At 91, Gulzar has outlived at least two versions of the city: the one that destiny deposited him into in 1950, and the one he continues to observe and absorb. 'Aamchi Mumbai', his new collection of 36 poems and 25 stories, is not an attempt to explain Mumbai in 2026 but to preserve the city that lives inside him, populated by migrants, mill workers, eccentrics, and survivors. Speaking to Mohua Das, he reflects on why poetry is his way of making sense of the world.
Memories of a Changing City
Gulzar recalls the Bombay of mills, with smoke rising from chimneys, an industrial city known for textiles. He remembers buses where no passenger was allowed to stand, progressive labour unions, and workers' movements led by leaders like Shripad Dange. He says, 'Mazdoor gareeb zaroor the, par us gareebi mein bhi ek izzat thi. Usme sharmindagi nahin thi.' (The workers may have been poor, but there was dignity in that poverty. There was no shame in it.) He recalls attending Progressive Writers' Association meetings at Charni Road with figures like Sardar Jafri, Rajindra Singh Bedi, Krishan Chander, and Sahir Sahab. After meetings, younger writers would continue discussions on the upper deck of a tram to Dadar, with conductors and passengers listening and participating. That culture is gone now.
Nostalgia Without Resistance
In poems like 'These Were All Villages, Once!', 'Sealink', 'Haji Ali', and 'Skyline', there is nostalgia but not necessarily resistance to change. Gulzar notes that Mumbai has retained its progressive outlook. Earlier, dreaming bigger often passed through Bombay; even today, Mumbai looks outward and pushes people from national to international. The skyline has changed completely: Mira-Bhayandar, Borivali, and Bhandup, once jungles, have become mini Mumbais. Tall buildings stand where palm trees and open views existed. Yet some changes are beautiful: Haji Ali, once trapped within the city, now from the flyover during high tide looks like a gem.
Keeping a Street-Level View
Gulzar views the city from street level, sometimes below it: beggars at traffic signals, life on footpaths, chawls, scavengers. He advises, 'Keep your antennas open, and the city will nourish you and keep you informed.' If he spends the whole day at home and goes out in the evening to look for life, he is finished as a writer. Life is not displayed in a showroom; it touches you every moment. This applies not only to writers but to painters, musicians, actors, and performers.
Deliberate Choice of Content
Gulzar finds little of the glitzy or corporate side of Mumbai in the collection, calling it a matter of temperament. He shares a story about a boy who draws his own chalk outline every night like police around dead bodies, lies down inside it, and rolls out every morning saying, 'See, I survived again today.' That sense of humour fascinates him. He says, 'You must see the zinda (living) part of the city.' People ask why the footpath appears so often in his poems and stories. His association with it is direct, not imagined, but it is neither something to boast about nor turn into a tragedy. The struggle is not that you slept on a footpath; the struggle is how you lived through it. A man who lost a leg may limp and clean taxis, but he still laughs and lives. Don't count him out.
What Poetry Values
Poetry has been at the heart of Gulzar's writings: ghazals, nazms, film lyrics, experiments with tanka, and presenting poets across borders. He looks for a live moment in a poem. He is working on a show about the environment, but environment is not about saying how dirty things have become. How do you make people aware of trees? Of leaves? His next book, 'Spinning the Moments', includes a poem 'Ek akela patta' where a tree is half submerged in flood water, but one lone leaf whispers to it, 'Darna mat, main hoon na'. His heart goes out to that moment. That is what makes a poem.
Translation and Sharing
Most of Gulzar's books, including 'Aamchi Mumbai', are bilingual, but much of his writing lies in wordplay and nuances. A young man from Kerala once wrote to him asking if he could publish a Malayalam version of 'Suspected Poems' that his father had translated while in jail during a communist movement. Gulzar liked the gesture and agreed. Later, the man came with the book. That act of sharing is wonderful.
Understanding the City and Self
Gulzar describes Mumbai as a lifelong partner who has admonished, beaten, and scared him, but never dropped him from its lap. He says, 'Bombay is like the eldest brother in a family who takes care of the younger ones.' When he writes, 'Yeh shehar woh nahin jahan main 60 saal pehle aaya tha' (This is not the city where I arrived 60 years ago), the city replies: 'Yeh sab theek hai, par tum bhi woh nahin jo 60 saal pehle aaye the.' (All that may be true, but you are not the same person who arrived here 60 years ago either.) It is because of us that the city changes, and because of the city that we change. The migrating population that comes every day and goes back leaves its impressions. The city learns from them and makes space for them.
