Words, Voice, Love, Memories, Feelings, Thoughts… aur Gulzar

I often hear it — "Oh god, how boring you are! Why don’t you listen to something peppy? Something from this decade maybe?" And to that, I usually smile, sip my coffee, and say, “Okay, I accept. Maybe I am boring. But boring in the most beautiful way possible — because I have the privilege of having Gulzar Sahab’s words as my soundtrack.” You know, sometimes I feel like a museum piece among Bluetooth speakers. But hey, some museums house the most priceless treasures.

People like me belong to the era of Javed Akhtar and Gulzar Sahab — a generation that doesn’t just listen to songs, but feels them deeply. For us, music is not about beats and hooks; it’s about meaning, metaphor, and memories. The songs we hold close are not fleeting trends but treasures of thought. Our choices are woven with intensity — moments captured in words that refuse to fade. And with Gulzar Sahab, it’s a love we may never express directly to him. We don’t write to him. We don’t meet him. We just love him — and most of all, we love his words.

Now here's a little secret — before he became Gulzar Sahab to the world, he was known as Sampooran Singh Kalra. Yes, the man whose words feel like they’re dipped in the ink of the soul once walked the streets of Dina (now in Pakistan), dreaming under open skies. ‘Sampooran’ means complete, and if there’s ever been a man whose words complete our silences, it’s him. Somewhere in the dusty corners of post-partition India, Sampooran became Gulzar — not as an alias, but as a chosen skin to carry the fragrance of words that would one day become our emotional heirloom.

Meri aawaaz hi pehchaan hai, gar yaad rahe...

This iconic line doesn't just begin a song, it opens a portal to a lifetime of memories, feelings, and experiences. It is a proclamation that echoes in the hearts of generations who have found solace, reflection, and companionship in the words of Gulzar Sahab. He is not merely a poet, lyricist, or filmmaker; he is a quiet confidante who has been present during our most vulnerable silences and our most overwhelming emotions.

Gulzar's genius lies in his ability to connect across time. My father would hum "Dil dhoondta hai phir wahi fursat ke raat din..." on wintry evenings, lost in the nostalgia of youth. My mother would often pause during chores when "Tujhse naraaz nahi zindagi, hairaan hoon main" played, her eyes speaking volumes that words never could. And now, as I sing "Lakdi ki kaathi, kaathi pe ghoda" to my daughter Siya, I witness the seamless continuation of this lyrical legacy. Gulzar Sahab’s poetry doesn’t belong to one generation; it is a bridge between many. Each listener, regardless of age, finds a version of themselves reflected in his words.

What makes his writing universal is not its complexity, but its simplicity. Gulzar Sahab doesn’t use ornate phrases to impress — he uses everyday imagery to express the extraordinary depth of ordinary emotions. "Chhod aaye hum woh galiyaan..." isn’t just about a geographical departure. It encapsulates the melancholic acceptance of outgrowing places, people, and versions of oneself. His metaphors are never superficial; they are lived-in, weathered, and intimately familiar.

Then there’s his unmatched gift of transforming memory into poetry. Songs like "Mera kuch saamaan tumhare paas pada hai" aren’t just lyrics; they are confessions. They articulate the heartbreak of unfinished stories, the remnants of relationships that time cannot reclaim. The beauty of this song lies not in its melody alone but in its structure — a list of intangible belongings, each tied to an emotion that refuses to fade. Listening to it feels like reopening an old letter, yellowed and fragile, yet deeply alive. And let’s be honest — who else could make a list of forgotten things sound like a love letter?

Equally compelling is his ability to capture the many shades of love. In "Tere bina zindagi se koi shikwa to nahi," Gulzar Sahab does not dramatize heartbreak. Instead, he chooses to reflect on love that remains unfinished, incomplete, but still cherished. There is no anger here — only gentle resignation. It mirrors the maturity many of us only arrive at after years of living and losing. Basically, if Bollywood was a buffet of emotional songs, Gulzar Sahab would be the slow-cooked daal that reminds you of home.

His voice — oh, his voice — adds another layer of meaning to his work. When Gulzar Sahab recites his poetry, it's not a performance but a presence. His tone carries the weight of wisdom, of someone who has seen too much and still chooses to write with kindness. There’s an unhurried rhythm to his reading, allowing the listener to breathe in every word, every pause, every silence between lines. It’s like being read to by time itself.

Yet, Gulzar Sahab is not confined to romance and nostalgia. His canvas includes loneliness, aging, war, childhood, and urban chaos. He writes of everyday things with such tenderness that they become profound. A line like "Roz akeli aaye, roz akeli jaaye, zindagi..." doesn’t scream philosophy but holds the quiet weight of existential truth. He gives language to emotions that many feel but few can articulate.

Children, too, have grown up under his poetic wing. Songs like "Machli jal ki rani hai" and "Lakdi ki kaathi" are not just playful rhymes — they are crafted with the same care, rhythm, and charm as his more mature work. He never talks down to his audience, regardless of age. Instead, he invites everyone into his world of lyrical simplicity and depth. The man writes for toddlers and philosophers with the same pen. Who does that?

Throughout different phases of life, Gulzar Sahab transforms. As a teenager, I found in him the vocabulary for my first heartbreaks. As an adult, his words became companions during moments of loss and rediscovery. And now, as a parent, I pass on his songs and stories to my child, knowing that she too will find her own meaning in them one day.

