Echoes of Silence: A Tribute to the Maestro

I don’t know how to play the tabla, but the instrument has always held a deep, unspoken connection to my soul. It was the first instrument I laid eyes on in our home—my father, a much loved tabla player, and my uncle, an equally revered sitar virtuoso, filled our living room with the sound of Indian classical music every day. Our home was a musical sanctuary, with the gentle beats of the tabla and the resonating notes of the sitar becoming as routine as the morning sun. It was never extraordinary; it was simply life.

From a young age, I witnessed the magic of these instruments but never imagined I would truly understand their essence. My father, always encouraging yet never pushing, once placed a tabla before me, asking me to tap and thump. So I tapped and thumped. It was a fleeting moment of curiosity, one that was quickly dismissed, and I lost interest. Little did I know then that I was  witnessing the heartbeat of a great tradition, a language of rhythm and sound that carried the wisdom of generations.

The tabla remained a distant love, an admiration from afar, while my passion for the instrument only deepened with time. I never became a player, but my ear became finely attuned to its voice. Every beat, every bol, seemed to whisper a secret, a story of the universe. And it was through these whispers that I found myself drawn to the music of Zakir Hussain, the trance of Zakir if I ma modify.

The first time I encountered Zakir Hussain in person was at the Spring Festival in IIT Kharagpur. I was in class 11. It was a cold winter night, and the amphitheater was filled with students huddled together under sheets, and then, we heard it—the unmistakable roar of a thousand lions, the announcement of a legend. Zakir Hussain, with his deep bow, took the stage, and in that moment, time seemed to pause. The air vibrated with the energy of his presence, the tabla no longer just an instrument, but a sacred medium through which he connected with something greater than all of us. The skin of the tabla no longer served as mere covering, but became a conduit through which emotions flowed, connecting the divine to the earth, and bridging the soul of the artist to the hearts of all who listened.

Zakir’s mastery was not just in his hands but in his spirit. When he played, it was as though the very rhythm of existence was unfolding, speaking to the soul in a language beyond words. There were many times I sat in awe, lost in the layers of sound, unable to fully grasp the technicalities, but always able to feel the divine energy emanating from each beat. It reminded me of the parathas I once had in a Delhi galli, where each layer held its own meaning, its own essence, and its own feeling—rich, deep, and full of life, just like the rhythms that flowed from his tabla.

His performances were not merely concerts—they were conversations between the sacred and the earthly. In every roll of the tabla, there was a story, a prayer, a reminder of our place in the vast, cosmic rhythm of life. I recall a recent encounter with him at Mumbai’s Drum Café annual event, where Zakir, ever humble, bent low, asking the audience to sit before he did. His humility, like his music, was a bridge between the divine and the human, a reminder of the simplicity of being one with the universe.

The heartbeat, echoing in the stillness, is how I now remember Zakir Hussain. A pulse which is constant yet beating of life at every instant: reminding us of mortality, the endless imagination that he leaves behind and that continues even after he is no longer with us. The image of the tabla—its heartbeat echo, crossing the stationary line—symbolizes his legacy: the rhythm continues, even when the hands that created it have gone still. His music, much like a heartbeat, was a lifeline for those who understood its language. And now, in the quiet after his passing, it is as though the heartbeat has been paused, leaving an ache that only those who felt his music can understand.

Wherever we lose someone great—just as we lost Pandit Shiv Kumar Sharma not long ago—there is an inevitable thought: "The void cannot be filled." But perhaps we do not know what the future holds. Maybe, in time, we will find musicians who are even greater than Zakir Hussain or Shiv Kumar Sharma. But the truth will remain: there will never be another Zakir. I am fortunate to have lived in the times of Zakir Hussain, to have witnessed his art, his humility, and his divine connection with the abyss—the infinite expanse where time and space dissolve.

As the heartbeat echoes through the sound of his tabla, it fades, but it never truly leaves. Just like the line on an ECG, once the rhythm of life has been played, it reaches its stillness. And in that stillness, the music endures, forever etched in the soul of anyone who was fortunate enough to hear it.

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Capt. Shoukat Mukherjee is an Author and the Founder & CEO of The Naval Connection