There are songs that belong to films, songs that belong to particular decades, and then there are songs that somehow escape both. Gulzar has spent more than six decades writing the latter. At 92, the poet, lyricist, filmmaker and writer remains one of the rare figures in Indian popular culture whose work can trigger nostalgia in one generation while appearing completely contemporary to another. A song written half a century ago can surface on a young listener's playlist; a line conceived for a film scene can acquire an independent life in conversations, social media posts and memories.
Born Sampooran Singh Kalra on August 18, 1934, in Dina, now in Pakistan, Gulzar entered Hindi cinema as a lyricist with Bimal Roy's Bandini in 1963. What followed was a career that moved effortlessly between poetry, cinema, literature and music, producing an extraordinary body of work without allowing the writer behind it to become trapped in any one era.
Perhaps Gulzar's greatest gift has been his ability to discover poetry where others might see only everyday life.
His songs rarely depend upon grand declarations. Instead, emotions emerge through weather, rooms, roads, objects, silences and memories. Love in Gulzar's universe can live inside something forgotten in a room; separation can become a conversation with time; loneliness can appear through rain falling outside a window.
That quality gave songs such as Tujhse Naraz Nahin Zindagi, Dil Dhoondta Hai, Mera Kuchh Samaan and Tere Bina Zindagi Se an unusual permanence. Their language belongs to cinema, but their emotions exist far beyond the films for which they were created.
It is also why Gulzar's writing can be deceptively simple. His vocabulary can be conversational, yet the images linger. Rather than explaining an emotion completely, he often leaves enough unsaid for the listener to enter the song with his or her own memories.
That intimacy has helped his work survive enormous changes in the way Indians consume music — from radio and vinyl to cassettes, CDs, streaming platforms and short-form social media.
To describe Gulzar only as the poet of melancholy would, however, miss half the story.
The writer behind the aching introspection of Tujhse Naraz Nahin Zindagi is also the lyricist who could produce the earthy energy of Beedi, the infectious Kajra Re and the explosive rhythm of Dhan Te Nan.
That range is central to his longevity.
Gulzar never demanded that popular cinema adjust itself to accommodate his poetry. Instead, he repeatedly adjusted his language to cinema without surrendering its individuality. He could be philosophical without becoming inaccessible, romantic without becoming predictable and playful without becoming frivolous.
His collaborations consequently crossed generations of composers. From S.D. Burman and R.D. Burman to Vishal Bhardwaj and A.R. Rahman, Gulzar continued writing even as the grammar and sound of Hindi film music changed dramatically around him.
The partnership with R.D. Burman became particularly significant. Together, they produced songs that could be experimental, intimate and remarkably modern. Decades later, Gulzar's collaborations with Vishal Bhardwaj demonstrated that the same writer could inhabit the darker, more restless world of contemporary Hindi cinema.
Yet the songs represent only one part of Gulzar's creative life.
As a filmmaker, he directed works including Mere Apne, Koshish, Aandhi, Khushboo, Mausam, Kinara, Angoor, Lekin and Maachis. His cinema frequently examined relationships without reducing people to heroes and villains. Characters carried regrets, contradictions and unfinished conversations — qualities that also populate his poetry.
His television work included the acclaimed Mirza Ghalib, while his literary career encompasses poetry, short stories and translations. He is also credited with developing the three-line poetic form known as the Triveni.
This ability to move between mediums helps explain why calling him simply a lyricist feels inadequate. Gulzar's films supplied images to his literary imagination; his poetry sharpened his cinema; and music gave his words an audience far larger than conventional literature might have reached.
Recognition followed across decades.
Gulzar received the Sahitya Akademi Award, Padma Bhushan and Dadasaheb Phalke Award, among numerous honours. His international breakthrough came with Jai Ho from Slumdog Millionaire, written with music by A.R. Rahman. The song earned the Academy Award for Best Original Song and later a Grammy for Best Song Written for Visual Media.
The achievement was significant not merely because an Indian lyricist had reached the Oscar stage. It represented the remarkable distance travelled by a writer whose film journey had begun with Mora Gora Ang Lai Le in Bandini.
Yet awards alone cannot adequately measure Gulzar's influence.
The stronger evidence lies elsewhere — in songs continuing to be rediscovered decades after their release.
Gulzar's unusual achievement is that younger audiences do not necessarily encounter him as history.
Someone may discover Mera Kuchh Samaan through a playlist without having watched Ijaazat. Another may encounter Tere Bina Zindagi Se without knowing Aandhi. A listener introduced to Gulzar through Kajra Re, Beedi or Jai Ho can eventually travel backwards through decades of his work.
Digital culture has, paradoxically, strengthened that journey.
His writing is particularly suited to an age of fragments. Individual lines circulate independently of songs and films. They accompany photographs, heartbreak posts, wedding videos and late-night playlists. Words written for another character in another decade suddenly become personal again.
Perhaps that is because technology changes faster than emotion.
The circumstances of romance have changed enormously since Gulzar began writing for films. Letters became telephone calls, messages became texts and playlists replaced mixtapes. But waiting remains waiting. Absence still hurts. Memory continues to arrive without invitation.
Gulzar understood those emotions long before algorithms began recommending songs for them.
There is another reason his work endures. Gulzar rarely tells listeners precisely what they should feel.
His best writing leaves doors open.
A song about separation can become comforting years later. A romantic number can become painful after a relationship ends. A line understood one way at 20 may reveal something entirely different at 50.
That is the privilege of writing that outlives its immediate context.
At 92, Gulzar's legacy therefore cannot be contained by a catalogue of celebrated songs, major films or glittering awards. It exists in something harder to quantify: the extent to which his language has entered the emotional vocabulary of generations.
Films eventually leave theatres. Formats disappear. Musical fashions change.
But somewhere, someone presses play on an old Gulzar song and discovers that words written decades ago seem to know exactly what today feels like.
That may be the closest thing poetry has to immortality.