We mostly talked about Hindi literature with a focus on poetry. They love poetry a lot. There are a lot of poets around, and the world is full of literature. We also talk a lot about poetry, but beyond that, we mostly talk about what poems the other is writing or reading — at least when we’re on the phone. It is their in hungry creativeness that they share with your friends. The little things at the end of conversation happen without talking about them directly. Husain writes in the style of a painter. He had penned the poem for Swami’s journal, Contra, many years ago. It is in the language of a painter, this poem. whose brown burns in me in the poem “Cracks in Rembrandt” This is one of those purely painterly phrases. 1966—this poem
I am aware of
Cracks in Remebrandt
Whose Brown Burns in Me
Though
Rock-rust boots Are ditched – deep
Yet
The silky sun there Shrills me
Husain writes through his experience rather than trying to force his writing into an ideological or theoretical framework. I think he knows there is no such thought to be instated. Well he has confessed to the same goal for his paintings, ‘I want to burn my paintings before I die. This speaks to his interpretation of the creative realm, its meaning or lack thereof, or the ephemeral profundity of living briefly in a universe that exists in infinite time. This is his attitude towards his prose as well. He shares it the same way, as in when it immediately comes to him (comes to his mind right away) and writes uncensored. He was in London the other day, reading me a new chapter from his book. Chapter: Two Roti — Title This chapter is not a description of the labors he dreamed over rotating two roti in his life. Rather, it is an honest reflection of his own lived reality that encapsulates the significance of two roti in anyone’s life—regardless of who they are—in plain spoken prose. It also lets us know — and is a bit of his humor — that he is into the smaller things that people do everyday…and what they really mean. They are his writing: the bitter-sweet fruit of experience.
But one of the things that distinguishes Husain from his writing, and helps explain why he is so likeable, is how easy it is for him to laugh at himself. He can joke about his own comments and is just that chilled out with himself. You would never guess you were in the presence of one of the most significant and stylish painters of this century. You feel at comfort with him almost instantly. He knows how to build an atmosphere around him where a new and unknown individual can fit in perfectly like groove into a conversation by saying the feeling of Yes…. And again, the same shows up in his prose. He is aware of the power of his writing and writes beautifully well; his prose being as luscious, vivid and moving as his paintings. His words are vibrant and tasty, not dry.
It does not matter if it is his autobiography, a few lines written on the occasion of a new exhibition or thoughts from the series or during painting — his writing is always perfect, gripping and engaging. There is an urgency in it, a directness, but same as the long poem he wrote on Gaja Gamini. Addressing this poem to his mother and Madhuri Dixit, he implies that if the image of his mother is incomplete to him,, Madhuri fills it exactly: their bit at the beginning about how what he has with Madhuri vis-a-vis his cricketer mum is such sonic and sonic love. This connection was created by Husain. His mother has been dead since he was six months old, and when he sees Madhuri, she is the same womanish age his mother would rightly now be. He could not picture his mothers face from memory, and so he never painted her. The women he painted, have no faces. He never makes the figure from his mother which is missing in his memory.
He did this with Mother Teresa, for example; he actually met her, accompanied her and trudged through the Kolkata streets where she ministered to the poor — but never captured her visage. Her is represented in the blue bands in his paintings and by them, Mother Teresa portrayed. So, while he could have chosen to paint her in the conventional style, he simply sees his mother as an archetype and thus chooses not to give her face. He is on autopilot mode due to this awareness or implicit bias. She is in her absence. radically here in the form of his mother She is present but not her presence. His poetry, too, is an example of that.
Having a vast influence of literature to his credit, husain’s diction is literally studded massively with poetic choicest couplets and lines; mostly in urdu and persian. Traducción inmediata: Este muchacho conoce estos idiomas como la palma de su mano. Once, a few days later after he made it to the cover page of The Times Of India for New Year with his painting, I asked him about it. I was curious to know about the painting. This was inspired by a line from Shamshur Rahman Faruqi’s poem ‘Patjhar’, “A yellow evening / A leaf of autumn slightly stuck”. The slight nuance of this line, the subtle ‘stuckness’, Husain could sense it. Literary-minded, his visual language is vast.
He drops Persian couplets in casual conversation, translating as he goes along. His prose was graceful, sophisticated and ever so slightly whimsical to boot. He throws in contemporary references and covers any subject you can think of, from the rarely-used word to cinema, politics, sport — anything goes. Husain, here is a man of such sophistication and refinement; He never seems to stupidly slip into a lower level — his prosody, topics of conversation and musings on his craft always etymological and seeped in substance. It represents a whole century of existence, and imbues his experiences with purpose that gives meaning even to all the things he observes, reads or comprehends. This is fun and polished for a listener or viewer. The proof to this is seen in the poetry of Husain.
(1)
Send me a snow-covered blanket of the sky, without a single stain. How can I depict the circle of your endless melancholy with white flowers?
When I start painting, hold the sky in your hands, for I am unaware of the expanse of my canvas.
(2)
The marks of my letters, with their burning voices, might extinguish the icy cold of the whole month inside your carved door.
Lock your door and throw the keys away. Let my letter remain unread.
(3)
Now, young leaves melt in the smoke of chimneys, and the wet paper of the sky leans against the poles with lanterns. A gleaming milk cart illuminates the road, and a boy, walking barefoot up the temple steps, begins to cry out in the empty city.
There, the echoing voice of existence bursts forth in laughter.
(4)
The blue night slips off her blanket, leaving a mark on her thigh.
Far away, the yellow-brown hues of bodies quiver behind the boats.
Suddenly, a white colour cuts across the horizon, leaving the scene below stunned.
Slate-coloured sand remains covered by her blanket.
Feature Image: Law Of Attraction, MF Husain – Canvas Prints| Courtesy: allengestore
The original chapter in Hindi was translated into English from the book Unke Baare Mein authored by Akhilesh.
Born in 1956, is an artist, curator and writer. He has gained worldwide recognition and appreciation for his works through extensive participation in numerable exhibitions, shows, camps and other activities.
