In an upcoming presentation, celebrated poet, lyricist, filmmaker and screenwriter Gulzar pens his love letter to Mumbai’s past and present. A conversation, at his home in Bandra, about the city that has been both his muse and canvas.

By Aishwarya Bodke

In his sunlit drawing room, where many manifestations of Michelangelo’s ‘Pietà’ and a striking sculpture of Mirza Ghalib keep guests company, Gulzar’s presence is conspicuous before he emerges in his crisp white kurta. Not many artistes command space the way Gulzar’s absence does in a room. At ‘Boskyana’, his pristine white abode in leafy Bandra, you know you’re in the midst of greatness.

His grave voice ruminates before it speaks, picking gentle words. “It is almost like holding the listeners’ hand while I show them my city. Main tumhein sheher ghuma le aata hoon,” says the Oscar-winning poet as he talks about the upcoming programme Aamchi Mumbai – An Evening with Gulzar. His was the Bombay of tramlines and Irani cafés, of poets and playwrights.

Gulzar arrived in Bombay in the 1950s from Delhi, where he lived after the Partition. His first home was a chawl in Parel and he would spend his days working— and reading—in a motor garage on Bellasis Road, or with Salil Chowdhury’s Bombay Youth Choir. He speaks fondly of the trams in Bombay, which would often double up as meeting places for young writers. They were cheap and accessible, making them unlikely haunts for literary circles. “The ticket was just for one anna (1/16th of a rupee). If the discussion was not over, we would simply take the same tram back,” Gulzar recalls. His companions on the ride were Punjabi writer Sukhbir and other senior members of the Progressive Writers’ Association, including Sagar Sarhadi.

Dadar Tram Terminus, the roundabout at Dadar East where the tram routes ended, is still colloquially called Dadar TT, although it has officially been renamed Khodadad Circle after the generous owner of a nearby Irani café. His sons, developers Gustasp and Rustom Irani, constructed the two-storied buildings that still stand around the circle, and requested that it be named in their father’s honour.

Back then, every corner of the city would have an Irani café bustling with customers. Gulzar remembers his staple brun maska with chai, and the famous Irani ki biryani, which fed dozens of street dwellers after dark. He also shares a lesser-known tradition of the Irani café: a large copper platter with glasses of water placed near the entrance, inviting anyone to help themselves to one. Where else would a passerby find relief from the heat when bottled water was still a distant luxury in the country?

Gulzar insists that the human instinct comes most alive in Mumbai. “The city inspires,” he says, “it feeds you, looks after you.” It is perhaps this belief that shaped several of his songs so intimately entwined with the city’s spirit. He quotes the lyrics of ‘Thoda hai, thode ki zaroorat hai,’ for Basu Chatterjee’s Khatta Meetha (1978) hinting at a city that somehow accepts everyone, albeit with an unequal share. When he writes “Ek akela is sheher mein, raat mein aur dopahar mein/ Aabo-daana dhoondhta hai, aashiyaana dhoondhta hai” for the 1977 film Gharaonda, he represents the quest of a massive population that goes in and out of Mumbai every day, turning to the city to be their home.

To romanticise the glorious idea of Mumbai comes easy to writers, but Gulzar’s extensive writing on the footpaths and their dwellers, the first citizens of the city, is steeped in unvarnished truth. In his early years in the city, he penned a poem on the Town Hall in Fort where he worked in an office facing the imposing façade. It offered him a vantage point from where he would witness everyday struggles of nameless people. The poem tells the story of one such face in the crowd, a poet, who slept on Town Hall’s seventh step. In his short story ‘Athanniyaan’, a penniless migrant is unable to bribe the cop to let him sleep on the streets. Gulzar infuses this reality with the hope that comes free for all. Despite the gaping wealth disparity, it somehow seems that it is the only city where one could take a chance of a lifetime. Many of these tales will unfold in Aamchi Mumbai, and in the forthcoming book of the same name.

Gulzar’s tryst with Marathi literature was destined to happen in Mumbai. He would regularly attend plays at Dadar’s Shivaji Mandir and the Bhulabhai Desai Memorial Institute in Breach Candy. It was through P. L. Deshpande, a towering figure in Marathi theatre and former Executive Director of the NCPA, that he first encountered Tukaram’s poetry. His interactions with theatre and film director Vijaya Mehta and actor-surgeon Shreeram Lagoo deepened his appreciation of Maharashtrian culture. Gulzar, ever eager to learn a new language to read an author he admires in the original, has also translated the works of Marathi poet and playwright Vishnu Vaman Shirwadkar, better known by his pen name Kusumagraj. Dilip Chitre and Arun Kolatkar influenced him deeply, and he counts not being able to meet the latter among his regrets.

Around the time he arrived in the maximum city, another influential voice was marching in: cartoonist R. K. Laxman’s Common Man, who also sits on a shelf in the poet’s parlour. Gulzar speaks of how the nameless figure commanded a corner of The Times of India front page for over 40 years, speaking of the woes of Mumbai’s populace. He also takes a moment to capture the cosmopolitan fabric of the city unstained by the struggle for existence. “People would run away from their towns to escape the shackles of caste and creed and judgement. Mumbai promised freedom. It was the precipice from which you could fly,” he notes.

