Pancham, my best half

The first rule of journalism is to remain objective, always - something, this generation of "news-breakers" are already grappling with. But, speaking with veteran film director-lyricist-poet-author Gulzar for the third time now, this writer's struggle has never seemed more real. We can't really put a finger on why that's the case. Though, we must admit that when we were two years old, Lakdi ki kathi from the film Masoom (1983) was played on loop on our TV set - the number of rewinds terribly reduced the life of the video cassette - as the song made our toddler self dance with glee. We didn't of course know then that Gulzar had penned it. Later, it was the ghazals that he wrote - the album Marasim (2000) being a personal favourite - that preoccupied our teenage heart. So, when the octogenarian, who is blessed with a razor-sharp memory, remembers our meeting from four years ago at his Pali Hill bungalow, we can't help but smile. Since this time, our conversation is over telephone, we allow this slip. That's also where we cut-short the impulses of the inner-fan. We are back to discussing his book, a new memoir, which is also several years old. Confusing?

Gulzar seen on the verandah of his Pali Hill bungalow. Pic/Yogen Shah

Over three decades ago, Gulzar was approached by Sanchari Mukherjee, then a journalist with a Bengali newspaper's Sunday edition, for a new column series. "She wanted me to write about my experience of working with veterans from the film fraternity. I told her that's typical Filmfare [magazine] material. But, she kept insisting," recalls the 87-year-old. Gulzar eventually told her that he'd speak about his many interactions with those who had influenced his work. "We managed to work it out. She would fly down to Mumbai, and cover columns for two editions at one time, and leave for Kolkata the same evening. I would narrate my experiences in Bangla, Hindu, Urdu, English and hand gestures, and she'd put it all down in Bangla. She would later send the final piece, and I'd make a few edits, before it got published," he shares. This went on for some time, until Mukherjee "went the family way". The column ended soon after, but took on a new life as a book in Bengali called Panta Bhate, which means "in fermented rice", a phrase he used in one of his films. Gulzar, however, was adamant about not having it published in English, because he saw himself making new additions to this diverse cast of celebrated artistes mentioned in the original compilation. "The wave of thoughts kept churning, but I never sat down to write. This continued and time passed by." It was only recently when Premanka Goswami, the executive editor at the publishing house behind his book, mentioned how he wanted to translate Panta Bhate, and that he knew someone, who had worked on the first two chapters that Gulzar, in a first, re-considered the option. But that was only because the translation by Maharghya Chakraborty had bowled him over. "He had done such a good job, and had remained authentic to the text. I realised that even if I write more, it would not be in the same style."

Gulzar and his wife Rakhee playing Holi in Mumbai in 2017. He says he didn't dedicate an entire chapter to her in this memoir, because he felt 'very shy'. Pic/Getty Images

His new memoir, Actually… I Met Them (Penguin Random House), though an old one, will thus, for the first time, be read by non-Bangla readers. In essence, they are intimate sketches of doyens who shaped Gulzar's early decades in cinema - from Bimal Roy, Kishore Kumar, RD Burman, Satyajit Ray, Pandit Ravi Shankar, Sanjeev Kumar to Suchitra Sen and Sharmila Tagore. "Most of them are Bengalis, and [while working on this book] I realised the extent of my collaboration with them," says Gulzar, who considers himself as much a Bengali, as he's Punjabi, and has also taught himself to write and speak the language. The one Bengali who, however, doesn't have an entire chapter dedicated to her is actress Rakhee Gulzar. He mentions her often through the book - the first time he set eyes on her, the love letters they exchanged, the pranks she pulled on him, driving away with his car with friends to eat paani puri - but beyond that "I am very shy when it comes to writing about my
wife". We can almost hear him blush over the phone.

The veteran lyricist says that music composer RD Burman played an important role in his song-writing journey. Pic courtesy/Gulzar; Actually... I Met Them

When it came to naming the memoir, the celebrated poet says he picked up the last sentence of the introductory note that he wrote for the book. "I find it hard to believe that all these people lived in the same era, and that I had the chance to work with most of them. Sometimes, I have to convince myself that I actually met them." These vignettes are unlike any other we've read - they aren't short biographies, neither are they profiles. They are reflections of personal and private moments between two artistes, and show them in new light. Most moving is his relationship with Pancham (RD Burman). When the music composer passed away in 1994, Gulzar writes that "a large part of me departed with Pancham; the Gulzar that remains now is but half-complete". "Before my career as director took off, I had written only one song with his [Pancham] father [SD Burman]… my song-writing journey began when Pancham was an assistant with his father, and I, an assistant director. He used to come to our office holding the dugga [the left tabla]. While the grown-ups would continue their discussions, we would go out to take a stroll. A deep friendship formed between us, and I began writing more songs for him. The way I wrote when with Pancham, can't be recreated. We grew together in this journey. When he died, I lost both that friendship and creativity [we shared]," he tells us.

Gulzar with Sanjeev Kumar, whom he fondly called Haribhai. Hari, he writes, was a very generous person, but 'also a miser and very careful with money'. 'He had once told me, ‘I will drop by your house whenever I want to. When I do, I will want a drink. That's my demand. Don't tell me then that you don't have a drink for me. If you want, I can buy a bottle and leave it here as well'. Pic courtesy/Gulzar; Actually... I Met Them

Gulzar also writes about his disappointment of not being able to complete the script for Amritakumbher Sandhane that Bimal Roy and he were working on, as the former died of cancer. Another huge regret was not being able to land the opportunity to work with Satyajit Ray, an institution in himself. "It would have been like going back to college, and I missed that chance. Another person I wanted to assist was Shyam Benegal, because I admired his modern, new cinema greatly. I requested him twice actually, but he laughed it off," says Gulzar, being absolutely modest. He admits he has always been curious about cinema and never shied away from learning. In fact, he tells us that in the early 1980s, by which time his body of work included big hits like Aandhi, Parichay and Mausam, he wanted to study at the Film and Television Institute of India. "I was making Namkeen at the time. I approached Hrishida [Hrishikesh Mukherjee] who was the examiner at the institute, and asked if there was a possibility of doing a three-year course there." He remembers being scoffed at. "Hrishida said, ‘Huh! Who will write for my films then?' He joked that grown-ups and married people weren't allowed here."

If and when Gulzar writes a Part 2 of this memoir, which he says he will, there will be certain colleagues that he definitely won't forget to mention. AR Rahman, Vishal Bhardwaj, Shaad Ali, and his daughter Meghna Gulzar. "It might feel like I am boasting. But, I am very, very proud of her [Meghna]. She has really surpassed my filmmaking. Our generation made good films, but we weren't the original authors - our works were inspired by other literary stalwarts. The new crop of filmmakers author their own films. Cinema after all is about your own expression, commitment and statement."