This happened when I was a kid. We were in my father's car driving on Shahjahan Road in Delhi when we saw a tall man walking in a white kurta pajama, but with no shoes on. My mother told me he was a well-known painter. How could a well-known man not afford shoes and walk on Delhi's dirty streets, I asked? He is an artist, my mother said. They do these kinds of things. At least that is how my mother had told me the story.Maqbool Fida Husain was not just a barefoot painter, but he was part of the modern India I grew up in. His classic works defined and depicted the last few decades — the horses, the image of Indira Gandhi as Durga riding the tiger, the many versions of Mother Teresa, the Ganeshas and his obsession with Madhuri Dixit. And this was before the Hindutva elements targeted his work and forced the man to flee from India.
His art was everywhere — inside government and corporate offices and in people's homes. In the 1970s and 1980s when it was still not fashionable to own Indian art, I remember some people in Delhi being referred to as "they own a Husain".
Husain's paintings were so vibrant. I was fascinated with the idea of owning one, especially because my parents did not invest in Indian art. In the late 1990s I did buy a limited edition print from his Dixit series, with the original signature Fida Husain, the man who was smitten by the Bollywood star. The print was prominently displayed in my living room in New York, but unfortunately it was destroyed in a fire in my apartment in 2001.
By that time Husain's paintings were selling for hundreds of thousands of dollars at auctions organised by Sotheby's and Christie's in New York City and I could not afford them. I did see Husain a few times at these auctions — always the unassuming, charming, smiling and very approachable man.
There is so much of Husain art out there, especially the less expensive, limited edition prints. I have now learned to appreciate these paintings at people's homes, along with the stories (some myths, others real) associated with the art.
In the 1960s, Husain rented a barsati of a house in Delhi where an American diplomat lived with his family. Husain painted a portrait of the family. That canvas is now the possession of the adult scriptwriter daughter of the family, currently residing in Washington DC.
An Indian family I know in South Delhi, own a few Husain canvases they bought in the late 1960s from a friend in Rome. Husain apparently had left some of his art with this person in Rome, hoping to generate some additional income.
There was an unfortunate story I heard about the cancellation of a screening of Gaja Gamini in New York in 1999, because Husain could not get a copy of the film's print from Dixit's secretary. Husain apparently stood outside the gate of the secretary's building in Mumbai, but the man refused to meet the painter.
Then, there are stories I heard from the late Tom Keehn about his friendship with Husain. Keehn was sent to India in early 1950s by Nelson Rockefeller with the mission to explore Indian art and handicrafts.
The young American and his wife lived in India for eight years. During that time they became friends with a number of young emerging Indian artists including Krishan Khanna, who then worked in a bank, and Husain. The Keehns collected a number of contemporary Indian paintings. Their house in Queens, New York was like a mini museum of Indian art.
I interviewed Keehn in 2000, as he sat under a large family portrait painted by Husain. The painter, his sons and granddaughter would often stay in this house, Keehn said. And he walked me to his driveway to show the spot where Husain would sit and paint. Husain has passed on, but I would like to remember the man from these stories, including the one that my mother told me.
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