Clinically, Sadequain died in Karachi on February 11, 1987. However, he has apparently painted even more after his death than he did in his life.

He was a versatile painter and a very active one, who was to inspire the generations to come. All aspiring artists followed him — whether for fame or monetary gain.

Sadequain was a painter, a poet, and a calligrapher. In none of these fields was he adequately recognised him in his lifetime. And yet many were to copy him after his demise. It is as if he never really died, especially as aspiring collectors turn up with faithfully copied images for authentication certificates.

Born in Amroha to a Naqvi family, Sadequain began to work as a drawing master in his family’s high school, after completing his intermediate. Later, he graduated from Agra. He shifted to Pakistan and for some time worked at Radio Pakistan. That he turned seriously to painting is an entire story in itself.

His long sojourn in Paris as a guest with Monsieur Bertrand Fried helped him polish his style. His chance meeting with President Ayub Khan in the French capital was a turning point in his career. When he availed the invitation, the then Pakistan president did not know what job to offer him (as he still had to make his mark).

Just as Murat Khan had been asked to design the Minar-i-Pakistan, Sadequain was commissioned to paint a wall at the recently built Mangla Dam. It was a challenge he accepted. He had the guts to claim that his painting will survive the dam itself. The large mural was called the Saga of Labour. He completed it in three months’ time.

The people of Lahore were amazed to see his first exposition, as he called it, in the circular lawns of Alhamra. The newly painted canvases were hung, nailed to the over 100 years old pine trees there (that were later felled). None of the leading painters in Lahore came to see this; even noted teachers of the art class ‘abstained’. Some actually made fun of the ‘severed heads’ and the scarecrows. Only Prof Aslam Minhas of Government College, Lahore, stated that Sadequain had something mysterious to tell. (Note: More has been recorded about this in ihis scribe’s article that appeared in ThePakistan Times, dated February 20, 1987.

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History seemed to repeat itself, albeit in an entirely different, convoluted one-act play. On October 30 this year, over a 100 artists were invited to the Governor’s House to be honoured as recipients of Sadequain Award for Pride of Performance. Coincidently, Prof Saeed Akhtar’s 83^rd birthday fell on the day. This made many an invited guest to miss one of the two events.

Mystery prevails as to who had the bright idea of commemorating the greatest artist of Pakistan. As the event unfolded, it turned out to be a ‘staged’ thing at best. All 101 guests, seated in places reserved for them in the spacious hall, were called to the stage one by one and given the award signed by the governor and his spouse. A mug bearing a portrait of the artist, and the head of a horse cast in some copper imitation, were the accompanying memorabilia. (Sadequain never depicted a horse in his paintings and sketches.)

Many were asked to say a few words about the great artist. Love of the microphone and the chair compelled everyone to give prolonged vocal presentations. Suddenly, every speaker seemed to have become a specialist on the subject, delving into unintelligible logic.

Interestingly, there was no one to moderate the event, perhaps because most of them were dilettantes. Many could be heard addressing the nation even after their microphone had been muted.

All said and done, it was a rare occasion to meet many long lost friends and colleagues. Many were missed who, in spite of being superior, had not made it to the list of the award recipients. I looked in vain for Arch Fauzia Qureshi and M Jawed from MIT. Many had become stiff-necked; others showed genuine fellowship.

Citations were exaggerated and, in many cases, not even properly worded. This was followed by the main item of the event. A full-screen, online address by Dr Sulman Ahmad Naqvi, the trustee of the Sadequain Foundation in the US. It raised many eyebrows.

For the uninitiated, Dr Naqvi left a prestigious and highly lucrative job as a chemical technologist, because dealing in the great master’s works was more rewarding (monetarily). His nearly half-hour-long address, especially recorded for the occasion, clearly showed that his organisation was the main sponsor of the big-budgeted event. It was an investment that would come back in multiplied figures.

The website showing countless images of Sadequain’s works in gold frames was, in fact, an ad for his works that he continues to paint posthumously. Here, it must be highlighted that another branch of the Naqvis, based in Karachi, has an equally vehement claim over the legacy of Sadequain. They were not invited to the event.

All discussions by the motley crowd centred around egoistic self-praise. Sadequain’s contribution and style were hardly discussed. This scribe is the author of a book on the master which was passed around at the event. Luckily, somebody asked for some of the verses recorded in the book to be read out loud. It was a rare opportunity to put forward thus:

“I am in that proud company of aesthetes,

Whatever I am, I am in myown unique style;

That apart from being a calligrapher, a poet, a painter;

I am into so many other pusuits, remains a secret.”

As I approached the venue, my name was found missing from the list of guests. They would not allow me to go back either. Upon insistence and recommendation of some in uniform, my ancient car was allowed to wander looking for parking space.

It was exactly this that made me leave the bharya mela. But finding a way out of the maize was still more difficult. Fortunately, the back gate of the Governor’s House, built to facilitate the executive of the province who would board the railway train during the Raj, was wide open. I found it convenient to slip out. Normally, this gate is now used only by the US Consulate General staff and visitors.

Thus a green passport holder was able to make an exit through the gate meant for those holding the Green Card.

“So long, till we meet again, and again and again, like a counterfeit coin!” That was all I could whisper to the lurking legacy of Sadequain.

(This dispatch is dedicated to Mon Bertrand Fried)

The writer is a painter, a founding member of Lahore Conservation Society and Punjab Artists Association, and a former director of NCA Art Gallery. He can be reached at ajazart@brain.net.pk