Sadequain 20 years later

It is 20 years this year since Sadequain’s death. He would have been 77. When he died at the age of 57 (of what can only be called too much living), it was not his death that was surprising but how he had lived so long, given the white hot intensity with which he lived and painted, wrote and loved. He burned his candle at both ends, and had there been a third end, he would have burned it from that end too.

I saw a good deal of him when he moved to Lahore – a city he really loved and preferred over all others, except that city of cities, Paris – to paint the murals that keep reminding us of him and his generous and fitful spirit. He often signed his letters and dedications with the prefix ‘Faqir,’ which by temperament he truly was. He earned millions and gave it all away. Most of his work was gifted to his friends and, sometimes, even strangers. I recall his first exhibition in Lahore, when a bunch of rich women – part of Lahore’s then small millionaires’ club – showed interest in buying more than a few. Sadequain was amused. He told them that to begin with, the paintings were not for sale and were he to put them on sale, they would not be able to afford the price. I am sure, had they asked Sadequain if they could have some or even all, he might have said, “Take them. They are yours.”

Hundreds of people can claim that they were friends of Sadequain because he was so accessible. Wherever he was, whether in his studio, his hotel room, someone’s home or in a museum painting a mural, the door that led to that place was always open. You did not need anyone’s permission to walk in. How much attention you received depended on his mood and the time he had. Work came first. Every single day that he was alive, he worked. If he was not painting, he was writing his quatrains, of which he produced thousands. He was humble, and yet if a rich man or a high official tried to throw around his weight or pull rank, Sadequain made it a point to put him in his place. Noorul Hassan Jaffrey, a senior Civil Service of Pakistan (CSP) officer, who later, along with his wife, the poet Ada Jaffrey, became close friends of Sadequain, once went on an official visit to Mangla, where Sadequain was painting his giant powerhouse mural. Jaffrey was one of the big tops in the Water and Power Development Authority (WAPDA). Sadequain was told to be ready for Jaffrey’s arrival. When Jaffrey arrived, Sadequain was nowhere to be found. He had simply vanished. He reappeared after Jaffrey was safely gone. That was Sadequain’s ego, but it only came into play when someone tried to gain his attention because of rank or money. One of Sadequain’s closest and most affectionate friends was Mohammad Ishaq (Issac to his pals). His home in Muhammad Ali Society, Karachi, was a virtual Sadequain museum. Most of those paintings, including a superb portrait of Ishaq, are now in the extensive private collection of Hamid Haroon in Karachi.

In an interview, Javed Siddique, of Hurmat, asked Sadequain after his return from India – where he painted several murals and where he was received by Indira Gandhi – if he had unfulfilled ambitions. After reciting from his favourite poet, Ghalib, Sadequain said, “There is no desire or aspiration of mine that has not been fulfilled, one reason being that I have never desired anything that lay outside my reach. There were also many things that I thought were outside my reach, but fate placed them in my hands. I have no complaint about lack of appreciation. It is my belief that when nature confers a certain gift on a human being, it also provides outlets for that gift to become manifest and known. That is the essence of my life’s experience. . . I chose to create art and put all the talent I had in the service of that art. My calligraphic work runs into miles, and my paintings into square acres. It is my faith that talent is God’s gift and it is the duty of the person on whom that gift is conferred to put it in the service of others. This is the highest form of worship. To fail to do that amounts to betraying the trust that the deity above has placed in you.”

On August 10, the Sadequain Foundation which his nephew Salman Ahmad, son of his beloved brother Syed Kazeman Ahmad Naqvi, Theo to Sadequain’s Vincent, set up in San Diego, California, organised an exhibition of the painter’s work, including several original calligraphies and many paintings and drawings, at the Embassy of Pakistan here in Washington. In addition, there were digitally enhanced hand painted reproductions on display. Salman said the Foundation is dedicated to the discovery, preservation and promotion of Sadequain’s work. Well, good luck to him, but it was sad to learn from him that Galerie Sadequain at Frere Hall, Karachi, which was the painter’s gift to the city and the people of Karachi, has closed down. This is a subject for ‘Mr Justice,’ Ardeshir Cowasjee, to write on.

Sadequain, once asked if he should be called an “Islamic painter” because of his calligraphy, replied, “I do not agree with that. My real art is to paint pictures, my calligraphy is marginal to that.” When asked why despite being a great calligraphist, he did not lead his life according to the “teachings of Islam,” Sadequain replied, “If to live like a gentleman is Islam, then there can be no greater Muslim than me. If those who are locked up in their backrooms from whose privacy they judge others, then there is nothing I can do. I am beyond that sort of thing.”

When Sadequain went to India, the Indian government arranged for him to be taken to Amroha, his birthplace and hometown. The whole city had turned out to receive him. He was taken out in a procession, riding an elephant. Then the keys to his house of birth were handed to him as a gift, on the orders of Prime Minister Indira Gandhi. Sadequain, much moved, returned the keys, saying, “I live in Pakistan, where I am honoured in every way. In any case, a house is for the mistress of that house. I have none, so I present this house to the people of Amroha, and I hope they will set up a library here.”

There are hundreds of Sadequain stories, but the one recounted by journalist Nasrullah Khan Aziz is characteristic. One day in Karachi, a man came up to Sadequain and said that he had a family to feed but nothing to feed it with. The only thing he knew was how to drive a rickshaw. Sadequain gave him 15 thousand rupees to buy a rickshaw, as long as he agreed to take him wherever he wanted to go. That arrangement lasted for some time, but one day, Sadequain said to him, “You are free. You don’t have to drive me around anymore.”