After the death of M F Husain, which was covered in a big way by the media here, those who knew him have been coming out with their own fond memories of the man and his idiosyncracies. Apart from being a great artist, Husain was quite the showman, with studied eccentricities behind which lay a canny mind. His persona, of the unpredictable creative and wandering soul, hid his sharp business sense and his keen eye for the theatrical.

Though Husain belonged to the world and thought of himself a global citizen, it was Mumbai that was closest to his heart. This is where he came as a young man and this where he found his success. From his early days as a film billboard painter to his beginnings as a family man in the decrepit locality of Agripada to his membership of the Progressive Artists Group to his eventual superstardom; it all happened in Mumbai.

It was not unusual to see him walking around in the art district of Kala Ghoda, barefoot and armed with a long brush. He seemed unconcerned about his stardom but of course was fully aware of the effect he had on people. He could be found in the salons of the rich, who courted and wooed him (and bought his expensive paintings) and in a small kebab joint on Mohammed Ali Road, which he knew like the back of his hand. Many a grungy restaurant there has a sketch or painting of his hanging in the premises, an incongruous touch of high art in the most modest of surroundings.

I recall seeing his old Fiat car, painted with his signature strokes, on the streets of the city. Shabana Azmi, whose parents were close friends of his, remembers being driven in it to try out the nihari in a restaurant that he had just recently discovered.

Mumbai takes its celebrities lightly — approaching them as an eager fan is frowned upon. It’s not as if its residents are not star struck, but the city likes to show it is nonchalant and thus rushing to shake a celeb’s hand is strictly uncool. So Husain could walk about undisturbed. But it was also because he was so much a part of the city’s scene that no one seemed to particularly notice him.

He had stopped holding exhibitions of his work a long time ago, but once, in the 1980s, there was a frisson of excitement when it was announced that a new one would open at the Jehangir Art Gallery, the city’s best known venue for art. On the appointed day, when the doors of the gallery’s two halls were opened, all that visitors could see were a lot of newspapers scattered all over and white sheets of cloth. White paint was spilt on the papers. Was the gallery being readied for the show, everyone wondered. No; it turned out that this was the show. This was Husain’s latest work, take it or leave it. Was it a prank or some particularly Dadaist statement? No one was to know the truth since he did not say, but he called the show “Shwetabmara” (white) so obviously he had a plan. It received more publicity than most other artists would get for their best work.

Mumbai’s Bollywood attracted him — he had a whole list of young and lissom muses, from Madhuri Dixit to Tabu to Amrita Rao. Was it his love for glamour, or for the medium or indeed a shrewd plan to link up with names relevant to mass audiences? But then, when he made films with them, he used his own money and did his own thing, so who are we to complain?

Ironically, it was Mumbai where he was also attacked. Hindu fanatics tried to ransack his home and Muslim fundamentalists declared war on him for using verses of the Quran in a song in his film Meenaxi. And sad to say, none of his famous friends or his Bollywood devotees rose to the occasion and demanded that he be protected.

Now Mumbai is grieving for its famous son. Even Bal Thackeray, whose Shiv Sena party was critical of Husain, has praised him. And Bollywood friends are coming out and declaring their everlasting love for the man. But it’s too late. For the rest of the city, seeing him walking down the streets jauntily will be a lasting memory of the great artist and humanist that was M F Husain.

Sidharth Bhatia is a journalist based in Bombay (Mumbai).

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