Raghu Rai recalls time with Himmat Shah: ‘We have lost one of the rarest creative souls’

In some ways, he was quite strange and preferred to keep to himself. I remember, after Kishor moved to Hong Kong and was visiting us in Delhi, Himmat didn’t even greet him, and when Kishor suggested that he would return later to meet, Himmat simply said, “What is the need?”

Himmat and I shared many common interests, which, I believe, is why our friendship grew so strong. He used to stay at Garhi Studios in Delhi but wanted to move out. At that time, I told him he need not worry and could just stay at my place for as long as he wanted. So, for seven-eight years, we shared an apartment in Rabindra Nagar, and not once do I recall having any major argument. He would cook occasionally, and I still have fond memories of his khichdi. I got married in 1989, and it was then that Himmat suggested that now he should leave the apartment.

We would often visit exhibitions, attend parties and classical Indian music concerts together at venues like Modern School, Triveni Kala Sangam and other auditoriums in the area. I recall us attending performances by Pt Bhimsen Joshi, Ut Ali Akbar-Ravi Shankar jugalbandi and Bismillah Khan saheb’s concert.

Himmat Shah at his Delhi residence in 1973

Extremely upfront and opinionated, he always spoke his mind, which occasionally led to misunderstandings and annoyed individuals. He would attend exhibitions and, without hesitation, declare, “It’s rubbish,” criticising the artist for not understanding what art truly is. In hindsight, though, his being so blunt did shake up the sluggish attitude of the art world and artists who wrongfully thought they were great.

We travelled together extensively, including a trip to Mussoorie at the invitation of our neighbour in Delhi, who had a house there. I have photographs of him exercising on the streets there. He also accompanied me on assignments to several places, including Ladakh. In the ’90s, we took a trip across Rajasthan, where he was captivated by the red flags on the small temples lining the roads, which reminded him of Lothal in Gujarat, where he grew up. He would later incorporate these memories in his work, reinterpreting them in a contemporary context. In fact, many of his other works were inspired by his childhood memories, including the trademark heads, which he traced back to watching his friends swim in the village pond.

The explorer in him never stopped at any milestone. He was always experimenting with his art, constantly exploring new mediums and forms. I remember one day he came to me with a terracotta sculpture of desi Ayurvedic bottles that his father used to keep at his bedside in his old age. I found it highly original and fascinating, and he immediately gifted it to me. I still cherish it, along with other works of his that I have, including two terracotta heads, drawings from the ’70s and ’80s, and a six-foot tall black marble sculpture he gifted to me when I purchased my farm in the ’90s. People had offered him

Rs 2.5 crore for it, but he refused to sell it, saying he had made it specially for me.

In his later years, he became more cheekily philosophical. Very recently, he told me how the irony of life is such that it consumes one’s entire lifetime, and by the time the realisation comes, you find yourself an old man.

The recognition and commercial success he truly deserved as an artist came quite late in his life, but he never had second thoughts about the path he had chosen. He lived a modest and honest life, which was also reflected in his art. When I met him a few weeks ago, he was planning to open his studio near Jaipur for underprivileged students interested in art, offering them a space to live and work. He also shared with me his plans to create his “ultimate sculpture” — unfortunately, that was not meant to be.