An Ode to Gulzar
His voice, a monsoon dusk, rains softly
Each syllable a balm, unhurried, born of quiet fire.
A sage of the temple of silences,
his visage in white whispers cotton prayers to forgotten winds.
Each word, a sajda, a pause between two aching verses
Words trail him like jasmine – fragrant, unspent,
He gathers time’s dust, turns it into lament.
He wears memory gently, not as Christ’s cross.
In his tongue, even sorrow seeks to sing –
A godless guru, a sacred reckoning.
Shantanu Ray Chaudhuri 