Gulzar’s Khusboo is a poignant cinematic journey through memory, grief, and poetic storytelling—where emotional subtlety, lyrical music, and literary depth converge to create an unforgettable classic of Indian cinema. Satyabrata Ghosh revisits the classic…

Gulzar’s Khusboo (1975) remains a timeless gem of Indian cinema, blending poetic storytelling, nuanced performances, and evocative music by R.D. Burman. Adapted from Saratchandra Chattopadhyay’s Bengali novel Pandit Moshai, the film explores themes of love, loss, memory, and emotional resilience against the backdrop of a rural epidemic. Featuring powerful roles by Jeetendra and Sharmila Tagore, Khushboo is a tribute to Bimal Roy’s legacy and Gulzar’s signature cinematic style—lyrical, reflective, and rooted in human emotion. With unforgettable songs like “O Majhi Re,” the film remains a benchmark for meaningful storytelling and refined aesthetics in Bollywood history.

Calling an associate for help while on duty is as ordinary as logging in or out. But to discover, and then recall a moment later, that they are no more is beyond words. One of my former students, now a practicing doctor for more than four years, recently shared an experience from the early days of COVID-19: “Sir, I loudly called out to Susanta to inject the Remdesivir so I could attend to the next patient. There was no response. I turned back angrily and then... and then it registered that Susanta had succumbed to the virus a week ago. I reprimanded myself—but I made the same 'mistake' again that day. That’s the horrible memory I still carry from the pandemic."

For a few seconds, I was numbed. My mind flooded with memories of dear ones who are no more. That night, while walking down a lonely street, a scene from Gulzar's Khushboo (1975) appeared vividly. Vrindavan (Jeetendra), treating a plague patient, calls out to Birjoo (Dev Kishan), his compounder. Then, he recalls Birjoo had died days ago. Turning to the camera, he mutters, “What had happened to me?”  

Music and Memory in Khusboo

Prior to that moment of recall, Khushboo had occupied a special place in my memory for its eloquent songs by Gulzar and R.D. Burman. A standout moment was showcased in Brahmanand S. Singh’s documentary Pancham Unmixed (2008), where composer Shantanu Moitra illustrates how R.D. Burman replaced the traditional dugdugi with guitar strumming in the iconic Kishore Kumar song “O Majhi Re.”

That insight rekindled my love for the song, and I played it on a loop. But as I walked, I realized: removing a film song from its narrative context is like plucking a fresh flower from its garden—it withers, and no perfume can recreate its original fragrance.

Revisiting Khushboo after a long time was rejuvenating. I’ve always been drawn to films that deliver emotional revelations I could never experience in real life. As a young cinephile, Gulzar’s films inspired me to make cinema that was calm, dignified, and nuanced—never rushing the adrenaline. From his debut Mere Apne (1971), he depicted youthful restlessness in a parallel track to the emerging 'angry young man' archetype. Later, in Maachis (1996), his gang from Mere Apne was reborn to articulate his anger over Punjab’s tragedy post-Indira Gandhi’s assassination.

Achanak (1973) was an initiation into a new cinematic language. With sparse flashbacks, Gulzar avoided graphic violence yet captured the pathos of betrayal and the inner conflict of a trained soldier. To narrate a revenge story with poetic elegance was daring, especially in a film culture impatient for catharsis. Today, such treatment might not survive in the multiplex era, where popcorn and spectacle rule.   

Jeetendra: Gulzar's Understated Hero

Jeetendra, unlike many film stars, surrendered himself wholly to Gulzar’s vision. In the trio of Parichay (1972), Khushboo (1975), and Kinara (1977), he portrayed human vulnerability with a rare grace. These films highlighted strong female characters, and Jeetendra, far from being emasculated, appeared almost as Gulzar’s alter ego. In Kinara, for instance, he plays a guilt-ridden man responsible for a dancer’s (Hema Malini) loss. His quiet dignity and Gulzar’s poetic vision merged seamlessly.

Parichay, inspired by The Sound of Music (1965) and the Bengali Jay Jayanti (1971), presented Jeetendra not with bravado but gentle charisma. Gulzar's challenge was to transpose the feminine empathy of Julie Andrews or Aparna Sen into a male character. Jeetendra passed the test, offering shades of patience and uprightness reminiscent of Abhi Bhattacharya in Jagriti (1954).

Musical Alchemy: Gulzar and R.D. Burman

Parichay also marked the deep creative partnership between Gulzar and R.D. Burman. Although Burman found Gulzar’s lyrical metre difficult, he embraced the challenge, producing unforgettable tunes. Parichay's “Sa Re Ke Saare Gama Ko Lekar Gaate Chale” remains etched in our childhood memories.

Both Khushboo and Mausam (1975) starred Sharmila Tagore. While Khushboo released in May and Mausam in December, watching the former recently reminded me of Tagore’s powerful performance as Chanda in the latter. In Mausam, Chanda’s journey from cynicism to discovering paternal love is deeply affecting. In Khushboo, she appears briefly as Lakhi, embodying fear and inner strength—a precursor to Shabana Azmi’s haunting presence in Mrinal Sen’s Khandhar (1984).  

The Literary Roots: From Panditmoshai to Khusboo

Gulzar adapted Saratchandra Chattopadhyay’s 1914 novel Pandit Moshai, which chronicles a tender love evolving into spiritual devotion amidst an epidemic in Bengal. The novel charts Vrindavan and Kusum’s love across sectarian divides, misunderstandings, and emotional maturity. Gulzar retained the plot but replaced the sectarian rift with feudal conflict and set the backdrop against the Cholera, making Vrindavan a doctor, thus allowing the story to engage directly with death and disease.

Beginning his career under Bimal Roy, Gulzar inherited a cinematic language that fused social relevance with lyrical elegance. In Khushboo, we see this legacy unfold. The hero, torn between his mother (Durga Khote) and his love Kusum (Hema Malini), is not an action figure but a man wrestling with inner dilemmas. The film stands as Gulzar’s homage to Roy's tradition, where song, image, and story merge delicately.  

The Musical Dispute: Two Versions of a Song

Despite his camaraderie with R.D. Burman, they clashed during Khushboo. One dispute was over the song “Do Nayanon Mein Aansoo Bhare Hain.” Burman recorded it with rich orchestration, hoping for a chartbuster. Gulzar objected: in a quiet night scene, such grandeur was unrealistic. He convinced Lata Mangeshkar to re-record it with a single chord. The result: two versions exist—a subdued one for the film and a grander vinyl mix for commercial release.

What captures the rawest audience reaction? A Bengali filmmaker recently suggested: it is in the moment when the screen fades to black and emotions swell before words form. That’s precisely what I felt after finishing Khushboo on YouTube. A suffocating sense of loss gripped me. The fragrance of Khushboo still lingers, a bittersweet reminder of a school of filmmaking that walked hand-in-hand with its narrative’s soul.