So, SADAA is 25? How delightful it would be, I mused, if I could invite some of the artists whose archives they hold, as my dream dinner party guests. Except it would have to be high tea – my favourite mode of hospitality. This means you can eat early and zestfully, still have the rest of the evening free, without the need for supper. High tea (with elements of afternoon tea snuck in) also neatly combines both a Yorkshire tradition as well my own partiality to afternoon tea. I could serve a feast that was both hearty and dainty at the same time.
It would have to be a very small gathering, considering the compact dimensions of my home. Three artists immediately come to mind – the late writer, journalist and broadcaster Attia Hosain, musician, composer and record producer Kuljit Bhamra and artist and artist educator Bhajan Hunjan. Of this group I know only Hunjan, but this does not trouble me unduly.
Why these three in particular? I was a postgraduate just after the innovative academic, Professor C.D. Narasimhaiah, introduced Commonwealth Literature Studies (now usually referred to as Post-Colonial Studies) to the School of English, University of Mysore, South India in the 1970s. These were heady times. I could delve into the cornucopia of modern and contemporary Indian, African, Caribbean, Australian and Canadian literature. Although familiar with some of the Indian writers such as R.K. Narayan, Raja Rao, Mulk Raj Anand and Kamala Markandya, others like Anita Desai and Attia Hosain were joyful new discoveries.
Hosain’s novel, Sunlight on a Broken Column (1961) published by Chatto and Windus and edited by C.D. Lewis had me spellbound. The story unfolds through the eyes of the young female protagonist Laila, and is mainly set in an aristocratic, pre-Partition Muslim household in North India. The increasing unrest and the tensions of conflicting loyalties in the build-up to Independence and Partition are captured with the authoritative heft of someone who was in the thick of it. The exquisitely nuanced, evocative portrayal of a society where feudalism, class, nationalism, sectarianism, and modernism rubbed along uneasily or come into direct conflict with one another have both sophistication and humanity.
Attia Hosain, Lucknow, India, 1930 ©SADAA
I was also, I have to admit, blown away by images of Hosain’s beguiling, patrician yet curiously relatable beauty.
I thought it really cool that she had been mentored by other indomitable women like the freedom fighter, poet and activist, Sarojini Naidu, and was clearly at home in illustrious literary and political circles. Her glamour was further enhanced when I realised, that in her youth, she had had articles published in The Pioneer and The Statesman. It is clear that she stood out, even as a very young woman, for her incisive intellect and independence of spirit. I imagine generations of Indian girls learning about her life and reading her writing, so steeped in the momentous and turbulent events leading up to the creation of an independent India and a new-born Pakistan, would have longed to have been like her.
In 1946, Hosain and her husband (the marriage did not have the blessing of her family) left for London, where she lived until her death in 1998. She travelled widely, however, and trips between London and Lucknow, her birthplace, were quite frequent.
To mark Hosain’s death, I bought a copy of the Virago edition of her novel. Issued ten years earlier in 1988, with a luminous introduction by Anita Desai, its striking cover of an 18th century miniature from Lucknow, shows a bejewelled young woman gazing composedly out of a window. After a gap of two decades between my readings, it felt very contemporary. The seductiveness yet increasing volatility of that earlier age, the sense of all-pervading loss as this world begins to shift and change, resonate even today. Across the world, political and religious upheavals continue to disrupt the delicate fabric of already precarious lives, particularly that of the poor. Hosain’s writing is at its most powerful and compassionate when depicting, always as individual characters, the disadvantaged and the dispossessed, whose lives nonetheless, are intimately entwined with that of the prevailing elite.
Exploring the murky undercurrents of social injustice, with all the indignities and cruelties that accompany it, was clearly a lifelong preoccupation for Hosain. This is evident in her very first book, Phoenix Fled, (1953), a collection of a dozen, perfect short stories, published, also by Chatto and Windus, eight years before Sunlight on a Broken Column. The slimness of Hosain’s oeuvre, considering the assurance of her writing, always surprised me. For a long time I thought these two publications were the sum total of her literary output. To my delight, I learned there was more. It appeared Hosain had never really stopped writing. She had only stopped publishing.
