In a candid, heart-warming homage, filmmaker Sumantra Ghosal reflects on his long-standing friendship and collaboration with the tabla maestro.

When I first met Zakir I was terribly, terribly annoyed. I had been commissioned to produce a TV commercial with him for Taj Mahal Tea and the dates for the shoot had been postponed four times. I was fairly busy then making commercials; and juggling technicians, talent, equipment, crew and locations to suit Zakir’s changing schedules was a circus act I did not fancy.

When, after numerous frantic faxes, I finally found myself at the international airport to be told that he had missed the flight we were expecting him on, I was understandably livid. My crew was by then halfway to Agra on a bus and there was no way of recalling them should Zakir not turn up. I was, as usual, assured he had made alternative plans. He would definitely arrive at the airport; we would connect and together board a late flight to Delhi where a production car was at the ready to whisk us to Agra. It sounded less and less like the simple commercial I had started on, and more and more like a complicated army manoeuvre.

I was aging with the passing of every minute and then, suddenly, almost as an anti-climax, there he was—marked out from the rush of passengers by his singularly unhurried countenance. He had travelled, maybe 12 hours, but he looked as fresh as a daisy and irresponsibly relaxed; and, as I discovered, he was irritatingly in command. For the next 10 minutes, while I fretted about schedules, and… well… sulked, he charmed the company with musical anecdotes and made elaborate plans for a meal at Karim’s when we reached Delhi. For someone who had, over the past week, caused several heart attacks, it was an enviable performance. I would see it repeated many times in the three years I spent shooting the documentary.

But what made me think of the film in the first place? Perhaps it was the ease with which he became my friend on that first trip together to Agra, and the knowledge that we could respect each other.

I had always loved Indian music with an uncomprehending passion but had felt unequal to the task of doing something about it. Zakir took my hesitation and stood it on its head. “It’s good that you know so little,” he said with unsettling candour. “Perhaps you could actually discover things afresh for your audience.”

I spent more time with him and, at his suggestion, we bummed around Bengal on a bus while he played concerts for an SRA-sponsored tour. On that trip, while I made a home movie, Cha Khaben, Ghosaldada?, he made me feel special, capable. “Why not?” he would say when we got some time alone to discuss the project. And he said it with such conviction that, later, in my room, I would murmur, “Why not?”

When I got to know him better, I realised that the feeling of confidence he had in me had only a tenuous existence in my own talents. For, this is Zakir’s particular gift, and one of which he gives unstintingly to novice and master, to acquaintance and fan: the ability to make the other person feel special.

Later, one discovered other gifts: the prodigious memory—unlike any I have encountered—for people, for places, for events; and always, when he wished to unsheathe it, the mind sharp as a razor.

Indeed, one of the great pleasures of making the documentary was to interview Zakir. I did so over four long sessions and, as with the other people I interviewed, I gave Zakir no foretaste of the questions. I wanted him spontaneous, unprepared, even vulnerable.

He was splendid. Not just the connections and the comments, but the focus and, above all, the intellectual suppleness. Later, it was difficult to pare the 14 hours of interviews down to what became a part of The Speaking Hand. This is one part of the documentary that still haunts me with thoughts of roads not taken.

When I announced the documentary there were apprehensions about a film on a tabla player. But, for me, the excitement was in the fact that Zakir played the tabla. By virtue of being “an attendant lord”, the tabla player serves well to “swell a progress, start a scene or two,/ Advise the prince”. And, when Zakir attends, the role is enlarged and cherished in many musical realms. I knew that Zakir’s tabla connected him with a variety of musical traditions both in India and abroad. It was that which excited me when I considered making my film.

But, if I think back, the compulsion for us both to start on this journey together was the idea of preservation.

While researching the documentary, I was, perhaps naïvely, shocked at the easy way in which we filmmakers have let history, art, music pass us by. There are not many documentaries that capture the spirit of a man or of an age; but worse, there are too few that even attempt to do so. Over the 45 years I knew him, Zakir and I worked together on five films. I am delighted that the NCPA is showing four of those in their tribute to the Ustad. But, it still baffles me that no one has seriously recorded Zakir’s journey since I made my own film.

I cherish my time with Zakir for many reasons. His genius, of course. But also his generosity and richness of spirit. Too many years ago, when I turned 50, my friends got together to throw that terrible thing—a surprise party. When I walked into the trap, I found Zakir and Sultan Khansahab waiting to play for me. Zakir had apparently insisted that this would be his birthday present. I have never ever got a better one. He played without fuss, hugged me and rushed off to catch an international flight. I will certainly miss the magic of that music. But, more, I will deeply, deeply miss the man.

This article was originally published in the November 2025 issue of ON Stage.