Baba baithe pustak likhte rehte hai khud hi Kya likhte hai mere toh kuch palle nahi parta Usdin parke suna rahe the tumko Ma Ma sach kehna kya kuch samjhi tum Yeh sab likhne se aakhir kya milna hai Kitni achhi achhi kahaniya roj sunati ho Waisa kuch kyun likhte nahi Baba Dadima ne Baba ko kya rajawali koi kahani kabhie nahi sunayi Ya woh sare bhul gaye…
You can’t help but smile every time you watch the YouTube video of
Gulzar reciting these lines.
A rich baritone complements the sensitive ink of a master translator as he carefully reconstructs the image of a child whose curious innocence had touched readers many years ago, when Tagore’s ‘Shishu’ had been published. Here, nearly nothing has been lost in translation: no image has been changed, no line deleted. It’s just a humble effort to express the essence of the poems in Hindi, so that Tagore could be taught in places where Bengali isn’t widely practised. There is an unmistakable glint in Gulzar’s eyes every time he talks Tagore. His mind races back to the days in Delhi, when he was first introduced to the poet’s works. “Those were the days of the Partition. There were roadside khokas (shacks) that were built by refugees from Punjab. It was one of those refugees who had given me a Tagore book,” he says. The book was Tagore’s ‘The Gardener’. And it shaped Gulzar’s literary interests and contributed to his urge in reading other Bengali authors. In fact, he fell so much in love with the profundity of Tagore’s writing that he never returned it to the shop-owner. That was, he recounts, also the first instance that he actually stole a book. Smiling, he confesses that it led to many more. “Stealing would mean taking it away and keeping it with me,” he admits. “After that, I stole many more, including Bengali books. I remember stealing a book from (actor) Abhi Bhattacharya’s house. While reading it, I found the story ‘Jatugriha’ in it. I liked it very much, and I told him: ‘Abhi-da, I like it so much that I need to keep it with me. I need to translate it’. I wrote a screenplay on it and later made a film called ‘Ijazzat’. It was based on a story by Subodh-da (Subodh Ghosh).” Even filmmaker Bimal Roy was at the receiving end of Gulzar’s passion for books. No, it wasn’t Tagore, but a Premendra Mitra novel, called ‘Agamikaal’. “Bimal-da had a collection of books. I had seen this book and asked him whether he had read it. In typical fashion, he replied ‘Hmmm’, which meant yes.” Gulzar recalls how he went on a “cleaning spree” of Roy’s bookshelf and how he neatly took the book away. From that episode of ‘stealing’ one Tagore, he narrates how he ‘snatched’ away Subhas Mukhopadhyay’s works from his friends, including Debu Sen and Basu Bhattacharya. “I would just snatch those books from friends. In return, I would promise to give them some other new book. I had translated Subhas Mukhopadhyay in the Sixties and Seventies!” Four years, multiple drafts and Gulzar’s blood, sweat and tears gave shape to his Tagore translations. It wasn’t an easy task… particularly because Tagore’s own English translations didn’t particularly impress him. That’s why he always made it a point to go to Tagore’s works in the original. But didn’t he ever wonder why Tagore’s own English translations didn’t quite match up to the originals? “Tagore is such a huge author. You can’t gauge him by his English translations,” he says. “He did injustice to his Bangla poems (in the translations). He was the author, so nobody could question him when he took to translating his works the way he wanted to. Being a creative person, he sometimes came up with new images. Sometimes, he would edit the originals. But nobody questioned him.” Often, creative outbursts led Tagore to pen twin versions of his poems. “You read the poem in Bangla, and you will find that while translating it in English, he has done a twin version,” Gulzar points out. Now, Gulzar hopes that two volumes of his own translations will be published very soon. “I gave my sweat and blood, my devotion and faith. I am in touch with a corporate body. They may also like to publish it,” he says. The ecstasy over accomplishing this tough task is, however, tempered by thoughts of how those with no access to the original works often start to believe that they “know Tagore” just by reading ‘Gitanjali’. “‘Gitanjali’ gives only a glimpse of Tagore’s works,” Gulzar points out. “His high was much more than ‘Gitanjali’. Yet, there are many non-Bengali readers who have