The painstaking assemblage of chapters from an unfinished novel and a number of unpublished short stories has resulted in a fascinating anthology Distant Traveller launched in 2013 to mark Hosain’s birth centenary. Hosain’s daughter Shama Habibullah, a well-known documentary filmmaker, and Ameer Hussein, a brilliant short-story writer and literary critic, and a dear family friend with deep insights into Hosain’s writing, have co-edited this publication.
Front cover, Pheonix Fled, Attia Hosain ©SADAA
In the Foreword, Habibullah describes this gargantuan task: ‘It took us more than ten years after her death to begin culling these pieces; some written on foolscap sheets, some in random exercise books and outdated calendars, papers and letters spread across several countries; others typed by obliging friends (she always wrote in longhand)’. This is loving and expert custodianship and curation at its best.
Hosain’s eye and ear remained as true and sharp as ever. In No New Lands, No New Seas set in 1972 London, the central character Murad, is grief-stricken by the murder of his friend Isa through a racially motivated crime. He feels an increasing sense of alienation from a Britain where the ominous shadow of racism looms ever larger and considers returning to India. When Murad visits Isa’s widow to condole, her ritual show of grief and innate coarseness, so different from the courtliness of his upbringing in Lucknow, arouse distaste in this fastidious man. Yet the widow is the one who has a shrewd grasp of practical realities and is searingly honest about the incompatibility of her marriage. She shows real courage and stoicism in her decision not to return home but remain in Britain, although technically less equipped to deal with its challenges than Murad.
To digress slightly, endeavours like Distant Traveller further highlight the importance of organisations like SADAA, determined to ensure that future generations can access the complex, ongoing legacy of South Asian arts, now so integral a part of British culture.
While I have never met Kuljit Bhamra personally, I have watched him perform live on two unforgettable occasions. I also constantly listen to his music through a variety of media.
Bombay Dreams Programme, Apollo Victoria Theatre, London, 2002-2004 ©SADAA
When Andrew Lloyd Webber’s Bombay Dreams was first launched, my mother, husband and I made a special trip to see it at the West End in 2003. Every South Asian I knew had done the same. Bhamra was memorable as one of the principal onstage percussionists. His hypnotic performance had the audience up on their feet and dancing. I also watched him perform with Orlando Consort on their touring collaboration – Mantra: Musical Conversations Across the Indian Ocean – at the National Centre for Early Music, York in 2009. In both instances, I was struck by his imposing stage presence. This was a personality who could hold his own, both as a musician and a musicologist. What makes this even more remarkable is that he is self-taught.
Two things leap out when viewing Bhamra’s multi-faceted career. First – its very measured nature (even though serendipity must be a constant feature of his life). Second, this Kenyan-born Asian’s pride and rootedness in the culture of Southall, West London, where he grew up and continues to live. This is an artist who stands foursquare, on his cultural bedrock. He has a towering presence in the history and development of Bhangra music in this country and beyond.
Bhamra’s prodigious musical talent has resulted in mega collaborations with global reach, often with major names and in prominent venues. He clearly relishes experimentation (note his long-term collaboration with jazz saxophonist Andy Sheppard) and pushing the frontiers of his own artistic practice, for instance, by the widening of his percussion repertoire.
Bhamra’s role in developing the pedagogy of Indian music through the creation of a tabla notation system – Tablature – and the writing of commissioned pieces of Indian music for Trinity College London’s grading exams, demonstrate his deep understanding of the theoretical framework of Indian music. His pioneering appointment as Artistic Director, for the Society for the Promotion of New Music (now Sound and Music) indicates his standing within the British music industry. He is also a gifted curator as evidenced by the music programme he created for Salisbury International Festival. Very early on, Bhamra must have decided to shape his own musical destiny. He has created a distinctive creative industries continuum over which he has complete control – from research to creation to production and distribution.
In 1986, Bhamra set up Keda Records committed to producing high quality cassettes and LPs. His production and arrangement of albums have helped promote the careers of a range of other musicians. By any measure, this musician, collaborator, producer, educationist, artistic director and curator is truly extraordinary.
