Hindi cinema’s favourite wordsmith, Gulzar, turns a year older on August 18th. Here’s a small tribute that was penned in 2016, propelled by everyday memories that slowly made me fall in love with his work.
Bombay and Gulzar
For some uncanny reason, I’ve always linked Gulzar to the city of Bombay. As an ardent fanboy, I knew about his Pali Hill residence, Boskyana. When I once spotted him at a literary festival, I fanboyed like never before. Even at that crowded venue, I sensed a distinct Bombay-ness in him. It was not so much about his writing. It was the crazy idea of a composed, all-white-clad man in a busy, muddy, zany city of dreams.
In my early days in the city, I often sought solace in a Gulzar playlist that included the title track of his daughter’s debut film, Filhaal (composed by Anu Malik). If we twist the context a little, the words would resonate with any new migrant. Bombay does not arrive politely. It barges in unannounced. Amid its tempestuous hustle, you slowly learn to love its quiet paradoxes and stubborn idiosyncrasies. I could not even figure out the weather as I fiddled endlessly with the A/C temperature and fan speed.
The streets, meanwhile, swarmed with maddening crowds. The local tea shops played ‘Tere Bina Jiya Jaye Na’, ‘Churake Dil Mera’ and ‘Baby Doll Main Sone Di’ in quick succession. I also discovered Bombay’s famous kaali-peeli taxis, which, unlike other cities, are actually run by meter. The drivers never haggled and were rarely bitter, despite their low earnings.
‘Tujhse Naraaz Nahin Zindagi’ on a bike
On one of my evening taxi rides, crawling through sickening Bandra traffic at the fag end of my day, I witnessed an amusing sight.
A young man on a Hero Honda Splendor was singing Gulzar’s ‘Tujhse Naraaz Nahin Zindagi‘ in his throaty voice. Call me judgmental, but he didn’t strike me as someone particularly scholarly. He seemed like an ordinary office-goer, just like me.
I call it Gulzar’s song rather than RD Burman’s because he seemed to know every word by heart. He fumbled with the tune but never with the words. Riding parallel to my taxi, he alternated stanzas from the male and female versions at every signal. For a moment, I wondered what kind of magic this song held that a youngster in his mid-20s could sing it full-throttle despite its melancholy. He could have sung the season’s hit song ‘Gerua‘ (Dilwale) or any second Arijit Singh track. But, no.
And the city being Bombay, nobody seemed to bother his singing for over 30 minutes, other than me. Perhaps the city’s intrinsic madness was yet to settle into my psyche.
That said, it was an experience that is deeply etched in my mind, thanks to which I discovered a brand new way to celebrate a three-decade-old sad song.
Days of not knowing Gulzar
This is about my own days of not paying attention to Hindi song lyrics. As a boy living in Kerala, I was happier tripping over Alka Yagnik’s clear diction and playful intonations in ‘Poocho Zara Poocho’ rather than trying to decode A. R. Rahman’s vaguely pronounced ‘Dil Se Re’. I did, however, notice the name Gulzar. It sounded short, lyrical, and perfectly suited to his craft. I felt the same about his colleague, Indeevar.
I also discovered that Gulzar directed films when I read the credits on the cassette inlay card of Hu Tu Tu. Yet, my fascination with him stopped at being enamoured by his name. For some reason, I even linked it in my head to O. Henry, despite not having a face for either of them.
Every Gulzar memory is an anecdote
Gulzar’s aura and oeuvre have that quality. His books, interviews, and songs all seem to stir memories of some kind in me. But he isn’t the ever-lovable grandpa with irresistible storytelling skills — that’s the feeling I get from Ruskin Bond. Gulzar, to me, is someone who gives us ideas that we process in our own unique ways. They are not always syrupy sweet. They often felt raw and unfinished, like something Saadat Hasan Manto might have narrated. Yet, every phrase and every tiny incident carries a story. His memories are vividly sketched, the kind we envy, hoping to one day recount mundane, everyday moments to another generation with the same unwavering conviction.
Warming up to Gulzar’s pen
Hindi literature was something I consciously kept at arm’s length. School introduced me to Harivansh Rai Bachchan, Mahashweta Devi, and Premchand, each weaving a different kind of magic, yet somehow never enough to tempt me beyond the syllabus. Gulzar entered my world through Filmfare, which I devoured cover to cover, wrapped in the fragrance of its glossy pages. The magazine carried a column titled ‘Geeta Gaata Chal’, with Gulzar at his anecdotal best.