There is something about the way Gulzar paints the picture of quotidian life, abundant with relatable imagery, which has gone on to shape the popular culture of our times. The language of Hindi cinema, so closely attached to the identity of Mumbai, borrowed from him. The whole country was compelled to drop to their knees and chant ‘Chhaiyya Chhaiyya’ (Dil Se, 1998), his take on Bulleh Shah’s sufi song ‘Thaiyya Thaiyya’. In the decade that marked the Babri Masjid demolition and the subsequent Bombay riots, it was unusual how the film industry and the audience wholeheartedly embraced the song’s indulgence in Urdu. Gulzar’s lingua franca, much like many of his fellow Indians, is Hindustani, that dulcet mix of Hindi and Urdu which refuses to be cowed into deconstruction. In 2012, he was awarded the Indira Gandhi National Integration Award. His lyricism left a mark on the years that followed and can perhaps be most competently summed up in his own words: ‘Woh yaar hai jo khushboo ki tarah, jiski zubaan Urdu ki tarah.’

At the turn of the century, the wordsmith’s pen, too, shifted with the times. In his songs, words in English flirted with Urdu, reflecting a nation on the brink of globalisation. They became anthems to the economy of dreaming. For the 2005 story of two small-town misfits, Bunty Aur Babli, he wrote “Chaand se hokar sadak jaati hai/Usi pe aage jaake apna makaan hoga.”

The first decade of the new millennium gave our films a definitive sound, the words to which were often lent by Gulzar. He jokes that people remember him for his popular film songs and there are not many takers of his poems. These Bollywood ballads, though, revel in his poetry. Many perky film songs today would be dismissed as frivolous, but some of them have the stamp of Gulzar. He pokes fun at the feudal system in the antara of ‘Beedi’ and evokes the haveli of Ghalib in the eclectic bridge of ‘Kajra Re’. His previous home, Delhi, also rejoices in how he celebrates cities. “Ballimaran se Daribe talak, Teri meri kahaani Dilli mein.”

Gulzar has remained an observer of Mumbai since he set foot here, and the presentation at the NCPA is an exploration of this accompanied by musical interludes. It will take off with a conversation between Gulzar and the programme’s curator Salim Arif.

Aamchi Mumbai, in many ways, is a time machine he offers to the denizens of the megalopolis born after him. Now 91, his work has never not aged well. Teenagers struck by heartache and homesick grandparents alike seek refuge in his verses. When Gulzar writes, the words seem to be written just for you. The city, surely, carries the same sentiment.

Curator’s Notes

ON Stage spoke to Salim Arif, theatre director, actor and educator, who will be curating and presenting Aamchi Mumbai – An Evening with Gulzar at the NCPA.

ON Stage: Your enduring partnership with Gulzar of over three decades has unfolded alongside Mumbai’s vibrant and evolving creative landscape. In what ways has the city shaped your relationship with him personally and creatively?
Salim Arif: None of this would have happened without Mumbai. I had long admired Gulzar Saab’s work, and within three months of arriving in the city, I was working with him on his show Mirza Ghalib, alongside legends like Naseeruddin Shah and Jagjit Singh. It was a dream come true. We would often talk about literature, cinema and Urdu poetry. Very few people know that he is a big sports buff.

When I planned to return to Delhi, he encouraged me to stay and work with him. I assisted him in the 1990s and became the associate director on his films Maachis and Hu Tu Tu. I also adapted his work for the stage, and he was always involved, offering his ideas.

OS: How did you approach blending different forms of storytelling—poetry, prose and music—into one show which begins with a conversation?
SA: The show follows Gulzar’s journey from the day he arrived in Mumbai and revisits the stages of his life that left strong impressions on him. Many threads of his creativity have been shaped by the city. What weaves the different elements of the show together are his words. Aamchi Mumbai will be a unique exploration with a poet of the city reflecting on it through his vast body of work.

OS: How does the show represent the contrasting realities of Mumbai?
SA: The duality is what makes Mumbai the city that it is. Without its underbelly, it would not be the same. There is a beautiful poem of his about a pavement dweller who sees the street as his protector, living alongside his god. All this comes through in Gulzar Saab’s work through his very sensitive, non-judgmental eye. He is deeply aware of the humane side of the city and is able to express it with an economy of words. He is one of the most accomplished residents of the city, always reacting to his surroundings. There is a layer beneath his work rooted in the city’s fabric. It is a great leveller and everyone then becomes a Mumbaikar.

OS: What do you hope younger audiences will take away from Aamchi Mumbai?
SA: I think the younger generation would marvel at the beauty of the city that we are slowly losing under various pressures. Places like Irani cafés, once iconic in Mumbai, are slowly disappearing. Freely strolling the streets like we did 50 years ago feels almost impossible today. There is definitely a layer of nostalgia, but the beauty of Gulzar’s work is that it does not live in the past. While lamenting the fading of good things, he knows how to rejoice in what is still around. That is why so many youngsters connect with him. The innovation in imagery speaks to them instantly. Like all great artistes, Gulzar has the ability to unlearn and learn afresh, which makes him so relevant.

This article was originally published in the October 2025 issue of ON Stage.