Title: Eka Naukar Jatri/ Journey of a Lonesome Boat
Author: Nabendu Ghosh, translated by Ratnottama Sengupta
Publisher: Dey’s Publishing
Nabendu Ghosh writes of the time when two directors had wanted to film his novel – but why it was not made…
Putul Nacher Itikatha[1] did not prove to be a hit but those with any understanding of screenplay all said, “Nabendu Ghosh did a great job.”
I got the proof of this soon enough. One morning, around 11, Jahar Roy showed up on the first floor of my rented flat on Mahanirban Road.
“Nabenduda, Udayer Pathe[2]beckons.”
“Who?”
Jahar sang out, “Bimal Roy, the Director of Udayer Pathey! He was all praises for one of your writings. So I offered to escort you — and introduce you if he so wished. He said, ‘He is a creative talent, I’d surely likely to meet him.’ Forthwith I set out on this venture.”
I was stunned. Overwhelmed. My experience of the craze in Rajsahi – when the police had to lathi charge on the crowds that thronged the theatre where Udayer Pathey had released — flashed through my mind. I recalled my deep seated desire to work with him.
At this point Kanaklata stepped into the room. Jahar sprung forward and despite her vehement protest he bowed to the ground and touched her feet. “Boudi,” he spoke to her, “renowned director Bimal Roy has expressed his wish to meet Nabenduda. I’m here to escort him.”
“Sure, after you’ve tasted some sweetmeat and had a drink of water. The fish curry rice can wait for you to come back for lunch.”
“Thy wished is my command Boudi!” Jahar bowed again.
*
Bimal Roy lived on Sardar Shankar Road in South Calcutta. Tall, fair complexioned, attractive looking with a commanding presence, Bimal Roy was a heavy smoker.
After a while of polite conversation he said, “I’ve read your Daak Diye Jaai [3]and Phears Lane. As an admirer of your writing I can say that it has all the essentials of a screenplay.”
This observation brought me alive to a latent aspect of my writing. I kind of rediscovered myself. Gratefully I thanked him.
“Why don’t you narrate a story that can be made into a film?” he said. “Something new, different, and arresting,” he added.
So I narrated the storyline of my new novel, Ajab Nagarer Kahini (Tales of a Curious Land). It was an allegorical story about contemporary civilisation, about the state, and about love too. His face lit up as he listened to the story. He sat still for a couple of minutes. When I stopped, I waited eagerly for his response. Tense.
“I liked the story very much,” Bimal Roy pronounced. “It’s a peerless but relatable and captivating emblematic story. But there’s a slight problem. Mr B N Sircar, the proprietor of New Theatres must hear the story. I firmly believe he will also like it. But right now he is not in Calcutta. Just a few days ago he left for Europe. He will be back after two months. So you will have to wait this while.”
“I will wait,” I replied, earnestly.
*
Two months went by.
One day Mrinal Sen came over.
“Welcome Mrinal Babu, do come in.” Soon as he sat down Mrinal excitedly said, “I’ve got a producer. I’ll direct a film – so I need a good story.”
I narrated two stories, of which Mrinal liked one. Then, after some random conversation I spilled out that “Bimal Roy of Udayer Pathe fame has selected a story of mine.” Mrinal was naturally curious and I had to narrate the storyline to him as well.
The minute I stopped the narration Mrinal clasped my hand, “Give this story to me.”
“But Bimal Roy…” I started out but before I could finish the sentence Mrinal said,“Ritwik [Ghatak] and Hrishikesh [Mukherjee] will both be working with me.”
“Who’s Hrishikesh?”
“He is a well-known assistant in the Editing department of New Theatres. Very intelligent.”
“I cannot give you the story without having a word with Bimal Roy,” I told Mrinal. Mr Sircar will be back in a matter of days.”
Mrinal left for the day.
*
I met Bimal Roy the very next day. He informed me that Mr Sircar’s return had been delayed, it will be some more weeks before he returns.
But more than a fortnight went by and I did not hear from Bimal Roy. Besides, I was facing financial hardship. I needed money to keep the kitchen fire going.
Suddenly Mrinal showed up again. “I must have that story Nabendu Babu,” he said and shoved 500/- rupees in my hand.