Keda Record Catalogue, 1997 ©SADAA
One and the Many, Bhajan Hunjan ©Bhajan Hunjan
In 1996, I commissioned Bhajan Hunjan to produce a work for the collections of Cartwright Hall Art Gallery, Bradford. This would then go on display in the Transcultural Gallery due to open the following year. Hunjan chose to respond to some of the items in the Indian silver collection. She produced 16 oil monoprints on squares of canvas set in a frame.
Entitled One and the Many, each square depicts an object or a detail from an object. Peacock hookahs, silver gulabpash (rosewater sprinklers), minute lotas (waterpots), a sunburst motif drawn from a portable shrine are all unified by the jali motif, also drawn from the shrine. Jali is an architectural concept where screens in marble, stone, metal or wood are perforated to form geometric, arabesque or calligraphic patterns. Also used in jewellery and embroidery, to Hunjan, it represents rhythm and intricacy.
The circle in the work unites the separate, individual squares. Underlying the work is also homage. “Who made these pieces? How many hands have touched them? What stories can they tell?”
This commission further consolidated the long-term relationship between Hunjan and Cartwright Hall. When I first saw One and the Many, her palette of yellows and oranges seemed to suffuse the silver objects with a soft, ruddy glow. The palette recalled the embroidered textiles of the Punjab – the Phulkari and Bagh – also represented in the Cartwright Collection and something Hunjan would have been familiar with through her own Punjabi heritage.
Since then Hunjan’s career has had several highs, including being shortlisted for the Max Mara Art Prize for Women, 2022-24, at Whitechapel Art Gallery, a touring exhibition at Tate Britain Women in Revolt!, representation in public collections such as the British Library and Reading Museum and Art Gallery and numerous residencies and commissions. Her public art commissions, demonstrating her ability to conceive and work on a very large-scale, are located in a variety of settings, including schools, hospitals and playgrounds.
Town Square, Slough, 2008, Granite ©Bhajan Hunjan
Hunjan was always destined to be an artist. Maybe the moment of revelation came when she and her mother were in their garden, teeming with flowers and vegetables the family had planted. Remarking on the goodness of the soil, her mother scooped up some of it. Together, they moulded it into a pot form. Hunjan describes feeling both connected and at peace during the making process. No doubt, she was channelling some chthonic deity. From then on, the tactile would be a key element of her work – be it implicit or actual.
Born in Kenya, even as a child Hunjan recognised that the knitting, embroidery and sewing her mother, aunt and sister-in-law were constantly engaged in, was a process of intense creativity. Her father’s hardware store was another source of inspiration. He was constantly fabricating things. The clientele came from a wealth of cultures speaking many different languages. The child Hunjan drank it all in.
The father gave up trying to coax Hunjan to train as an accountant. It must have been the way she managed to persuade the headmaster of her school to let her do an arts A- level, even though it was not a subject the school offered. At eighteen, she left her beloved family for Britain to study art at Reading University followed by a postgraduate degree in print-making from the Slade while simultaneously studying ceramics at the former Central School of Art in London. Ever ingenious ceramics was part of Hunjan’s Final Show at the Slade along with printmaking.
The milieu Hunjan was in, particularly in Reading, was resolutely focused on abstract expressionism. She recalls only one life drawing class while she was there. The art history taught, was predominantly male and white, so Hunjan had to conduct independent research to seek other women artists as well as look beyond the West.
Armed with impeccable, academic arts credentials, Hunjan set about finding her voice outside of this formative yet stultifying environment. It is difficult enough making a living as an artist, even if you follow the trends that are fashionable at any particular time. The arts world, for all its emphasis on freedom of self-expression, can be curiously rigid and narrow. For a woman of colour, particularly in the 70s and 80s, the problem would have been compounded. But Hunjan has never lacked moral fibre or artistic enterprise.
Confrontation, Bhajan Hunjan ©Bhajan Hunjan
Working with womens’ groups, Hunjan comments: ‘Something that also became quite important to me was that once my mother said to me, ‘I don’t know what your work is about’. I felt that I needed to be in a place where my work should speak to women like my mother, so I thought if my work was portraiture, I’d be a step closer to that’. The double self-portrait Confrontation, produced in the late 80s, remains one of her most iconic works to this day. Abstraction, organic shapes and mark-making, however, continue to be a very important part of her practice, and often she combines all these elements.
