For the last three years, I have had Gulzar’s poem ‘Bimaar Yaad’ pinned in the notes app on my phone. I came across it in Raat Pashmine Ki (2002), a poetry collection I would read aloud in bed late into the night, armed with a blue pen to underline the parts that stirred something in me. By the end, most of the book was underlined.
I lost my paternal grandparents in the pandemic and began watching YouTube videos of Gulzar soon after, seeking comfort in his gravelly voice and gentle words. ‘Bimaar Yaad’ summed up my anguish over their loss as the bard spoke of a memory that “hiccuped one last time and went silent”. Now in the corridor of his Mumbai home, I nearly drop the tulsi plant I have brought for his garden when the door opens to reveal the poet standing in his study.
In his trademark white kurta, he looks exactly like the man in the videos I’ve been watching for years, the man whose voice gave form to emotions I was too torn up to process, the man I only managed to steal a glimpse of on a huge screen at the Jaipur Literature Festival in 2023 because he was surrounded by a sea of awestruck people. As Gulzar smiles, gesturing to the sofa, I notice the news playing in the background. In my nervousness, I struggle to comprehend the words of the reporter, instead noticing a sign in the room that warns me that photography and recording are not permitted.
It’s a rule the poet will sternly reiterate later, disabusing me of my fanciful notions of our meeting fe.