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‘I have seen time / Gathering in a contained space': Gulzar writes to Rumi, Pancham, and friends

Bosky My child has one more name, Bosky. Time. Not seen it coming, going or passing by Nor seen the face of dreams on earth But I have seen Time Gathering in a contained space. Perhaps it came soft-footed out of my dreams Not letting even my thoughts be aware of its coming The day I watched the sunrise in her eyes I kissed Time but failed to recognise it. I heard its footsteps in the lisping words Saw it too where the milk teeth fell Bosky, my daughter, delicate as a silk petal Lay wrapped in layers in her silken hammock I did not fathom that it was Time lying there. Lifting her from the cradle, when I placed her on the bed I touched her gently with a lullaby's soft words Trimmed each time her growing nails Bangles would unceasingly travel up and down wrists And books would climb into her hands and then slip down … I did not realise Time was written in them. I have not seen Time coming, going or passing by But I have seen it gathered in a place This year Bosky turns eighteen. Jagjit Singh: An Elegy A renowned singer. The spirit of the ghazal had settled in him like musk in the depths of a deer. I would often allude to him as Ghazaljit Singh. A happy-go-lucky man with a sunny temperament. My neighbour, whom I often shared my evenings with. A man with a lust for life. He was younger than me. But broke the queue and left early. A strange chill had arrived And settled like a lump in his heart He would set alight a kangri of ghazals and warm himself When he returned after lighting his son's pyre He skipped stones across the water Watched them like horses running. He would start to shiver in the cold And shroud himself in sunlight. I heard that when the snow fell yesterday on the mountains He opened his window and went to warm himself On the fire of a burning pyre, Pancham I cannot describe in four sentences, the personality on whom I could write an entire book. However much I may write, it will not suffice. There is light, but it glimmers low Perhaps because my eyes are ready to flow Musical relationships are not created thus There are seven notes, and one is Pancham Do you remember that rainy day, Pancham When in the valley below the mountains Peeping through the gentle mists The train tracks would go past. In the hazy mist we looked Like two plants sitting close together Long we would stay, sitting there Talking about that traveller Who was to arrive last evening, but Whose arrival was being constantly delayed. Long we sat along the train tracks Waiting for the train to come Neither the train, nor the time for it did come And you, taking two steps, stepping into the mist Left. I am alone sitting in the mist, Pancham. Sunil Da You know him as Sunil Gangopadhyay. I was familiar with his stories; then acquainted myself with his poems, and aft er that met with his novels. A very musically tuned soul, brimming with aff ection. Though he was the bigger person in every way, he never made me feel lesser than him. He read a lot… The book lies open face down, on the table Let it be … The book lies open, face down Let it be so … He fell asleep while reading. He moved to the bed and went to sleep. Though at daybreak, the sun did peep in, It even knocked on his window And the breeze entered to touch him with a caress, He did not awaken; nor did he turn on his side. His discourse continues in literature The book lies open, face down Let it remain so … If he should wake, he may like to continue From the same page, perhaps … Jalaluddin Rumi Rumi, to me, is an image made on a laser. Whatever is seen of him, as much remains invisible. Behind which an entire universe is visible. At times it feels as if he never existed. He was just a thought that time created. Or a love that acquired substance. Rising from the smouldering coal The flame of Sufi says Even when it is extinguished This fire continues to blaze. Since a generation past On a high ladder he stands steadfast Who knows what he speaks of The old man with body gone soft Lying heavy on his back Is a dense knot of hair Wrapping up the night He has folded it in tight. He chooses things from the earth Telling us that he knows The soil has come from the universe Carrying the salt of galaxies. Earthen plates and cups And bowls of kaansa made And countless bags of jute He keeps incessantly filling. A pinch of it he takes And throws into the air Whoever wants, can taste it Whoever cares, can take it. The soil has come from the universe, Carrying the salt of galaxies. He was speaking in my ear, Which I had dusted well to hear. My eyes welled and dribbled A cascade of water, tepid. Somewhat tired was he And a little bent For a generation past On the ladder he stands steadfast. Under the sky, the earth Has taken innumerable rounds, He stands fast, unmoving yet Is the old man a seer, a prophet? Or he in the Turkish cap we see Could he be Jalaluddin Rumi! Shakespeare (1564–1616) Depending on whether you are looking at old or new editions of his books, Shakespeare fits into both the old and the new. Check out an old edition, and he seems to belong to the 16th century. But look through a new edition and you feel, let's call him on the phone; he must still be there at Stratford. He offers up new adaptations continuously. Four hundred years after his time, I finally met him in the wings, one day. Shakespeare … Pull up the curtain Your actors are waiting All of them have donned their costumes And applied their make-up too. Everyone knows your lines by heart That despite the passing of four hundred years Life's conflicts remain the same, The same indecision, the confusion … To be … or not to be. Everyone is aware that the world is a stage And we are just actors. Even now, quietly within her house An innocent Juliet Leaning from her balcony, Continues to grapple with her Romeo And vainglorious Caesars, proud About their mode of governance Are felled by unforgiving scimitars Et tu Brute … the phrase Echoes across the senate. Your characters, Othello, Desdemona and Macbeth Of turmoils of heart and mind are yet To be freed. The third bell has sounded, The lights have come on Your actors are a-waiting, Shakespeare, Lift the curtain, pull it up.