Hunjan has awarded herself the freedom to use whatever artform or media she chooses, as long as there is an authentic emotional congruence with the work she is creating. It could involve printmaking, painting or sculpture. The media could be ceramic, concrete, stone, paper or canvas. That deep childhood connection with touch, experienced when shaping the pot with her mother, continues to be a leitmotif of her work to this day. Using a lexicon of myriad influences – from her own cultural heritage, the experiences of the groups with whom she works, and her keenly developed awareness of socio-political issues – whatever the source, it is always within an idiom that is indisputably modern.
All three artists have one thing in common which drew me to them. It is their demeanour or bearing that goes beyond physical appearance. Their experiences have shaped the way they gaze out at the world and the way they carry themselves, conveying both strength and dignity.
Hosain, whose beauty I have already gushed about, has a very clear sense of self in all the photographs I have seen of her. There is poise, self-containment and an air of delicate restraint. It is well chronicled that Hosain had to make painful decisions throughout her adult life. She elected to live in Britain rather than break her heart by having to choose between India and Pakistan during Partition. When her husband returned to the sub-continent, Hosain decided to remain. She had to, effectively, bring up her two young children as a single parent, while carving out a career as a regular broadcaster with her own women’s programme on BBC World Service. I have already referred to the daughter Shama Habibullah earlier – an acclaimed film maker. The son, Waris Hussein, is distinguished in his own right and, an EMMY and BAFTA-winning film and theatre director.
Bhamra’s sculpted face always looks very directly at the camera. The good-humoured confident gaze betrays neither defiance nor defensiveness. Life could not always have been easy – he contracted polio as an infant, which affected one leg. But coming from an extremely tight-knit family, his resourceful mother – the well-known, gifted vocalist Mohinder Kaur – has clearly been a major influence on the development of his own musicality. She gave him a platform as her accompanist at numerous public performances where his precocious talent with the tabla was showcased. Later they would be joined by his two younger brothers on the accordion and mandolin. Mohinder Kaur recorded a number of albums that were extremely successful. They were sold through a network of Asian corner shops – a canny distribution strategy. The young Bhamra must have been watching and learning, or more likely, eagerly making suggestions himself.
I can picture Bhamra as a boy musician continually honing his craft, while building up a remarkable reservoir of knowledge about the dynamics of the music industry. Constantly seeking ways to ensure that South Asian music asserts its presence within another, more dominant, culture seems to be an abiding concern. It is touching that he initially followed in his father’s footsteps and trained as a civil engineer, a profession he only gave up in 1994. I would hazard a guess that whatever battles he chooses to fight would be from a formidable position of knowledge, experience and hard evidence.
The mildness and serenity of Hunjan’s gaze were the first things I noticed about her. (I also envied the lithe form, and the careless stylishness of the abundant hair piled high on top of her head). However, a happy childhood, as Hunjan’s undoubtedly was, does not guarantee permanent residency in the sunny uplands. I know the transition from Kenya to an autumnal Britain was a major shock. The quest for her own authentic artistic voice was not easy, but she undertook it with determination and imagination. Fighting to be exhibited in public gallery spaces could have been demoralising. However, Hunjan along with other artists of colour, buoyed up by camaraderie, always found a way round this. They would install their own exhibitions in any public spaces they could find. None of them were arts spaces of course. The Arts Council now pays good money for organisations to be able to do this. Hunjan’s practice as an artist and artist educator are of a piece. Her work with organisations such as the arts and education charity, Bow Arts, in East London, is important to Hunjan’s own trajectory as an artist. The dialogues with women’s groups, for instance, provides some of the sap that continues to nurture her practice.
Now I need to get cracking curating the high tea. Since I am going to be hostess, I can start referring to my guests by their first names. I recall that Kuljit’s archives have meticulously maintained records, including correspondence from The Really Useful Theatre Group when he was performing in Bombay Dreams. Since his place within the canon of British music is assured, such documentation would be a treasure trove to current and future researchers. It also means, as an efficient archivist, he would be critical of any sloppiness in my curation of the high tea.
