Gulazāra. - Because He Is...

because he is...

meghna gulzar

for my dadi

Sujaan Kaur

whose face we dont know

contents

Let me say a few words about the author, after she has said a bookful about me. Its funny this little chit of a girl a drop of dew I ought to be helping her work out her life. Instead, she is working on my life, for a book!

It has been great fun bringing up this girl, Bosky. She has been the core of my entire existence since 13 December 1973, when she was born. I did everything to pamper and spoil her, but her mother was there to keep both of us disciplined! The growing up of a doting father and his growing-up daughter

I tried to provide her with a boundless childhood, which every child needs from his or her parents, be they poor or rich. It is not wealth or resources which make the difference, but attention, concern and time which one has to provide. I had plenty of time, for I had nothing better to do than what I was doing raising my child to be a good human being, a creative person and a loving soul.

I indulged all her friends who will find their names in the books that I wrote for Bosky, on every birthday of hers till she was thirteen. It was for all of them. Many of them have grown up at my house and I am happy that they are still around as her friends: Meeta, Zereh, Gulzar and Gudiya

Bosky learnt to write at a very early age. All children imitate their parents popping out her lower lip and holding her thinking pen, she would imitate me and scribble on a piece of paper. Chewing an end of her spectacles, she would pose over her book, like me She started rhyming words, which she learnt in school.

I was going in for a bath one day when she asked me for money, which I refused her. I came out of my bath and there was a letter on my table, properly signed by her:

I have a father,

Who gives me money.

Id hate him not rather

He loves me as honey.

I love my father too.

He polishes my shoe.

Hes sometimes sweet, sometimes funny.

But today I want money,

So away hes running.

Bhawana Somaaya published her first poem when she was only eight. (In the same year, she received her first marriage proposal, which was published in the same magazine.) Luckily for Govind, I did not pay heed to it. And fortunately, I waited till he arrived. Patience always pays, they say

She honed her other mediums of expression as she grew up, but writing came to her quite easily, or comfortably, I should say. She was in college when her poems got selected for the Indo-British Anthology of Poems I experienced a sense of fulfilment

Books have always been a passion with me. I can easily spend a few hours in a bookshop. Whenever I went to a bookshop, I always took her with me and let her choose her own storybooks. It was on one such occasion that she pleasantly surprised the shopkeeper and me by asking for a book by the authors name: Do you have a storybook of Hans Christian Andersen?

She was barely nine years old at the time

We were destined to share many books as she grew older. But I never thought that one day she would be writing a book on me. But here we are! At the outset, I thought it would be difficult to relate my own life to her I didnt want to impose my own perspectives on her. That would be a very subjective point of view. But how would she know my past, how could she have a point of view on it when she was not even born?

One thing we all fail to realize is that as they are growing up, our children observe and absorb so much about their parents, about us, that their truths about their parents, about us, could shock us

They know if we dont wash our hands before meals They know the language we use if we abuse our servants They know if we are at home and have conveyed a message on the phone saying that we have left They know we tell lies They instinctively know our relations with our friends and relatives. They know our hypocrisies

When Bosky started chatting with me on different issues, I knew that her questions arose because there was so much questionable about me

I made no pretence. I was honest and truthful and didnt hide anything. I admire her sense of discretion and her own judgement.

In fact, thats what makes a writer

I know Im protected

because his arms cradle me.

I know I walk the right path

because his little finger leads me.

He dabbles with celluloid

so I know I can see,

I know I can write

because his ink flows in me.

I know I can

because he believes,

I know I am

because he is ...

Meghna

I had taken this picture on the train from New York to Washington ... Ive always wondered what Papi was thinking about just then...

T he beginning, they say, is a good place to start. And my beginning about my fathers life begins at the start of my life since I wasnt an eyewitness to his beginning! It is a daunting task, to try and consolidate a persons life and times into words, especially if you have deep emotional bonds with him.

I have always been in awe of my father not in the negative sense of the term. Just that, he has always been not just a father to me but a continuous life experience, a silent pillar of strength and emotional support, a source of inspiration for my creative juices and a legacy that I will always try to live up to.

An objective account is almost impossible when the subject is so dear. Try I will. But if I fall short, what you will get is a very personal and emotional insight into the man the world knows as Gulzar.

Whom I call Papi...

My strongest memory of Papi is waking up to the sounds of his sitar. Hes always had a passion for music and the arts. He took up learning to play the sitar when I was about seven and he was in his forties. He always woke up early in the morning (and still does) before the sun came up! He says defeating the sun is a great way to start the day. Of course, he never disrupted my sleep in this belief. So I would wake up to the sounds of his sitar, as he played in his study, which was adjoining his bedroom. Whenever I stayed with Papi, I slept in his bedroom with him, for the most part of my childhood, even though I had my own room. I remember waking up and going to him. Then Id rest my head on his knee and fall asleep again, while he played. Id eventually have to wake up to get ready for school.