Like paycheques these days, the last days of every month were spent waiting for Filmfare to hit the nearest bookshop. The moment I picked it up from a bearded, perpetually grumpy shopkeeper, I would rush to a bus stop bench or the steps of the local church to read Gulzar’s column. It was always a breezy trip into nostalgia, where he would recall how Hema Malini could effortlessly sing ‘Ek Hi Khwab’, or how Pancham Da (RD Burman) once rejected the word “chhabiyan” as unpoetic. He ordered a copy of The Times of India on the spot and warned Gulzar that he would rather set its headlines to music.
These short, warm write-ups not only revealed how the industry worked in that era but also left me with beautiful (and borrowed) memories. Even today, when I watch Kinara, Kitaab, Parichay, or Ijaazat, I see someone else’s recollections play out before me, as if the films themselves were edited from Gulzar’s mind.
116 chand ki raatein…
‘Mera Kuch Saamaan’ was among the first iconic Gulzar compositions to grip me truly. With its languid pace and Asha Bhosle’s rendition, I felt compelled to savour every word, every trace of its stoic lyricism. My attention always lingered on one line: “Ek sau solah, chand ki raatein, ek tumhare kaandhe ka til.”
With no immediate circle to discuss Hindi poetry, I turned to the early internet to decode that curious number: 116. Did it hold some hidden meaning, like the ’16 somvaar ka vrat’?
In the mid-2000s, search engines provided little assistance. Eventually, it was Gulzar saab himself who addressed it in his Filmfare column. I remember my disbelief as I read him state, quite plainly, that 116 was just a number. I even considered writing to ‘Dakiya Daak Laaya’, the column’s feedback section, to register my grievance over such an anti-climax.
It was only in the future that I unearthed Gulzar and his stark universe of abstract imagery that challenged the way Hindi film songs were designed. They didn’t boast of Shahryar’s polish or Anand Bakshi’s commercial viability. Songs like ‘Hamne dekhi hain in aankhon ki mehekti khushboo’ bear testimony to the fact that mainstream Hindi film songs always had it in them to experiment and still win laurels.
The unique romantic songs
We rarely witnessed a Gulzar number going the mundane Dil Deewana route. Forming a hummable rhyme or alliteration was never an agenda with him. Even when some of the most clichéd, overused words showed up in his lyrics, the man knew where and how to knit them together.
We got lyrics that could be as insanely conversational as,
“Aapki baton mein phir,
Koi shararat toh nahi…
Bewajah taaref karna aapki aadat to nahi…
Aapki badmaashiyon ke yeh naye andaaz hai…”
Or be as bona fide in the realm of poetry as,
“Baithe rahein tassavur-e-jaana
Kiye hue…”
Bringing lyricism to celluloid
Discovering Gulzar’s cinema, like many non-native Hindi speakers, happened to me in the reverse order. I began with his last two films, Hu Tu Tu and Maachis. Today, having seen nearly all his films (except the controversial Libaas), I understand his directorial language. In contemporary cinema, I miss the silences, the pauses, the deliberate play of emphasis and restraint in dialogue. From the meticulous production design to the warm emotional undercurrents and contextual jolts, the hallmarks of a Gulzar universe have been missing since he stopped directing.
So, choosing a favourite Gulzar film feels impossible. On some days, it is the intimate sisterhood of Namkeen. On others, it is the aching beauty of Kinara. Sometimes it is the silences of Koshish that haunt me, while the humour of Angoor keeps me coming back for more. The poignance of Ijaazat never fails to tighten my throat, just as the brashness of Mausam has its appeal.
Vidya Balan once mentioned in a Filmfare interview that she regretted not getting the chance to be in a Gulzar film. As much as I love the idea, I also believe he stepped away at the right time. Who would lyricism and quietude on the big screen today? Mediocrity and creative stagnation are increasingly what mainstream audiences now seem to admire (and deserve). Even as a writer, how many filmmakers could truly honour the material he crafts on paper? Vishal Bhardwaj and Sharat Katariya are the only names that come to mind, and even that says a lot about the void.
Now that I have deciphered Gulzar a little better than before, I would celebrate him in ways that feel personal. This article is one such attempt — more of a note of remembrance than a formal tribute. It gives me the same high as watching a man ride a motorbike, singing aloud, “Jeene ke liye socha hi nahin, dard sambhalne honge…”