I ended up saying ‘Yes’ to Mrinal Sen.
Two days later we signed an agreement.
On the third day a postcard landed in my flat. Bimal Roy was writing to say that, “Mr Sircar is back from Europe. He has also liked the story idea of Ajab Nagarer Kahini. Come over right away, we must meet Mr Sircar to sign the contract with him.”
The next morning I went to his house and told Bimal Roy about Mrinal Sen. The solemn gentleman turned grave.
I sat still with bowed head.
The Shubh Mahurat, two months later spelt the ‘auspicious commencement’ of the film. The lead character of Arindam was to be played by Sambhu Mitra, the famous theatre personality who is still revered as an actor, director, playwright, and reciter. In Technicians Studio, the clapstick was sounded on a shot of him by the eminent actor of Bengali theatre and screen ‘Maharshi’, whose name was Monoranjan Bhattacharya. But why was he called ‘Maharshi’? Because the very first role he essayed was of Maharshi Balmiki in Sita produced and acted by Sisir Kumar Bhaduri[4]. His Ramchandra was an amazing portrayal of Lord Rama. So long back he had portrayed the author of Ramayan, yet that remained his calling card in popular imagination, for decades. Why? Because he was a stalwart as far as his wisdom and character was concerned too.
Mahurat, yes, but that initial instalment of Rs 501 was not followed up by another. So what if an agreement was drawn up and signed!
“Oh sir!” I complained to Mrinal Sen, “I need…”
“Yes, he will give,” Mrinal assured me, “in a few days you will get the second instalment. I have spoken with him.”
Six months later Mrinal himself told me, “This producer does not have any fund. You better send him a notice.”
So I sent him a notice – to the effect that unless you clear all my dues within 15 days, then the agreement will stand cancelled. Null and void. The producer did not bother to grace me with a reply. So legally the rights to the story was now mine again.
*
Forthwith I visited Bimal Roy again.
“Come, come Nabendu Babu…”
His gracious welcome was encouraging. I said, “It’s been a while since I was here. So, what’s keeping you busy?”
Bimal Roy smiled, “Your story was not available, so I am currently shooting a film about Netaji’s INA.”
“Who is the author?”
” Nazir Hussain, a gentleman who was formerly with INA.”
“Excellent,” I said. Then I murmured in a low voice, “Necessity obfuscates clarity of thought. That’s what happened with me Mr Roy. But my story is back with me now. Those who had acquired the right did not have the wherewithal to film it.”
“Let me complete this film,” Bimal Roy said, “I will speak with Mr Sircar after that. I’ll be happy if we can film your story.”
I drank up the tea, greeted him with folded hands and came away.
*
Then I went through a difficult phase. To put it bluntly, I was in dire need of money. Here’s why.
Literature was my main occupation. However, writing the scripts for Putul Nacher Itikatha and Swarna Sita[5]had spelt a certain prosperity and made life easier. But both literature and cinema was dealt a blow by the political development of 1947.
I think of the Partition as a national curse. I still think so. The direct impact of that was I was alienated from my birthplace, Dhaka, which had become East Pakistan. I still had a link – Bengali Literature and Bengali Cinema. But Pakistan was Pakistan, be it East or West. So the Pak mind thinks differently – rather, quite the opposite. Iconic dramatist Dwijendralal Roy’s classic play Shahjahan had a scene revolving around Danishmand, a celebrated figure from Persia who came to India and was the court jester during Aurangzeb’s rule. Then, he went by the name of Dildar. In the aforementioned scene he discussed the Hindus and Muslims and commented that “These two communities will remain opposites. One prays facing East, the other faces West; one writes from left to right, the other from right to left. One wears a pleated dhoti, the other wears the unpleated lungi. One has a pig tail at the back of his head; the other nurses nur, a tuft of hair on his chin.”
I recalled the scene in the fading days of 1948 when the government of East Pakistan dealt a blow to Bengali language and films by declaring Urdu as the national language of Pakistan at the cost of Bengali, the language of the people’s heart.
In fact, those deciding the fate of the people from distant Islamabad mandated that Bengali too should be written in the Arabic script. What is more, to destroy every emotive link between Bengalis on either side of the divide, Bengali books and Bengali movies were banned in East Pakistan. As a result, once again the middle class and upper class Hindus started deserting their home and hearth and crossing the borders even to live as refugees in West Bengal.
