Gulzar at 90: Why Indian cinema’s ultimate multi-hyphenate will remain unmatched as a lyricist

Gulzar, in Urdu, means a garden. And his is one where each flower is given its moment in the sun, but never at the expense of the whole. It’s a place where one can wander for hours, getting lost in its enchanting expanse: its inflections, cadences and accentuations. This garden is one of endless discovery, where each visit reveals something new, yet familiar. And every visitor leaves with something different. Here, the layers of meaning unpeel themselves slowly, like the unfolding of a bud. Ever since he came into bloom with Bimal Roy’s Bandini (1961), Gulzar has carved out and chiselled beauty and meaning from the mundane; the fragrance of his work has deeply enriched Hindi cinema.

A poet of all seasons

For over six decades, Gulzar has been a colossus, a lodestar, who is immediately recognisable for his distinct sensitivity and sensibility, as well as for his intense and ingenious turns of phrase, word-building, and otherworldly metaphors. A seamster, who builds apparels of songs with the residues of cold, broken, unmendable relationships, and the everydayness of life. A poet whose oeuvre skin-touches the Hindustani ways of being and seeing — its sensuality, rawness and rusticity.

A poet not just of the petrichor, but of all seasons, and occasions. A poet whose work emits the deep influence of, and intimacy with, Mirza Ghalib. A poet who keeps reinventing himself in a manner that he seems to have become the voice of every generation. And, last but not the least, a poet who has, by his own admission, ‘swallowed the moon;’ a recurrent leitmotif in his poetry, he has used moon in so many ways that — he jokes — he has come to feel as if he has the ‘copyright’ over the celestial body.

Each line Gulzar pens is imbued with a quiet elegance, an understatedness that resonates far beyond its surface meaning. Much like a skilled gardener, he knows when to prune, when to let a thought linger, and when to allow an idea to grow wild and free: Every expression is allowed to flourish, yet nothing is overgrown or out of place. And even the most intense passions are conveyed with a gentle, almost tender touch. The scent of his poetry and songs clings to the soul: it’s the scent of memories, of long-forgotten dreams (fulfilled and unfulfilled), of love lost and found again, of unspoken words that hang in the air between two people in love.

His art of subtlety and restraint

In Gulzar’s poetry and songs, much is said between the lines, and the true meaning lies in what is left unsaid. There’s a kind of elegance in this restraint, a sophistication in the way he trusts his audience to fill in the gaps, to see the beauty in the spaces between his words. He has the rare, almost uncanny ability to take the most complex feelings and distil them into lines that feel revelatory, epiphanic. In his hands, a simple phrase can become a world unto itself, rich with nuance. And the affecting weight of his work is always balanced with an enviable lightness of touch; his words flow with an effortless grace that belies the depth of thought behind it.

When Gulzar writes, Mera kuch samaan tumhare paas pada hai (Ijazat, 1987), he is not merely speaking of belongings; he is alluding to the essence and remains of loss, of memories that refuse to fade away or vanish long after a relationship has ended. A song in free verse that defies conventional structure and sentimentality, it’s a poetic list of memories, each line a fragment of a past relationship, left behind like forgotten artefacts. The song doesn’t seek closure or resolution; it simply exists in its own space, much like the memories it describes.

There is a deep emotional intelligence in Gulzar’s writing, an understanding of the gossamer web of relationships, and of what it means to be human, that allows him to tap into universal sentiments while still making them feel deeply personal. This is a rare gift that cannot be taught or imitated. He writes about joy, pain, longing, regret, memory, nostalgia, union and separation in a way that feels both timeless and timely.

The beauty of one of his memorable songs, Humne dekhi hai un aankhon ki mehakti khushboo from Khamoshi (1969), lies in its simplicity and its refusal to conform to traditional idioms or expressions of love. Instead of focusing on the physical attributes of the beloved, he shifts the focus to the intangible — the aroma of the eyes, the emotion behind the gaze. It’s this kind of subtlety that has made Gulzar’s work resonate with audiences for decades.

The singularity of his genius

One of my favourite Gulzar’s songs, Tujhse Naraaz Nahi Zindagi from Shekhar Kapur’s Masoom (1983) seems to me like a philosophical musing on the resentment with life, and a sense of wonder at the way it can turn out for some. In works such as these, Gulzar doesn’t offer easy answers or clichéd conclusions; instead, he presents life’s ebbs and flows with a gentle resignation, encouraging the listener to find solace in the ambiguity.

I keep listening to some of Gulzar’s recent songs — in which his profundity is on full display — on loop. They include songs from Mani Ratnam’s Guru, and a clutch of Vishal Bhardwaj’s films like Omkara, Maqbool, Saat Khoon Maaf and Haider. Tere Bina (Guru), a love ballad, turns absence of the beloved into a taste, a sensory experience you can almost feel on your tongue: ‘beswaadi ratiya’ (tasteless nights). Moving into the darker universe of Bhardwaj’s films, Gulzar’s lyrics take on a different hue. In Kaminey, Gulzar turns Dhan Te Na, a high-energy track, into a lyrical adrenaline rush, a sharp staccato that mirrors the film’s frenetic pace; its mischievous undercurrent aligns perfectly with the film’s tone.

In the Shakespeare-inspired trilogy — Omkara, Maqbool and Haider — perhaps one of the most notable collaborations between Gulzar and Bhardwaj, the Bismil (from Haider) is a masterclass in narrative songwriting. It weaves a tale of betrayal, using the metaphor of a wounded bird trapped in love to parallel Haider’s own entrapment in a web of deceit, as well as his pain, anger, and desire for vengeance. In Maqbool, an adaptation of Macbeth, Rone Do becomes not just about grief, but the undertones of guilt, despair, an inevitability of fate — also, the existential dread, and cosmic sadness.

The playful rebellion, evident in most of his songs, also manifests in Omkara. The film’s rustic undercurrents are brought to life by eschewing traditional romance for something more earthy and real. In Beedi Jalaile, for instance, Gulzar takes what could have been a simple item number and infuses it with risqué and ribaldry — a celebration of the raw, unpolished love that exists in the margins, far from the sanitised versions of romance we often see on screen. Naina Thag Lenge (the eyes will deceive you) uses the metaphor of eyes as deceitful thieves, stripping the soul bare. Gulzar takes a simple idea — the seductive power of a gaze — and turns it into a haunting refrain that echoes the story’s underlying tragedy.

Gulzar’s words have a way of reaching into the deepest recesses of our beings, of expressing what we often cannot find the words to say ourselves. There is a quiet intensity to his voice, and a subtlety that draws you in and holds you there. In the years to come, Indian cinema, undoubtedly, will continue to evolve, produce new talents, and explore new terrains. But to suggest that it could ever produce another Gulzar is to undermine the singularity of his genius. He is, and always will be, one of a kind — a Gulzar in the truest sense of the word.