This volume, containing his recollections and anecdotes of the ustad and of encounters with other great musicians, was partly written by Mathur himself in Hindi, but completed and put together from notes and memory by his daughter-in-law Malati.
Many, many years later, I watched the film Zubeidaa with my son and his family. This eponymous film by Shyam Benegal negotiates the tightrope of perilous memories as a son, Khalid Mohammed, traces the dramatic, tragic, poignant history of his mother, Zubeidaa.
The movie now skims, now delves deep into the lagoons of emotion and recollection, washed up on the shores of reality with all its flotsam and jetsam of imperfect recall and anecdotal embellishment.
In the final scene, as the aircraft lifts into the sky and then, seconds later, spirals crazily downwards out of control, spewing fire and smoke, I could sense a silence enveloping the spectators.
The young, vibrant, impulsive girl-woman we had seen but barely a few moments ago was now consigned to the nothingness of Infinity. I myself was misty-eyed as I walked out of the theatre.
I had seen Zubeidaa, albeit only a couple of times, as she rarely went out in public and led a sequestered life. She was a young, delicately built woman with fine features in a heart-shaped face. And she had a certain elfin charm.
When she met the Maharaja, she was already the mother of two though the elder child
