It was sometime in early 1990 when artist cum curator Ali Imam of the Indus Gallery phoned me to say that an exhibition of signed pictographs of M.F. Husain’s older paintings was to be held at his gallery. What was no less exciting news was that the legendary artist would be there too.

I had seen reproductions of his paintings in the now defunct The Illustrated Weekly of India in the sixties and had admired them. In mid-sixties, when Husain’s short film Through the Eyes of a Painter won the prestigious Golden Bear Award at the 17th Berlin Film Festival the news was flashed all over. What interested me less was the intriguing personality of the flamboyant painter. Rain or shine, he would walk barefooted, be it in the deserts of Rajasthan or in the snow-filled streets of Europe.

Husain revelled in controversies, not the least known was the refusal of the prestigious Bombay Gymkhana to let him in; even though he was invited for lunch by a member. Letters by his fans, who were angry at the disrespect shown to an icon, were published by the dozens in the Indian newspapers. “His name will go down in the history of art, but no one would remember the names of the stiff-necked members of the governing body of the Bombay Gymkhana,” wrote an irate art critic. Responding to the letter was an office-bearer of the club, who rightly said that Bombay Gymkhana was a private institution and had its own rules and regulations.” Emotions apart, can you allow a man, even if he is a celebrity to enter your house bare-chested?

Back to Indus Gallery, which was located near Nursery in PECHS, my family accompanied me. My kids were curious to see if MF really walked barefooted. As usual he was late and just as we were about to leave, entered the man with long silvery hair. ‘Almost as beautiful as his paintings’ was a comment I had read about him and I couldn’t agree more with the remark. My kids had a good look at his bare feet. Truth, I thought at that hour, was stranger than fiction. He was more interested in talking to my children than to me or my wife. He liked the names of my two daughters – Ghazal and Nayantara. The younger one had taken her sketchbook with her and Husain wrote her name in Urdu, Hindi and English, and signed it.

The pictographs were limited edition prints, painstakingly produced under his supervision. I bought one for Rs 2,500. It bears Husain’s signature. Written next to it is 15/25, which means that out of 25 pictographs, this one is the 15th. It is proudly displayed at Nayantara’s house in Michigan today.

I met him again, two years later, very briefly, at Karachi’s Marriot Hotel. He had to go to someone’s house in Clifton. I felt privileged to drive him in my car. He had struck friendship with many people in Karachi it seemed.

A few months later at Kafi Azmi’s house, opposite Prithvi Theatre, in Mumbai I was invited to a Diwali dinner by Shabana Azmi and Javed Akhtar. Escorting me was my host Sultan Arshad, manager of PIA in Mumbai. He was well connected with the people associated with Bollywood. Just as we were about to leave, I saw Husain waiting for a cab.Husain lived in a flat in the upmarket Cuffe Parade, close to the one where PIA had rented an apartment for its manager. We requested him to join us, which he did readily. I didn’t ask him what happened to his car.

On the way we had an interesting chat on a wide variety of subjects, when all of a sudden he dropped a bombshell. He asked me if a certain socialite in Karachi had married her second husband. He knew the names of her ex and future spouses. The young lady was quite a charmer and I am sure Husain was smitten by her too. The bohemian artist was as much at home in the company of the elite as he was on a bench of a roadside eatery, drinking sugary tea and talking to the chaiwala.

In 2005 when the Urdu edition of his autobiography was launched in Karachi he was in the city for 24 hours. On Ahmed Maqsood Hameedi’s request he agreed to give just one interview. I was grateful that Hameedi sahib, who was my teacher at Karachi University’s English Department, recommended my name. Husain agreed and the venue suggested by him was Zehra Nigah’s house. He was staying with the famous poet; whose late husband Mohammed Majid Ali had years ago gone out of his way to support Husain, during his stay in the UK. Their house in London was one place where Husain could walk in at any hour and stay for as long as he wished.

At the hotel where the book was to be launched, I told Husain that I would be at Zehra Apa’s place at 7am because he was an early riser. “No you come at 9. I will wait for you,” he said confidently. I thought of meeting him earlier because forgetting the appointment he would go elsewhere. Zehra Apa (as she is widely known) also told me not to worry. “I won’t let him go without giving you an interview,” she said, as her guest smiled benignly.

The next morning I was at her house at 8am. Zehra Apa was profusely apologetic. She said the previous night they had talked about, what she called, the good old days. She went to sleep at 3 in the morning, while he was still in the lounge. At 6 when she woke up he was gone. The servant told her that someone came to pick up her guest and he left without having his breakfast. Zehra Apa was rightly worried. He wasn’t carrying a cell phone so she couldn’t contact him.

In the evening Husain just dropped in for five minutes, two hours before his 7 pm flight to Mumbai, picked up his bag, and promised Zehra Nigah that he would spend more time with her on the next trip, which sadly never materialised.

I wasn’t surprised because I had read an article by Husain’s daughter in an Indian magazine that years ago her mother gave him a bowl and some money, asking him to bring yogurt. At the shop he met someone who described the beauty of a newly developed hill station and Husain just gave the money and the bowl to the doodh-dahi wala asking him to deliver the yogurt to his house and disappeared – he surfaced three months later. That was Husain for you.

Husain’s fans condemn the fundamentalist Hindus’ intense rage against him for painting nude pictures of goddesses; perhaps he should have been discreet in the selection of his subjects. Admitted, he painted them years ago when religiosity was not so prevalent, but sure enough he took an avoidable risk. The poor man had to pay a heavy price for it. The artist who was a nomad most of his life couldn’t go back home in his twilight years.

Asif Noorani, a seasoned journalist, is the writer of three best-selling books including ‘Mehdi Hasan: The Man & His Music’.

The views expressed by this blogger and in the following reader comments do not necessarily reflect the views and policies of the Dawn Media Group.