Fifteen years have passed since the brush of Maqbool Fida Husain was stilled, yet the canvas of Indian art continues to resonate with his spirit. The Padma Vibhushan awardee is often hailed as the Picasso of India. A maverick painter, Husain redefined the contours of modern Indian artistic expression.

He took his final breath in exile in London on June 9, 2011, far from the land that had once celebrated him. For many, the passing of this pioneering painter was a national loss; his death cast a lingering shadow of gloom on me and opened up a space for deep reflection.

“I am a part of India’s 5,000-year-old culture, and I am so fortunate to be born in India,” said the country’s most celebrated art maestro.

Tragically, this eminent son of the soil was forced to relinquish his Indian citizenship and accept Qatari nationality. It was a reluctant choice, born not of disloyalty but of despair. The versatile artist—also a filmmaker and photographer—was relentlessly hounded by Hindu extremist groups which accused him of insulting their faith. Over 900 cases were reportedly filed against him for his provocative yet interpretive depictions of Hindu deities. Faced with a growing tide of hostility, Husain left India in 2006, never to return.

In 2001, by sheer chance, I had a brief yet unforgettable encounter with the pajama-kurta clad barefoot artist at Delhi’s India International Centre (IIC). His shock of white hair and flowing, silky white beard lent him an otherworldly aura. A casual conversation that lasted barely a few minutes, as Husain waited for his guest in the lobby, became a lifelong memory, an extraordinary moment etched in time.

Little did I know then that, in December 2007, IIC would host an exhibition of his works in its art gallery and I would be entrusted with the duty of managing its logistics and overseeing the entire arrangement. What first felt like a rare privilege—to serve as a custodian of his exhibition—soon turned into a source of deep anguish, as I witnessed the vandalisation of his art.

As the Husain exhibition opened at the IIC Art Gallery, storm clouds gathered quickly. Hindutva activists’ threats poured in, and intimidation escalated, prompting high-level emergency meetings among IIC officials. For a time, it seemed that the exhibition might be cancelled altogether.

Yet, true to its legacy, the IIC management made a courageous decision: the show must go on. Despite mounting pressure and an atmosphere thick with fear, the institution stood its ground.

What astonishes me to this day is how, in an era when social media was still in its infancy, somebody from a protesting group located nearly 1,200 kilometres away from Delhi managed to call me directly. That evening, he described in chilling detail the exact placement of specific paintings and demanded their immediate removal. His tone was harsh, growing shriller with every word. I was deeply shaken.

Art triumphed over fear

The 10-day exhibition weathered a turbulent storm, despite the earnest efforts of IIC officials to reason with the fanatics. Delhi Police, a large contingent of IIC staff, and strategically placed CCTV cameras were deployed to prevent any untoward incidents. On the concluding day, a few activists managed to slip into the art gallery and partially damaged a print. They brandished pamphlets and chanted slogans, leaving viewers stunned and tarnishing the otherwise serene atmosphere of the centre. The police intervened swiftly, taking them into custody.

Thanks to the IIC leadership’s steadfast commitment, the exhibition continued as scheduled—and art triumphed over fear. Remembering the IIC incident in all its vivid details, I find great merit in the words of the French philosopher Blaise Pascal: “Men never do evil so completely and cheerfully as when they do it from religious conviction.”

In February 2006, Husain faced charges of offending religious sentiments with his nude portrayals of Hindu deities. Extremists ultimately succeeded in driving him into exile, but they failed to tarnish his legacy. Art, after all, never dies.

As democracy’s deciders, we had a duty to denounce the hate campaigns against Husain, reject those who fueled them, and call out those who orchestrated them. Citizenship comes with rights and also with responsibilities—to question, to think critically, and to refuse to consume propaganda. Conscientious citizenship is vital in shaping a nation’s identity.

But what did we do? We simply let it happen.

We were anaesthetised, unable to distinguish between artistic expression and inflamed religious passions. The real threat came not from extremist groups that stoked hatred, but from people like us, for whom the lines between fact and fiction, truth and propaganda, became blurred. That is the greater danger for any society.

Husain fell a victim to cultural policing, to the mean recontextualisation of India.

The treatment meted out to one of the country’s most cherished artists will neither be forgotten nor forgiven by all who believe in freedom of expression. Extremists—whether Hindu, Muslim, or of any other faith—are fundamentally the same. Whether it is the persecution of Husain, the assaults on Booker Prize-winning author Salman Rushdie, or the threats against writer Taslima Nasrin, the pattern is clear.

Fragile sentiments

A pressing question remains: should belief be so brittle that a few provocative paintings or commentaries can rattle its foundation? Should sentiments be so fragile that they take offense at artistic expression or individual viewpoints deemed disrespectful to religious tradition and yet remain unmoved by deeper moral decay and broader violations of dharma?

Fanatics, devoid of cultural nuance and having scant regard for artistic freedom, push the country to wrong ends. They harden a national culture, dragging it towards crudity and intolerance. But extremism thrives in the fertile soil of political indulgence. Worse still, political establishments often apply toughness and tolerance selectively, bending principles to serve partisan agendas.

If two radical factions commit similar acts in pursuit of different causes, how can one be deemed morally righteous and the other an abomination? Why does a government shield one group while vilifying another? Extremism, in any form—majority or minority—must be unequivocally condemned and dealt with firmly. Yet, protectionism persists, eroding public trust and corroding the moral foundations of democracy. When the truth becomes dangerous, democracy is in peril.

Today, artists, curators, and gallerists universally agree that M.F. Husain masterfully blended traditional Indian forms with modernist sensibilities, offering a vivid tribute to India’s rich cultural heritage. No other artist has done more to elevate Indian art on the global stage. This was reaffirmed when an untitled 1954 painting (Gram Yatra) by Husain sold for a staggering $13.8 million (over Rs.118 crore) at Christie’s in New York on March 19, 2025, setting a new record for the most expensive work of modern Indian art. The canvas celebrates the diversity and dynamism of a newly independent India—a theme which is a cornerstone of Husain’s oeuvre.

It is a shame that Husain was treated with such disrespect in his own country. Fifteen years after his death, the memory of the events that drove him out of India still rankles. The only positive takeaway from the deplorable episode is that his true admirers always stood by him, valuing him as a great artist who reshaped the nation’s cultural identity.

Debasish Bhattacharyya is Former Deputy General Manager, IIC, and author of the memoir, Whispers of an Ordinary Journey.

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