not read beyond ‘Gitanjali’. They believe ‘Gitanjali’ to be Tagore’s limit.” And that brings up the rather sensitive issue of how “Visva-Bharati never allowed Tagore to go out”. “People outside Bengal couldn’t reach or read Tagore because ‘Gitanjali’ was his only work available in translation. Visva-Bharati and most Bengalis were so possessive about Tagore that non-Bengalis like me had to convert myself to a Bengali to read him.” Fully aware that the issue of conversion could raise other questions, he is quick to issue a clarification. “It was much like converting my religion. I converted myself from a Punjabi to a Bengali and read Tagore. My point was: ‘Okay, abhi kya kar loge? Now I have read Bangla. Now I am a shisya of Bimal Roy. I write for Salil Chowdhury. And I will marry a Bengali woman. Now, I am a Bengali. You can’t stop me from reading Tagore’.” Had the most zealously guarded copyright stranglehold not existed for so long, Gulzar is sure that by now, Tagore would have been widely taught in schools across India. The angst is clear in his voice, the tinge of sadness evident, as he says, “Tagore isn’t a regional poet. Only a region doesn’t let him go out.” Now, translators no longer have to submit their works to Visva-Bharati for checking. “You see how translations of his works are blossoming in every language? Look at the beautiful editions that have come out. Four huge volumes of his paintings have come out.” He next draws attention to Jyoti Basu, specifically how the former chief minister had proactively ensured a 10-year extension to the Tagore copyright, which would otherwise have lapsed 50 years after the death of the Nobel laureate in 1941. In 1991, the then Visva-Bharati vice-chancellor appealed to the then Prime Minister and chancellor, P V Narasimha Rao, for the copyright extension. It was Basu who finally convinced Rao to promulgate an ordinance that extended the copyright. “Had Jyoti babu not insisted on those 10 years, we would have got Tagore liberated 10 years earlier. The copyright was extended from 50 to 60 years. Had that not happened, by now Tagore would have been taught in every language in our schools.” Now that copyright isn’t an impediment, how many years will it take to make this dream come true? “Whose dream are you talking about?” he shoots back. Tell him it is a collective dream of sorts, and he says: “It is my dream. I am very possessive. I am more possessive about Tagore than Bengalis.” The conversation veers towards the play ‘Sunte Ho’, Gulzar’s adaptation of Tagore’s ‘Streer Patra’. “Salim Arif has directed it. One should watch it. I think I have done the best version of ‘Streer Patra’ on stage,” he says, displaying an infectious exuberance. The epistolary short story narrates the tale of Mrinal, who writes a letter to her husband for the first time after 15 years of marriage. Through this story, Tagore touched upon various vices in society and how Mrinal had to suffer because of her intelligence. ‘Sunte Ho’ has been staged at Delhi’s Siri Fort, Mumbai’s Prithvi Theatre, Goa and Pune. And why hasn’t Kolkata watched it yet? “Somebody has to invite the unit. I am waiting for someone to do that,” he says, optimistically. Gulzar is also very excited at the prospect of receiving a DLitt (honoris causa) from Rabindra Bharati on Friday, which in some parts of India is being celebrated as Tagore’s birthday. “A DLitt being conferred on me on such a special day! Can you imagine how proud and satisfied I feel? Gurudev gives me a degree on such a special day. It’s a different high altogether,” his 80-year-old voice quivers with childlike enthusiasm. Is there any Tagore work that he wants to adapt for the big screen? The grapevine has it that many, including Ramanand Sagar, couldn’t adapt a Tagore work even though they had wanted to. Gulzar, however, answers the question differently. “Why does everything have to land up in films? I have adapted Tagore for the stage. I have done it in books. I am doing it in music, too. Shantanu Moitra is working on Tagore’s songs; he is doing a wonderful job. Shaan and Shreya (Ghoshal) are part of the album.” As the conversation draws to an end, one wonders whether there’s any particular Tagore work that he goes back to, whenever he is happy, or maybe a song he listens to when he is feeling inspired? “Tagore is part of my conviction and faith. It is not one day or one moment. It is a process I live with.” And, in extension, live by and stay alive too.
