tried to outwit him in a desh raag improvisation but was thrilled when he thwarted her efforts. More recently, he was the senior artist, playing not with Hari, Shiv, or Rajam but with Rakesh Chaurasia, Rahul Sharma, or Kala Ramnath. He was equally attentive to their raagas improvisations, always introducing them first.

A second kind of Zakir concert is the ensemble. In the early seventies, while accompanying Ustad Ali Akbar Khan in the typical classical format, he was also experimenting in a fusion ensemble—Shanti—with his son Aashish Khan and Steve Leach. He collaborated with his brothers Taufiq and Fazal Qureshi. I have also heard him with play with Dave Holland, and with Béla Fleck Edgar Meyer and Rakesh Chaurasia. Even his exchange with Celtic folk musicians felt like home. Live at Madison Square Garden, Zakir was joined by a dozen percussionists from across the world, and his wife Toni, a Kathak dancer, performed a graceful tukda. Shakti, as the name suggests, is the most electric and energetic of all his ensembles.

The third kind of concert is the Zakir solo. Tabla is an accompanying instrument, usually not center stage, except for a few ustads like Alla Rakha, Samta Prasad, Kishan Maharaj, whom Zakir considered the holy trinity. In later years, a younger artist might join Zakir for a short duration, but otherwise it is Zakir and a trusted sarangi player. These relationships are intergenerational—Ustad Sultan Khan was the shruti to Alla Rakha’s laya, and Sultan Khan’s son Sabir Khan is Zakir’s. Zakir can fill any concert hall, and these solos sell out quickly.

Abroad, these are ticketed performances in grand auditoria, with assigned seats, a published start time that is followed, and a timely finish. The set list is largely predetermined, with bursts of spontaneity. Having lived in the West for over 50 years, Zakir has mastered this format. He explains what he is doing to new listeners, charms them with his wit, and teases them with complex permutations. Occasionally, he sneaks in a riff from Deep Purple or Pink Panther, a mischievous nod to his father—Peter Sellers personally gifted Alla Rakha a Pink Panther album on vinyl.

But there is another kind of concert, the one I grew up with in New Delhi, which has almost a durbar feel. These concerts never start on time, and the ending depends on whether the cops who show up at the late hour know and love the artist. Often, the front rows are by invitation, with the rest open to the public. Even the greatest musicians rarely fill more than half the seats at these shows—listening to live classical music is a dying interest in most large metros besides Chennai.

Yet Zakir always filled the hall. The first few rows might have a last-minute printout marked “Reserved” or “VIP Seating,” and the rest fills up. Nobody worried about the fire code; the fire inspector is likely in the audience. Here, VIPs are typically the musical elite: other classical musicians or rasikas who have earned their stripes or inherited their VIP seats. Grateful Dead riffs do not feature in this setting. Instead, Zakir recites and explains complex thekas and chakradhars, describing in English or Hindustani the sounds he wants to evoke: a deer fleeing a hunter in the forest, a guest arriving for a meal, Lord Shiva’s damru, Lord Ganesha’s pakhawaj, and my favorite – the movement of the planets around the sun, a chakradhar he inherited from his father. Then he recites the taal with hand gestures, and the audience is ready to follow him anywhere. Next, he recreates it on the tabla, first slowly, then faster and faster, doubling and quadrupling the laya, the khula baaj – open- and dynamic style of the Punjab Gharana shining through each beat. His relas make people forget themselves and erupt in applause before the tihai even finishes.

Zakir was masterful with the audience, but my favorite memories are when he loses himself in a feverish solo, oblivious to everything but the drone of the sarangi.

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PS. Many of these stories are recollections from Zakir’s concerts and interviews. But the best book is his conversation with Nasreen Munni Kabir, Zakir: A Life in Music.