The news of Ken Zuckerman’s passing is deeply shocking. Though we hadn’t met in over 20 years, our nearly four-decade-long friendship endured through frequent emails and social media exchanges.
I can’t recall the exact moment we met, but it was likely during one of his early visits to India in the late 1980s (Ken spoke lovingly about his first meeting with my father in a video tribute in 2014). He became a regular visitor to our home in Mumbai in those years. A warm and lovable man, he quickly became family. During his concert tours across India, he often used our home as his base, staying with us between performances. I would receive him at the airport and drop him off when needed. Unsure of his food preferences, my mother once asked what he’d like to eat, to which he replied, “Absolutely anything.” True to his word, he relished our traditional Saraswat vegetarian fare.
Ken was always grateful for my father’s support in introducing him to India’s music circles. Before long, he was performing across the country, including at the prestigious Sawai Gandharva festival in Pune. Though soft-spoken, he was a passionate conversationalist, often discussing his guru, Ustad Ali Akbar Khan, and his years of training in California. His sharp sense of humour added to his charm—he effortlessly crafted jokes on the spot.
Every visit, he brought small toys for our young daughters, who fondly called him “Ken maam.” Some of those toys still remain, evoking cherished memories of him.
Born and raised in the United States, Ken later settled in Basel, Switzerland, where he founded the Ali Akbar College of Music and taught Western classical music at the Basel Conservatory. During my business trips to Europe, he and his then-wife, Silvia, always invited me to stay. We would cycle through Basel’s streets, and I would attend his riyaz sessions with his students. I vividly remember watching Schindler’s List late one night in his music room over pizza. The story resonated deeply with him—his parents had lived through that trauma before escaping to the US.
I was fortunate to assist in producing one of his first CDs in India—Chandranandan, I believe. He loved the raga, composed by his beloved guru. I arranged a photoshoot and oversaw the CD sleeve printing. Pleased with the result, he told my designer friend, “This is pretty much New York standard.”
The last time I heard him play was at a concert we hosted with the Music Department of the University of Pune. Ramdas Palsule accompanied him on the tabla—a memory made poignant by the fact that Ramdasji is in Melbourne this week to perform at the Melbourne Hindustani Classical Music Society’s festival.
I regret never being able to arrange his concert tour in Australia and New Zealand, despite years of discussions. His busy schedule and later reluctance to travel long distances made it difficult.
Our heartfelt condolences to his children—Emily, Corinna, and Andreas—their mother, Silvia, and his many students and admirers worldwide.
Farewell, Ken. I will listen to your Sindh Bhairavi in prayerful homage.
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