This is not going to be a good review. There is no Indian person worth their salt, with a love for words, imagery, beauty, and poetry that has not heard of Gulzar. I received this book by chance. It came as part of a pay it forward book initiative - and I was open to the idea of something new. This was new.
I’d heard so much about the lyrical beauty of Gulzar’s poetry that I was assured this book was going to swim over me. It did not. It instead clanged like saucepans in a windy kitchen, insisting it be read and found profound.
Translations are always a tricky business. And Urdu as a language is throaty and deep, seductive and resonant. The English version has butchered the words of Gulzar. What I read has traces of sublimity and you can catch a whiff of what the poet intended. If you come to the table without any bias, you can call this book of verse vapid and sorely lacking in depth.
It’s true, I surprise myself as I write this review. I wonder if I have been impatient, harboured unreasonable expectations, or simply did not let myself be taken under by the intoxicant nature of poetry. But I cannot deny the abject nothingness and indifference I felt for this book. If I wish for one thing, it is to know how to read Hindi.