There is a delicious anecdote in Sunlight on a Broken Column – when Laila’s aunt, the socialite Aunt Saira hears her socialist- leaning son Saleem proclaim: ‘I am no Lenin and can establish no Soviets’. His mother queries in bewilderment ‘Linen serviettes? I do not know what you are talking about’.
With linen serviettes in mind, how the table is set is important. After all, one is breaking bread with three creatives. It has to honour the occasion without being prim or pretentious. I always enjoy this task, mainly because it takes me all of five minutes to do so. It looks attractive, not because of my skills, but because of the artistry of many unknown makers who beautify tables they never get to see. Visitors from India over the years, knowing our love of handloom cotton, have often gifted us block printed or embroidered tablecloths and napkins from different shades of white to gay purples, ochres, blues and greens. Add some generous-sized, colourful plates and Kathryn Winfrey platters and bowls with their buttery yellow glazes with images of foxes, black birds and hares, and the table is ready.
The advantage of a dream high tea is that no calories are involved. You can include the most self-indulgent of dishes without a qualm. Another description from Hosain’s novel comes to mind, when the afore-mentioned Aunt Saira and her husband, Laila’s Uncle Hamid, invite guests to a sumptuous afternoon tea: ‘In accordance with current social customs every conventional English delicacy was supplemented by every conceivable Indian one’. What was exotic and unusual then has become much more commonplace in Britain today. We combine different cultures in the food we eat daily, without even thinking about it. Of course, it is still a million miles from the lavishness of the spreads described by Hosain.
I go through the menu in my mind. Always a mark of a special occasion and beloved of my childhood, there must be coconut chutney and cheese sandwiches (although Amul has been replaced by mature cheddar) and maybe some with salmon and cream cheese. Paneer pakoras, made by our local Asian deli are a must. This is to show off to Kuljit that Leeds can produce delicacies every bit as yummy as what he might obtain in Southall. I definitely must have a cheese board with mild, roasted chilli cheddar, speckled with green pepper and nutty True Grit cheese (produced in Yorkshire) served with quince jelly (a Christmas present leftover from last year, which I don’t want to waste), homemade apple and walnut chutney, black olive crackers, celery and grapes. A salad is helpful since we can feel virtuous about eating healthily. I will serve this from my ancient, much-loved, olive wood bowl, glistening with cherry tomatoes, rocket, feta, crushed pistachio and butter beans. The dressing I concocted several years ago is a closely guarded secret. This is because it is so ridiculously simple and I do not want to dilute the mystique.
I never cook anything, which is more ably prepared by someone else (usually Marks and Spencer). I will include their country cake, succulent with raisins and crunchy with demerara sugar as a nod to Bhajan’s love of texture.
Jewel-hued macaroons will give the table additional glow. Maybe I will include some semolina laddus with grated coconut and cashew nut. A South Indian delicacy, I suspect none of my guests will be familiar with it – its globular form gives it a festive air. And in yet another nod to Yorkshire, Whitakers old-fashioned dark chocolate creams with fabby flavours – rose, violet, pink gin, ginger and salted caramel. The drinks will be cardamom tea, ginger wine, coconut water and fresh lime juice. The artists don’t have to sample each one – I would be mortified if they left with unsettled stomachs.
I will not even try to curate the conversation. I know it will flow. Such vivid personalities are bound to jam together – a sort of confluence of creativity. But I think it would be good to say grace to give thanks to all the makers of the world for bringing joy and beauty to our lives, particularly when we eat. If I commit a faux pas, I know kindly Bhajan will take pity on me and come to my rescue.
Finally, I will share, with some excitement, that I have just discovered that Attia had written yet another book after all. In 1962 she co-wrote Cooking the Indian Way with Sita Pasricha. In 1981 Indian Cooking was released, with the same co-authors, which I now have on order. What I have not been able to establish is whether this is an updated edition of the earlier book or a new cookbook altogether. At 224 pages, it seems pleasingly hefty. Maybe it will give me ideas for other dishes to serve at future, dream high teas to other artists.
