1994. Seaside by the Juhu Centaur Hotel. It’s the glittering night of the Filmfare Awards. MF arrives for this grand show of tinsel town with Jaya Bachchan and Parmeshwar Godrej. For the first time, Bollywood’s arc lights shine on MF, and he starts to glow.

He is called to the stage to announce the name of the best actress of the year. He opens the envelope, looks at the name — Madhuri Dixit. He pauses for a while for he’s never watched a film featuring an actress by this name. Yes, the sounds of the popular Dhak Dhak song blaring from loudspeakers have often reached his ears. Besides, these days MF’s focus is only on Sridevi’s songs and dances. But he bravely takes a long breath, and then roars: “And the award goes to Dhak Dhak Madhuri Diiii-xi-t!” Claps resonate. Madhuri comes to the stage, and stands close to MF. There’s a fleeting glimpse of art and cinema, a moment of acting by the artist and the model, and the click-click of the media. Everybody’s eyes are fixed on Madhuri and MF. Those hundreds of thousands of eyes are still fixed on the two unique images of art and cinema and may remain so for years on end. But after these two minutes of play acting, MF and Madhuri don’t meet for a year, and have no thoughts of meeting.

But art and cinema have to meet at some street corner one day. Art is older than the bison and the bull of the Stone Age and Cinema is just a lass. One day, the lass goes to the market, her red dupatta fluttering in the air, her hips swaying. She is humming to herself, ‘Didi tera dewar diwana…’ when suddenly a bull, tied to a tree, sees the colour red. He breaks free and lunges for the red dupatta. The girl runs and disappears into a cinema hall. Housefull. The name of the film: Hum Aapke Hai Kaun. It’s been running for a year, and features Madhuri’s dance to that very song, Didi tera dewar diwana...

Somebody tells MF, why don’t you go and have a look at this cinema hall dancer? MF buys a ticket reluctantly. MF’s world of cinema is limited to songs and dances. A long time ago he was struck by Mumtaz’s impishness, before that by Geeta Bali’s childlike prancing, and lately, by the tandav nritya of Sridevi in Chandni — to see which, incidentally, MF bought some 15 tickets.

Now just see how MF’s art collides with cinema. The film Hum Aapke Hai Kaun is nothing very great, but Madhuri is. And this affects MF in such a way that he starts buying tickets for the film on almost every evening, in every city, in every locality, across the world. People think MF has become senile. Wrong — if that had to happen, it would have occurred 20 years earlier. Newspaper columns spill over, stories are weaved and rumours start floating that if MF were 30 and Madhuri 20, they would have blazed. The fire may or may not have been lit, but MF watches Madhuri on the screen for months, and on a 100-foot canvas starts talking to her with colours.

A reporter, sometime right then, asked Madhuri why Husain was tomtomming around that she figured in every painting of his. Madhuri replied: “Husainji is not introducing me, but establishing my identity.” But where is she? The face is gone, so it can be the image of any woman in these paintings. Another strange thing — MF was asked those days why he didn’t want to meet Madhuri. He replied that her screen image had given birth to the picture of an Indian woman in his paintings — and he wasn’t sure whether reality would endorse that.

One day, Madhuri invites him home. He goes for morning tea but ends up having breakfast, and may have stayed for lunch. Madhuri has to shoot for Raja but is late by two hours. As he is about to leave a topic comes up that quickens this union of art and cinema... MF has a habit of always carrying a long brush in his hands. MF was in a cinema hall in Ahmedabad, with some 10 or 15 college students, watching Hum Aapke Hai Kaun. The moment Madhuri appeared on the screen, MF threw his brush at it, as if he was paying homage to her with flowers. After a few days, the manager of the hall returned the brush to MF, saying, “When you meet Madhuri, present this to her with your own hands.”

That’s what he does. On his way out, after his first meeting with Madhuri, he puts the brush in her hands. And promptly she says: “Husainji, you are leaving this brush with me. Watch out, I may start painting one day.” MF replies at once: “If you start painting, then I am not going to lag behind either. I may end up making a film on you.”

This was said on the 5th of May, 1995. On the 10th of July 1998, Madhuri Dixit is at the Mehboob studio for the muhurat shot of MF’s Gajagamini.

So Gajagamini is made, and that too in a Bollywood studio. Everyone is surprised. When the film is done, the first one to call is Yash Chopra. “Congratulations! Congratulations not for finishing the film but for getting out of Bollywood in one piece!”

When Husain leaves Mehboob studio, firmly clasping a can of Gajagamini, there is a crowd of people standing there. And in that crowd, MF sees Maqbool. MF calls out to him.

MF: Hey, Maqbool — you are just the way you always were. You are still a painter. Look at me, and the crowd around me!

Maqbool: Yes, I can see that. Have you turned into a neta?

MF: Not a neta (politician), but an abhineta (actor). People want to see me in the role of MF — like MGR, NTR and now SRK.

Maqbool: You mean a superstar of the silver screen?

MF: No, no, not for the silver screen. My performance is not for those two or three hours on the silver screen. My stage is that colourful non-stop review of high society.

Maqbool: You mean show business in another form! But don’t forget that in this show business, an artist called Maqbool always sits backstage with a long brush in his hand.

MF: You are absolutely right, brother. I would have got lost in this show business a long time ago if you weren’t sitting there behind me, nudging me with your brush.

Maqbool: What’s this that you are holding on to?

MF: Gajagamini.

Maqbool: And where is Madhuri?

MF: At her in-laws’.