THE best tribute to Mehdi Hassan would be to close the door on all outside noises, switch on a ghazal by the maestro and absorb the lithe, velvety strains and nuances which only he could offer — and which he will continue to offer for all times to come. After the nation has mourned the death of a most talented son, after the all-encompassing, the ever-transcendent voice has broken geographical borders, after the world has paid due homage to the great singer, it boils down to the relationship between the performer and the individual he is communicating to. The rest — the ceremony, the clichés about the end of an age, the lament about the absence of true heirs and about our shortcomings, and the debate as to when it was that the maestro actually left the building — is incidental.

Mehdi Hassan was a blessed man. He was blessed with talent, enormous amounts of it, and he was blessed in that he had the commitment and was able to channel and hone and perfect what he had in him. He won appreciation for his craft as few before him had received. Why is it, then, that instead of celebrating him without any inhibitions, the noise around is focused on making us — and the maestro himself — guilty of what ‘we couldn’t quite achieve’? Mehdi Hassan was a giant who brought out the insufficiency of public or official tributes to him. But he was lucky to have lived in an era where so many loved him and cared for him, in material terms or otherwise, during his long fight against his illness. True, some of the episodes could have been different. He could have been spared the tearful appearances sponsored by some marketing firms keen on taking everyone around on a nostalgic trip into the past before they invested in Mehdi Hassan’s favour. Besides being cherished is the reality that he pioneered the times where the masters could get due recognition in their lifetime rather than only having posthumous epitaphs lavished on them. He pioneered this. He was that big.