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How Madhuri Dixit made tea 8 times for MF Husain till she got it right

In 'Insatiable', Shobhaa De narrates stories and anecdotes about some of India’s most well-known personalities.

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It’s been eleven years since the artist M.F. Husain passed away in London. It’s his death anniversary today. Raisa, his beautiful daughter, who’s looking more and more like him as she grows older, sends me two wonderful photographs of her beloved Baba and me. Raisa, along with her younger brother, Owais, are the custodians of Husain Sa’ab’s legacy and estate. It is a huge responsibility, but Raisa who is as soft-spoken as her father, discharges it with grace and dignity. The world of international art has dramatically changed, with cryptocurrency and NFTs altering the broader implications of worth and value in the mysterious world of art. Anandita gifts the family a set of cute tees with an Andy Warhol–style image of Husain Sa’ab on it. Quirky and fun—would the man who was always so ahead of the curve have approved?

I often think of Husain Sa’ab these days … Perhaps it has something to do with the weather and adrak chai. He was an erratic and frequent visitor to our home during the monsoons, turning up unexpectedly, to my absolute delight, generally around 5 p.m. and demanding, ‘Where’s my tea?’ I rarely saw Husain Sa’ab eat a full meal, even though he had a fussy, fastidious palate and was a superlative cook. Consuming food made him restless, impatient, like the act of sitting at a table, chatting companionable and taking the trouble to let the hand travel from the plate to the mouth, was already a waste of time. Instead of a fork or spoon, the hand could so easily have held a paintbrush! Often, he would stop eating mid-meal and pull out a black felt pen, his mind hungrier than his stomach and his fingers itching to draw. I’ve spent many afternoons with him at assorted coffee shops, when he has left his meal untouched and started drawing on paper napkins, table mats, tablecloths, serviettes. He would do this casually, effortlessly, easily … like he was doodling in an absent-minded way. But the lines were faultless, ceaseless, sure and unerring as he continued chatting, his fingers moving steadily over the surface of whichever material he could find at that moment. Waiters, managers, restaurant guests, would watch in wonder and marvel, awestruck by his genius. He’d look up and do one of two things—if he was in a generous mood, he would give the drawing to whoever was at the table; at other times, he’d carefully fold the paper napkin and place it in his jacket pocket.

Across the world, there are hundreds of lucky recipients who own a bitof Husain, just because they happened to be at his table or in his vicinity when he was drawing. Husain Sa’ab could—and did—draw anywhere. Sitting at a roadside dhaba or in an airport lounge—his mind and hands were perpetually at work on images that seemed to burst out of his lithe being. Even in his eighties, Husain Sa’ab was a very attractive man, and he knew it. I have seen women and men drooling over him and craving his attention. His personality was his best artwork.

Chai was what kept him going; he once told me he drank twenty cups a day and that he was very particular about the taste. Adrak chai was not a preference, but he made a concession when he came home during the rains for a cuppa and was happy to share my ginger-chai. He noticed every little thing and made a joke out of what he observed—caustic, witty, sharp and frequently cruel. He told me how Madhuri Dixit, his muse for years, graciously and patiently brewed tea eight times in her kitchen in Denver, Colorado, when he ‘dropped in’ to see her, after travelling thousands of miles.

‘Madhuri knew I was particular about my chai. When she served the first cup, she studied my face and could tell I wasn’t satisfied … She is a perfectionist! She told me not to feel embarrassed … she’d keep brewing tea till she got it right and I was happy with it.’ His eyes changed. He seemed far away as he sighed, ‘Even the simple act of lifting a cup from a shelf and placing it on a table was so graceful. I have never seen so much beauty and natural grace in any other woman … every tiny movement of hers is mesmerizing to watch.’

This interlude at her home in America, where one of India’s most extraordinary female stars was then living a suburban life as a doctor’s wife, displeased her devotee. Husain Sa’ab couldn’t quite accept the sight of an apsara he worshipped going to the neighbourhood mall to buy groceries, pushing a cart like an ordinary hausfrau, with a toddler in tow. To him, she was the eternal enchantress—Chandramukhi from Devdas (2002). Not Dr Nene’s lovely wife dressed in baggy track pants and sneakers.

As a dedicated gourmet, who immersed himself on rare occasions in the art of cooking the perfect Bohri lasan kheema, Husain Sa’ab was invariably ‘in the moment’, listening to his favourite qawwali while prepping. It was nothing short of a major production, involving the entire family and staff. It was also pure theatre! Watching him create the complex kheema, layer by layer, was like watching a blank canvas getting covered up with the maestro’s sure strokes.

This particular Bohri specialty is covered with a carpet of tender green garlic shoots. Watching Husain Sa’ab cook was like spying on a court painter working on a masterpiece. He cooked the way he painted—with the same level of concentration, not faltering or taking a break, except really briefly to recharge with a small cup of hot tea, before going right back to his unfinished task.

The Bohri lasan kheema is a seasonal dish and gets cooked during the brief week or so when fresh garlic appears in vegetable markets and the stalks are sold at a pretty price by only those vendors who stock limbus, fresh ginger, spring onions, mirchis, adrak, kothmir and kadi patta. The beautiful, delicate, bright green garlic stalks can be spotted during late spring and early summer, when one can mistake them for skinny spring onion, even leeks. The aroma of fresh garlic is distinct, and it is this that gets enhanced when, just before the specialty is ready to serve, a few raw eggs are cracked over the garlic carpet, with a ladle of smoking hot ghee being poured in a steady stream, allowing the eggs to sizzle, bubble,
coagulate and cook.

I used to watch Husain Sa’ab bending low over the spicy, fragrant kheema, folding his long frame gracefully, before reaching for the ladle of smoking ghee. His movements were panther-like and equally noiseless. The ghee would be poured slowly over the raw eggs, till they’d start hardening, with the sizzle of the hot ghee meeting the cheerful egg yolks
and soaking into the cool garlic shoots below, before gradually releasing irresistible, complex aromas, as we waited impatiently to be served this unique delicacy.

Rich, perfectly cooked Bohri-style biryani and Raisa’s patiently stirred sheer korma were Eid feasts we greatly looked forward to during Husain Sa’ab’s lifetime. Family traditions are precious—thanks to the surviving members who still respect and honour them. Sharing special repasts during festivals was once a non-negotiable ‘duty’ in so many families, regardless of their financial status … I don’t see it happening these days. And I plead guilty, too. No more Diwali ‘faraal’ thaalis or Sankranti laddoos (til with gur) sent to friends and family. Today, it’s about impersonal but pricey statement baskets of exotic, imported fruits, or hand-rolled dark chocolate boxes that get exchanged. Barter! Khair … woh bhi ek zamana tha …

This excerpt from Shobhaa De’s Insatiable has been published with permission from HarperCollins.

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