For fathers everywhere
By Niilofur Farrukh
TO help discover their true potential, everyone needs someone in life, who will recognise and nurture their talent. Help put the child in touch with the special gift that can become the genesis of a passion and light up the future. For me such a person was my father whom I lost some weeks ago.
His complicated cardiac condition had made his health precarious for the last decade and I saw him struggle for life many a time in hospitals, so when he slipped away quietly, I could only thank God for his well-lived life and serene end.
Now as I realise that he will never sit in his ‘lazyboy’ again, memories rush to fill the emptiness, and moments I took for granted appear like pieces of a mosaic that reveal his vital influence on the centrality of art in my life and the way I perceive the world through the prism of his positive values.
My earliest memories are of a home full of interesting things he loved to collect. Reproductions of modernists like Kadinsky and Picasso on our walls, as a 10-year-old, made me curious about art. A well-thumbed book on the figurative drawings of Leonardo da Vinci from his collection set the benchmark of draftsmanship, a yardstick I continue to use to this day.
The real turning point came when I turned 16 and my parents gifted me with a wooden painter’s box containing the best of oil pigments, brushes and a palette. Accompanying this was an easel which stood taller than me. With this precious present, my parents seemed to not only acknowledge my fledgling talent but facilitate the first step towards its development.
In our extensive summer car journeys through Pakistan, both in the East and West wings, he sought local crafts with enthusiasm.
Hala ceramic bowls and traditional roti baskets were always in use at home as far back as I can remember. At a pit stop in Multan, on the way to Murree, one summer, in the local handicraft emporium my father was drawn to a tall cylindrical brass tea set embossed with Indus Valley motifs.
Modern in design it was clearly a non-functional piece but it soon became a favourite piece in his brass collection which was meticulously polished, almost like a ritual, at regular intervals.
In Dhaka, it was the museum with Zainul Abedin masterpieces that he took us to visit because the artist’s Famine Series had touched him deeply.
He was also the one to introduce his children to Sadequain’s murals at the Tarbela Turbine Room.
I found him happiest handling craft, particularly ceramics, with which he seemed to have an instinctive bond. This must have been in his DNA for he passed it on to me and it has been the driving force behind Asna, the organisation that proactively works to bridge the gulf between contemporary art and traditional craft.
A UN deputation took him to Indonesia in 1963 for 10 months. On his return we were intrigued by the huge wooden crates that came off the ship with his luggage.
As we saw them being opened with great excitement, it did not surprise us to see huge paintings and wooden sculptures from Bali emerge from within. My father had spent a small fortune on this first serious art for the family.
The trip had turned him into a fan of Balinese culture and he shared its exquisite charm in such a compelling way that it inspired each one of his children to visit the island paradise many decades later with their families. He too kept his promise to take my mother there and returned to Bali some three decades after his first visit.
Always an enthusiastic and analytic student of history, travel to him meant retracing and touching history, and his post-retirement job in Jeddah provided him the opportunity to do so. The two places that I remember him speaking with great emotion and marvel were his visits to a Native American reservation in Arizona and the Red City in Jordan.
Books were his constant companions. In later years, when the doctors’ and hospital visits were long and frequent his reading material accompanied him everywhere.
His appetite for good books was insatiable and he constantly discarded the ones he found wanting along with the pulp fiction he read almost simultaneously with serious biographies and literary tomes. The local club libraries were usually the recipient of his largesse.
In the weeks that preceded his death, he had asked his children and grandchildren to select and take away the books they would like from his collection.
We were not keen to empty his always full shelves so the books remain in the place where he put them. His was equally sensitive to other people’s attachment to their books. Once when he made extensive notes in a book of mine, he insisted on getting a replacement, ignoring my plea that there was no need to do so.
Ancient and contemporary world history and Urdu literature featured high on his reading list and one can find many famous Urdu anthologies on his bookshelves that he revisited over the years.
It was his greatest lament that none of his children had the fluency or knowledge to enjoy Urdu literature to the fullest.
Aboo, as his children called him, put high premium on education, which for him, like many of his generation helped them to leave behind the insular orthodoxy of the Indian Muslim community.
Lucknow University became the institution that intellectually groomed him to leave behind his ancestral town of Etawah to carve out a future in the nascent Pakistan, to build a career in the Pakistan Navy.
He insisted education and awareness were the most effective tools against bigotry and would often recall his university where the only religious divide existed in separate kitchens.
Yet many Hindu friends still joined the Muslim minority for meals turning a deaf ear to cries of disapproval, even at the height of communal disturbances in pre-Partition India. A gentle soul, he abhorred violence and once rescued a woman from being brutally beaten in front of our gate by getting her husband arrested.
Just over 80 years of age, when my father, Syed Shahid Hussain, passed away he left behind a remarkable yet quiet personal legacy of optimism and tolerance and a home full of cherished symbols of the creative human spirit.
The writer is an art critic, independent curator, art activist and editor of ‘Nukta Art’.
asnaclay06@yahoo.com