To call Gulzar Sahab just a poet or lyricist is to miss the larger truth. He is a chronicler of the human condition, a weaver of emotions, a silent friend who sits beside you when words fail. His verses don’t provide solutions; they offer understanding. They tell you it’s okay to feel deeply, to be fragile, to remember, and to hope.

"Kal ka har ek pal mujhse pehle jee gaya tu..." — this line, like many of his others, resonates because it feels true. Gulzar Sahab has lived through emotions we haven't yet named, and he’s left behind maps in the form of poems and songs to guide us when we do.

He is, in the truest sense, a timeless voice — one that we carry in our memories, our relationships, our heartbreaks, and our quiet joys. He is not a passing influence but a permanent imprint on the soul of Indian poetry and cinema.

And so, whenever I hear "Meri aawaaz hi pehchaan hai," I pause. Because yes — Gulzar Sahab’s voice is his identity. And what a profound, beautiful identity it is.

 

12th June 2025: The Day Time Froze

I’m still staring at that photo. A couple in their thirties maybe, with three kids, smiling, leaning in for a selfie — you can almost hear the laughter in that frozen frame. It was taken on board Air India Flight AI171, just minutes before takeoff may be. The kind of photo people click to mark a beginning — a new job, a fresh chapter, a dream waiting across the ocean. No one knew it would be the last photo they’d ever take.

June 12, 2025. Ahmedabad. A regular Thursday. A 13:39 departure to London Gatwick. 242 souls on board. A Boeing 787 Dreamliner — ironically named, because that day, it carried people not into their dreams, but straight into a nightmare so horrific, it made even headlines feel like epitaphs. Within minutes of takeoff, the aircraft dropped to a dangerously low altitude — just around 800 feet — and crashed into the BJ Medical College hostel near Civil Hospital. The very walls meant to nurture young minds turned into their tombstones.

I kept reading the news over and over. Not because I couldn’t believe it — but because my heart just wouldn’t accept it. It felt like my chest was being carved open by the reality of it. One flight — and nearly 300 lives extinguished, including bright, ambitious medical students and who had no link to the flight, no role in the story — they were just studying. Or maybe napping after lunch. Maybe whispering dreams into the phone, talking to a friend, texting a silly meme, planning the evening chai. I kept picturing their shoes lying by the hostel door… notebooks left open mid-sentence… laughter interrupted mid-air.

There’s a story that stays with me — Arjunbhai Manubhai Patoliya, a father from Gujarat. He had just lost his wife in London and returned home with her ashes. Performed the rituals in Vadiya, surrounded by grief and people who understood it. He then boarded AI171 to return to his children — the only purpose keeping him stitched to this world. The children waited, probably counting hours to his landing. But he never arrived. How do you explain to them that grief can have grief of its own?

And then, among the debris, a strange whisper of fate: one man survived. Seat 11A. Vishwash Kumar Ramesh, a British national. Some say he jumped before impact. Others say he was simply in a spot the fire didn’t reach. Whatever the reason — he lived. One name on a list that otherwise reads like a prayer gone unanswered. A miracle resting in the middle of devastation.

Equally haunting is the story of the girl who missed the flight by 10 minutes. She cried at the gate when they wouldn’t let her in. Argued. Begged. Probably cursed the system for its rigidity. Little did she know, those 10 minutes saved her life. Isn’t that what life often is? A delay we think is unfair, but later realize was grace in disguise. We complain about missed trains, postponed meetings, denied entries — never realizing they might just be divine interventions in civilian clothes.

A line I once heard keeps echoing in my head: “We don’t own time. We borrow it.” That’s never felt truer. We keep assuming life owes us more chances. More time to make that phone call. More time to forgive. More time to visit home. More time to slow down and sit with a child without a screen between us. But life — life has no contract with our plans. It doesn’t promise anything.

What do you say to a mother who sent her son off for postgrad studies and now receives a sealed box instead of a phone call? What do you say to the little girl in London whose dad never turns up at her school gate again? Or to the boy who watched his roommate vanish from the balcony they shared every morning tea on?

Air India’s CEO turned back mid-air when the news broke. The government announced compensations. Investigators from Boeing, DGCA, and international agencies began the probe. But no amount of money can rewind those few minutes. No technical report can measure the silence in those hostel corridors. No black box can capture the unspoken words that died with those passengers.

I've always believed that every tragedy carries a lesson. But this one… this one doesn’t whisper. It screams. A scream that shakes the soul and says: Wake up. Look around. Speak your heart before time does it for you.

Yesterday morning, I drank my coffee in a rush. I didn’t even notice its taste. And now I recall a quote: “The coffee tastes richer when you sip it like it’s your last.” How blindly we assume we have more mornings. More coffees. More messages. More hugs.

We live with this strange arrogance — that we have time. That we’ll get back home. That we’ll fix things tomorrow. That the goodbye hug can wait. But sometimes… the sky falls.

Today, I write this not as someone with wisdom or insight. I don’t have any. I only have grief. And the accidental privilege of still being here. Of still being able to hug my daughter. Call my mother. Tell a friend “I love you.”

If you’re reading this, maybe you have that privilege too.

So please, don’t wait. Say it. Do it. Hug them. Slow down. Sip your coffee. Watch the sky. Let your dreams run faster than your fears. Because time — as AI171 reminded us — is not something we lose.

It’s something we never truly had.