This dealt a massive blow to the commerce of publishing and cinema.
I had just completed a short novel; I started doing the rounds of publishers to try my luck with it. My household was crying out for money to keep the kitchen fire alive.
I went over to Bengal Publishers. Manoj Da said, “I will definitely publish this Nabendu but after two-three months. The market is stymied right now.”
Sachin Babu of Baak Sahitya also said the same thing in polite words.
I walked over to Cornwallis Street and into the office of D M Library. Gopal Das Majumdar warmly welcomed me and treated me to tea and sandesh[6]. Then he said, “You leave the manuscript with me. I will most certainly publish it but not right away. The market is reeling under this attack by Pakistan. Just wait for a couple of months. Meanwhile here’s an advance for you.”
That’s what I did eventually. That novel was titled Nahe Phoolhaar[7].
Meanwhile, since Gana Natya Sangha, the radical theatre group or People’s Theatre Association that attempted to bring social and political theatre to rural villages in the 1930s and 1940s, was banned by the West Bengal government. Bijon Bhattacharya, the famed dramatist of the classic Nabanna (1944), and other major members founded another organisation named Natyachakra. On its very first night of performance Neel Darpan[8], written by Dinabandhu Mitra in 1858-1859 and pivotal to the Indigo Revolt of 1859, raised a storm amongst the theatre lovers. We the members of Natyachakra were inspired by that.
*
Almost a year had passed by. One day I was visiting my friend Santosh Kumar Ghosh in Bhowanipore. One of the majors in the editorial department of the newspaper, Ananda Bazar Patrika, who was acclaimed as the author of Kinu Gowalar Gali, this friend of mine lived on the first floor of a house opposite Bijoli Cinema. On this visit I noticed that Bijoli was showing Pahela Aadmi[9].
I glanced at my wrist watch — 5.30 pm. “I feel like watching a movie,” I told Santosh Babu. “Care to join me?”
“Which film?”
“That one playing in Bijoli – Bimal Roy’s latest creation. The evening show starts at 6 pm.”
“I’m game for it,” Santosh Kumar said in English. “Let’s go.”
Right away the two of us friends made our way to the balcony of Bijoli Cinema.
Some of the scenes of Azad Hind Fauj [10] excited us and made us feel proud. The structuring of the story and direction made me salute Bimal Roy once more. “Jai Hind[11],” I said to myself in his honour. Santosh Ghosh also highly praised the film. ‘’This gentleman Bimal Roy is a rare talent – and this film once again proves that. Well done.”
As soon as I reached home I told Kanaklata about Pahela Aadmi. She was happy and unhappy, “Such a nice film but I didn’t get to see it.”
“I will take you to watch the film – it is worth a second viewing.”
Next morning at 9 am, I told Kanaklata, “I need to buy some writing paper, I’ll just be back from the market.” But I did not go to the market. I headed straight for Sardar Sankar Road, to Bimal Roy’s residence.
“Come Nabendu Babu, step inside.” Bimal Roy was, as before, holding a cigarette between his fore fingers.
“I watched Pahela Admi yesterday,” I started the conversation.
“In which theatre?” he asked, smiling. “Bijoli. And with me was Santosh Kumar Ghosh of Ananda Bazaar Patrika.”
“Kinu Gowalar Gali[12]?”
“Yes Sir. Both of us liked the film very much. It’s very courageous. To make a film concerning INA[13] calls for a lot of courage. We congratulate both New Theatres and you Sir.”
“Thank you,” he replied with a smile. Then he called out, directing his voice inward, “Two cups of tea here, please.”
“Yes, I will send…” a lady’s voice replied. Then he puffed his cigarette in silence. After a few seconds I mumbled what I had actually come for, “Now that Pahela Aadmi has released, will you consider my story?”
“No,” Bimal Roy looked straight at me and shook his head. “And I am sorry to say this. Because I am leaving New Theatres to go to Bombay. There, no one will value your story the way Bengali cinema would. Besides, I am going to Bombay to make a Hindi film for Bombay Talkies.”
He fell silent. And I felt darkness descend around me.
