Remembering Raza Saab

Our tryst with the acquisition of Raza Saab’s large canvas “Untitled” is entwined in a charming little tale. The first of S.H. Raza’s paintings to grace our house dates back to 1967. My husband Dileep was a student in Paris then and had struck up a friendship with Raza. He bought a small bindu work, paying for it in installments from his scholarship money. Many years later when we were back in Paris, Raza and Janine’s house was a regular draw for us. We would lounge in his workroom, chat spiritedly about this and that, sip wine and gaze at his paintings in-progress; or stare at Janine’s startlingly inventive sculptures, wondering whether we would ever possess any. Then, one day, Raza had enough of our stares and our stealthy glances of admiration. He took me by the hand and said we would not leave his house till we became the owners of at least one work by him and another by Janine. Just like that. We had no time to recover from his declaration. He quickly laid out his recent works along the wall, and nearly ordered us: “choose,” he said. My heart beat hard as the eyes went from one gorgeous painting to another. How to choose Especially with their creator in the room, standing next to us We spent long and anxious moments making up our minds. But we gazed longest at the large “Untitled” work that was to become ours. Gently, we confessed that that particular painting was what we wanted to live with. Raza smiled. Perhaps he had an inkling of our choice or perhaps he was just satisfied. He then walked us to the adjoining apartment which was Janine’s studio. “Choose,” he ordered. We looked at the array of Janine’s paintings and sculptures, and finally opted for a collage that had been hanging for many years, not in her workplace, but above their dining table. Choices made, we discussed how best the two large works could be brought to our flat in another part of town, and how they could be lugged up five floors, since the tiny lift recently carved into our old building could accommodate only two snuggling people at a time. Raza brooked no argument; he told us to leave it to him. He would get a truck and reach the paintings to our house.

The works arrived three days later, and Raza with them, armed with ladder, nails, drill and hammer. He tore open the covers and personally supervised where and at what height the works should be placed in the living room. He even helped shift the furniture to get to the walls.

The effect of the painting and the collage was instantaneous and electric. On one side, the room lit up like a fiery yet ambiguous half-set sun, on the other, nightfall had begun, a mysterious dark sky with patches of light.

We sat down merrily to glasses of wine while our children hovered around.

Since that day, three decades ago, these magnificent works have invited us incessantly to peer at them closer every day. We have, perhaps fortunately, never fully fathomed their mystery. All along, they have drawn us into two different minds, two different expressions, engaging and enticing, yet never giving up their secrets. Every day they remain the same — yet appear different. They are a part of us now, a part of our children. They have determined and defined every home we have ever lived in.

Once, some five or six years ago, Raza was at our house in New Delhi for dinner. We helped him out of the lift and walked him slowly to the sofa in the living room. He sat down and gazed at his work steadily and for long, then smiled as much to himself as to others around him. “C’est pas mal!” he declared.