Some months ago, I had hoped to meet M F Husain in Dubai but unfortunately he was travelling then and not in the emirate. More recently, plans to make a short film on his life and career did not take off, not for not trying hard enough, but mostly because I believed he would return to India where it would be easier to organise the camera and crew required to shoot the interview. It seemed though that everyone I knew had met him “last week” or “last month” or “when in London recently”, and they reported that he remained cheerful, playful, homesick — and that it was fait accompli that he would be back.
Media stories in recent times have had to do with his living life la dolce vita, without examining the issues that forced him to flee abroad. His death has robbed Indian art of its most popular face, but it has also left behind a vexatious question — in choosing his self-imposed exile, did Husain do his country and his collectors a disservice?
When Husain fled the country in 2006, it seemed as though it was in petulance. Right wing fundamentalists had made him the target of their vitriol, incensed that a painter — a Muslim at that — had the temerity to paint Hindu goddesses in the nude. Any argument that the goddesses were represented merely as icons, that there was nothing salacious or irreverent in these depictions, that there was a legacy of such portrayals in the Indian canon of art, was dismissed outright. His house was vandalised, an exhibition in London was cancelled, and he was literally chased out of the country.
Even though the Delhi High Court had previously cleared Husain of similar charges, this time he packed his bags, rolled up his canvases and fled India. What was exceptional is that Husain did not return — ever. His annoyance was understandable — at his age, he could do without the persecution — but what many of his followers found difficult to come to terms with was his acceptance of what became, in effect, a sentence.
Why did Husain capitulate to these fundamental forces? He was not the first liberal to be targeted by their ire. In recent years, everyone from writer Salman Rushdie to filmmaker Deepa Mehta to activist Binayak Sen has had to grapple with similar forces. But each one of them fought and triumphed in some measure — Rushdie would pop up unexpectedly in the country for anything from book readings to literary summits and then disappear into his warren, cocking a snook at those who had issued a fatwa against him, Mehta went on to make her film in Sri Lanka, and Sen has been released on bail. (It must be asked — if Sen could be jailed for possession of Maoist literature, are you in danger from the fundamentalists for ownership of “offensive” Husain paintings?)
Husain, in refusing to fight the good fight, has left behind a black spot on his career that art historians will need to address. For the question that begs itself is whether Husain considered himself guilty; that, perhaps, his paintings pandered not to some high ideal but to a low parameter. Was he, in fact, being merely provocative? Did he lose heart and the spirit to fight back because he believed himself culpable? Can his age, and his desire to live to paint another day, be sufficient grounds for surrender? He may no longer have to face that inquisition, but it is a question his collectors, and art historians, will have to grapple with in times to come — hopefully, the genius of his art, will not suffer on the account.
Kishore Singh is a Delhi-based writer and art critic. These views are personal and do not reflect those of the organisation with which he is associated