Bimal Roy had not finished. He took a puff off his cigarette and then spoke again, “Himangshu Rai’s wife Devika Rani has sold all the rights over Bombay Talkies and left. At present thespian Ashok Kumar is the owner of the Bombay Talkies. He has invited me to make a film.”
“Waah!” I was overwhelmed on hearing the name, Ashok Kumar.
Bimal Roy went on speaking, “Bombay is at the other end of India. The demands of the Hindi film world are quite different, so there is a risk involved in this. Besides, the financial condition of Bombay Talkies is not robust at the moment. If I cannot make a film that is both good and successful, then…” his voice trailed off.
Silently I started pondering over what options I had before me.
A maid brought tea and biscuits for us. “Have the tea,” Bimal Roy’s voice cut into my thoughts. I kept thinking even as I downed the tea, “What now? Pakistan has as good as killed the markets for both, books and films. Everything was uncertain at the moment. I had no option but to send off Kanaklata and our four year old son to live with her parents in Malda.”
“Nabendu Babu,” Bimal Roy’s voice floated into my ears. I looked at him. He smiled a bit as he said, “My chief assistant Asit Sen is going with me and so is Hrishikesh Mukherjee as the editor in my team. Can you join us as our screenplay writer?”
‘Ayn!’ Surprised, I looked at him with renewed attention. “Are you asking me to go to Bombay with you?” I sought to clarify my own thoughts perhaps. “Yes. Screenplay writing is a very serious part of filmmaking. Not everybody can become a screenplay writer. Along with the ability to wield the pen the person must also possess a sound sense of drama. You have that.”
Am I dreaming! Was I dreaming?! After watching Udayer Pathe in Rajsahi I had secretly desired to work with that film’s director. God seemed to have heard me then and was all set to fulfil that desire.
“I will be happy to do so, Mr Roy,” I replied, gratitude overflowing in my voice.
“Our future is uncertain, let me caution you Nabendu Babu. You will have to treat it as an adventure. And, another thing: Asit, Hrishi, all these guys will go alone for now, leaving their families here.”
“So will I Mr Roy,” I stressed. “I will go with you to Bombay — ”
[1] Bengali movie, translation: The Puppet’s Tale
[3] The Clarion Call
[2] 1944 Bengali movie, translation: Towards the Light
[4] Pioneer of Bengali theatre, 1889-1959
[5] Golden Sita
[6] Sweet
[7] Not a Garland of Flowers
[8] Indigo Mirror
[9] Bollywood movie, The First Man
[10] Netaji Subhash Chandra Bose’s army, Indian National Army
[11] Hail India
[12] A novel by Santosh Ghosh published in 1950, Translation: Kinu Milkman’s Lane
[13] Indian National Army
About the Book: Published in 2008, this is the autobiography of the legendary screenplay writer and Bengali litterateur, Nabendu Ghosh. Spanning through Pre-Partition India to the modern times, it is both a political and an artistic commentary of his times.
About the author: Nabendu Ghosh was born 27 March 1917 in Dhaka (now in Bangladesh). At the age of 12 he became a popular actor on stage. As an acclaimed dancer in Uday Shankar style, he won several medals between 1939 and 1945. Ghosh lost a government job in 1944 for writing Dak Diye Jaai, set against the Quit India Movement launched by Indian National Congress. The novel catapulted him to fame and he moved to Calcutta in 1945. He soon ranked among the most progressive young writers in Bengali literature.
Nabendu Ghosh has written on all historical upheavals of 1940s – famine, riots, partition – as well as love. His oeuvre bears the distinct stamp of his outlook towards life. His literary efforts are ‘pointing fingers.’ There is a multi-coloured variety, a deep empathy for human emotions, mysterious layers of meaning, subtle symbolism, description of unbearable life. Love for humanity is also reflected in his writings. He has to his credit 26 novels and 14 collections of short story. He directed the film Trishagni (1988), based on Saradindu Bandopadhyay‘s historical short story Maru O Sangha.
He died on 15 December 2007.
About the Translator: Ratnottama Sengupta, formerly Arts Editor of The Times of India, teaches mass communication and film appreciation, curates film festivals and art exhibitions, and translates and write books. She has been a member of CBFC, served on the National Film Awards jury and has herself won a National Award.
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