Now, this one is hard to write about. For one, the subject is someone I have admired for ages. And the Hindi original by Yatindra Mishra—a man steeped in culture and writerly virtues—had been years in the making, so I approached it with great expectations. Eventually, it turned out to be a major disappointment. Writing about its translation, therefore, is doubly hard—translated into English as Gulzar Saab: Life, Writings & Cinema by Sathya Saran. How does one separate the translation from the original? And if the translation feels more coherent and reader-friendly, does the credit go to the translator, or was there something flawed in my reading of the original?
When a writer is granted rare access to an artist as iconic and reclusive as Gulzar, one expects the result to be a treasure trove—an intimate, insightful, and structurally coherent portrait of the man behind the words. Yatindra Mishra’s Gulzar Saab: Hazaar Rahein Mud Ke Dekhi, ambitious in scope and drenched in admiration, certainly sets out to be that. It is a deeply earnest work, rich in information and reverence. Yet, despite its immense promise, it falters in execution—a case of overwhelming material let down by a lack of narrative control, thematic focus, and editorial discipline.
This is not to say the book lacks heart or hard work. On the contrary, Mishra’s research and devotion are palpable. The book brims with long, detailed conversations with Gulzar, reflections on his poetry and filmography, and affectionate accounts of his collaborations with artists like RD Burman, Vishal Bhardwaj, and AR Rahman. For readers steeped in Hindi cinema and literature, there are undeniable rewards: little-known anecdotes about Gulzar’s early years in the film industry, insights into his writing process, and fragments of his creative philosophy. At its best, the book captures something of the lyricism and layered melancholy that have come to define Gulzar’s oeuvre.
Yet it is precisely this abundance that proves to be its undoing. In his zeal to include everything, Mishra creates a patchwork of loosely stitched anecdotes, repetitive praise, and an oddly uncritical hagiography. Structurally, the book is scattered. There is no clear sense of chronology, no thematic coherence, and no distinction between the personal and the professional, with little connective tissue to guide the reader. It reads more like a rambling conversation than a structured narrative, leaving one adrift and uncertain of its larger purpose.
Repetition compounds the problem. The same points recur so often that they begin to lose force. What might have been a deep dive into Gulzar’s sensibility becomes a looping refrain, as if the author is reluctant to move beyond celebration into critical engagement. There is a sense that Mishra, awed by his subject, cannot bring himself to question or probe.
That, ultimately, is the book’s greatest limitation. Despite being granted such proximity, Mishra remains curiously distant from the man himself. The portrait that emerges is of an icon frozen in admiration—eloquently described, lovingly rendered, but lacking the contradictions, frailties, and creative anxieties that make a great artist human. The book never truly discovers Gulzar; it merely reveres him.
This hollowness at the book’s core is its most disappointing aspect. There is little interrogation, no real peeling back of layers. Gulzar emerges as an icon, yes, but not as a flesh-and-blood man with vulnerabilities or creative crises. There is no narrative tension, no sense of discovery—only reverence without rigour.
And yet, for all its unevenness, Hazaar Rahein Mud Ke Dekhi has undeniable value. It assembles an impressive archive of conversations and contextual material that future scholars and enthusiasts may find indispensable. There are moments—scattered but luminous—when Gulzar’s own words cut through the reverential fog, reminding us of his rare clarity and introspection. These passages make the reader long for the sharper, more discerning biography this material could have become.
The book may interest completists or fans seeking scattered gems—a lyric here, a personal memory there—but it lacks the cohesive vision required to become the definitive chronicle of Gulzar’s life and art. In the end, the book remains a well-intentioned but meandering homage, weighed down by its own excesses and far from the sharp, lyrical precision of the man it seeks to celebrate. It is a testament to devotion rather than discovery.
Sathya Saran’s translation, however, salvages the text to a considerable extent. For reasons I am yet to fully fathom, the book reads better in English than in the hotchpotch khichdi of the original, and credit for this must go to the translator. It is possible that English, being the language I am more comfortable with, allowed the work to resonate more clearly. Yet I am not convinced that this is the sole reason.
Of late, many translations of Gulzar’s works have been substandard. In one instance, a book of his trivenis was rendered as tankas. While such a creative decision is not inherently problematic, the perfunctory execution made the structure feel more like a gimmick than an inspired choice. Fortunately for Mishra’s Hazaar Rahein…, the translation is its saving grace. What that ultimately says about the original work remains an open and unsettling question.