Introduction
Few artists in modern India embody adoration and controversy like Maqbool Fida Husain, more popularly known as M.F. Husain did and continues to do. Often celebrated as among India’s leading modern artists, unfortunately, Husain spent his final years outside India. This was not because he was exiled by some law or decree, but by a steady barrage of court cases that in most cases edged on harassment. Now, more than a decade after his passing (he passed away in 2011), a museum dedicated to his work is opening in Doha. Qatar’s decision to open “Lawh Wa Qalam: M.F. Husain Museum”, and house his legacy is both an honour and an embarrassment. It is an honour for Husain, and for his work which will surely attain greater international acclaim. At the same time, it is an embarrassment for India for having failed to create the conditions for such recognition at home.
However, behind this bizarre irony lies a deeper story. This story is the result of a web of laws—from criminal to antiquities and their uncomfortable application on artists. To understand why Husain will be more visible in Qatar than in India, in this piece, I will briefly attempt to take you through the structures that shape, and sometimes stifle, art—law.
The Law as a Cage: Obscenity, Religious Sentiments, and the Criminalisation of Art and Artists
Husain’s had many encounters with the law, and main appearances in the courtrooms. A series of criminal complaints were filed against him. These complaints often also had a religious tenor to them. Complainants often used provisions of the Indian Penal Code relating to obscenity (Section 292) and hurting religious sentiments (Section 295A). The charges, in some prominent cases hinged on his depictions of Hindu goddesses in the nude, interpreted by some as offensive, revelled by others as masterpieces. Many scholars have argued that protection against obscenity and hurting of religious sentiments in Indian law has been a slippery slope. What is obscene or what hurts someone’s religious sentiment oscillates between “community standards” and judicial discretion, with the latter often determining what the former are. Therefore, what counts as art in Paris or Doha could become basis for establishing criminal antecedents in India.
The chilling effect percolated not just through cases against him to other artists, but also buyers, exhibitioners, and curators. Instead of celebrating his bold modernist idiom, many galleries grew cautious. Exhibitions had to be cancelled due to threats of violence, works had to be withdrawn for fear of vandalism, and the Husain himself found it easier to live abroad. By 2006, Husain had become a legal nomad, navigating courtrooms in India and living between Qatar and England. The law, which should have been ideally able to protect art and artistic integrity, in a bizarre turn of events, ended up pushing one of India’s greatest painters into exile.
More problematic than the frivolous cases of obscenity was the misuse of Section 295A of the erstwhile IPC which criminalised actions and words that hurt religious sentiments. In practice, the mere filing of a complaint—however frivolous, and often they were—was enough to tie Husain in knots. The threat of his arrest or at least unnecessary legalised inconvenience often loomed large. The critics of these provisions have pointed out that the provisions were less a shield against criminal acts, and a more a sword for (often televised) public outrage, wielded selectively and strategically. This was especially true for an artist like Husain. He drew deep inspiration from from mythology, history, and popular culture. His paintings immortalising the service of Mother Teresa proudly adorn the walls of the National Gallery of Modern Art. The law, then, became less a protector of creativity and diversity and more a blunt instrument of (in)direct censorship.
Museums, Markets, and the Legal Grey Zones of Husain’s Legacy
The Delhi Art Gallery Controversy
A recent controversy at the Delhi Art Gallery (DAG) highlighted how sensitive the display of his works continues to be. A lawyer filed a criminal complaint against the DAG for showcasing art that hurt her religious sentiments. Although the courts have on several occasions, including this one, dismissed charges of obscenity and hurting religious sentiments, the lingering perception of legal risk means that many institutions (especially art galleries that work inside a web of stringent legal codes) remain hesitant. This is especially so for institutions that are privately run. Even curators worry about not just police complaints but also vandalism, politically charged protests, and reputational backlash. The law may no longer be able to actively prosecute Husain, but it has left a residue of fear that shapes the choices for those who work around his art.
The Antiquities and Art Treasures Act, 1972
Adding another layer of complexity is the Antiquities and Art Treasures Act, 1972. The act was brought in to stop the illegal exporting of Indian antiques, but its overly broad definitions have led to greater legal uncertainty. Many modern works—including Husain’s—remain shrouded in such uncertainty. The 1972 Act provides the Central Government with the power to identify an artist and categorise all of their work as a ‘national treasure. Such a classification makes all of their artwork illegal to export. To make matters more contentious, there are no objective or even subjective standards that define which artists can be so categorised. This creates an unsettling situation for collectors and museums. It is a real possibility that an artwork purchased abroad, if brought into India, may suddenly get trapped in a legal web, and its export subsequently becomes prohibited. For international collectors of Husain, this ambiguity diminishes their confidence in lending or displaying works in India. The 1972 Act, aimed at preventing smuggling, ends up deterring cultural exchange.
Qatar as Custodian
In this climate of hesitation, it is not an actual surprise that the most significant recognition of Husain’s brilliance comes from abroad and not India. Qatar, which offered him honorary citizenship in 2010, shortly before he passed away in London, has now taken what is obviously the logical next step in cementing his legacy. A dedicated museum. It is symbolic of something sadder: a once-in-a-generation artist who was made to feel unsafe in India will going forward be celebrated outside. For Indian audiences, however, this means that to truly engage with Husain’s full oeuvre, they will soon have to travel to Doha. In addition to a cultural miss, this omission to celebrate Husain in India is also a lost opportunity for tourism. The tragedy is not that Husain belongs to the world—he always did—but that India allowed the misuse of its laws and politics to a point where he had to live abroad in a self-imposed exile.
Where to From Here?
This story of MF Husain is not just about art and how art is perceived by people with different sensibilities or different political ideologies/agendas. It is about how legal structures define cultural spaces. Living outside the law is not possible in the modern world. However, criminal and cultural law must protect artists and cultural ambassadors, not prosecute them. Obscenity laws, provisions meant to prevent the hurting of religious sentiment, and antiquities regulations together create an uncertain legal environment where artists can neither express freely nor can now their work circulate confidently.
The opening of a Husain museum in Qatar is a reminder of what India lost: not just a painter, but the chance to claim his legacy as India’s, despite the inherent immersion of his work in Indian motifs and cultural references.
The avowed intent of every law is always meant to safeguard culture. The intent must be realised and law must also be used to nurture it. In Husain’s case, the failure to strike that balance meant exile. For India, the consequence is more subtle and painful. It is the birthplace of, the inspiration for, and the workspace in which Husain painted, but now his legacy, shines brighter abroad than at home.
The lesson is clear. When law and lawmakers forget to distinguish between protection and persecution, culture pays the price.