Ratnottama Sengupta tracks the journey of Leslie Carvalho over a quarter century
Leslie CarvalhoPhotos provided by Ratnottama Sengupta
It seems like only the other day. The International Film Festival of India, IFFI, 1998 was on. Along with a colleague, I was seated on the steps outside Siri Fort I auditorium connected to a long corridor going to Siri 2. Someone introduced Leslie Carvalho. “Aha! The young filmmaker from Mangalore?” I responded. “There’s a write up on you in The Times of India today. It says there’s a lot of expectation from The Outhouse.”
The “delightfully sweet” film had lived up to the expectation of the critics. It was bestowed the Aravindan Puraskaram, presented by the Kerala Chalachitra Film Society to commemorate the iconic Malayalam director, and the first Gollapudi Srinivas award, another national level award to recognise filmmakers marking their debut in Indian cinema. So I was not surprised to meet him next as a co-member of the jury for the National Film Awards 2000.
The Tennis coach who is also a German language teacher with a passion for painting has now published his first novel, Smoke on the Backwaters. It centres on Rosa, a twenty-year-old from Mangalore, who is forced to flee overnight because of the storm of gossip, fear and shame unleashed by a single incident in her life. Her unexpected journey across continents becomes a path of healing. Seven years later, armed with education and maturity, she returns home, determined to pursue her purpose in life. But how much had the town she left altered from its old ways?
RS: Leslie, before we talk Backwaters, can we briefly revisit The Outhouse? From where did you derive its content? And what was your compulsion for choosing that subject?
Provided by Ratnottama Sengupta
LC: The Outhouse was a simple, linear narrative about moving on in life despite the odds. A young mother’s need to gain economic independence to supplement the family income; the help she received from her financially independent sister; a kind hearted Bengali landlady’s generosity which causes stress and violence in the Anglo-Indian couple’s day to day life, and how it affects the two children growing up.
RS: Why did you choose this subject as your debut vehicle? If you were to travel in a time machine, would you choose a ‘mainstream’ subject?
LC: I chose this subject as my debut vehicle as I had seen quite a bit of violence in the Anglo- Indian community in the Lingarajapuram area of Bangalore I grew up in.
I was itching to make a movie after my six-month course at the New York Film Academy. As I was working on a very tight budget, I just stuck to what was taught — to keep it simple, straightforward and just tell a story using the various tools of cinema — in short, to make it cinematic.
If I were to go back in time, I don’t think I would have chosen a ‘mainstream subject’. I derived immense satisfaction along with the cast and crew as we felt we were working on something we were passionate about. We all felt drawn towards the characters, the story and the theme of the film.
RS: How did you get interested in cinema? And what were the problems you faced while filming The Outhouse – in terms of funding, casting, shooting location, distribution?
LC: I grew up watching Tamil, Kannada, Hindi, a couple of Konkani and lots of Hollywood films. My mother tailored clothes at home, and she taught a whole lot of women stitching. They were fans of Tamil cinema, especially of Sivaji Ganesan, MGR, and the heroes of Kannada cinema, Dr. Rajkumar and Vishnuvardhan. She also enjoyed the Hindi films of Rajesh Khanna, Dharmendra, Hema Malini, Amitabh Bachchan, Sanjeev Kumar, Jaya Bhaduri and Rekha — that is the popular cinema.
And my father, being an Army person, took us to see English films, like The Ten Commandments, The Bible, Hatari, To Sir, With Love[1]. Also, St. Germain’s School where I studied, screened English films every Friday afternoon in the Hall, from spools off a projector that made a jarring sound. It was an amazing experience — black and white Charlie Chaplin, Laurel & Hardy films and also Patton with all the bad words. Later, when in college, we would bunk classes to watch most of the popular Hindi and English movies.
At the New York Film Academy, I was exposed to an entire range of the world’s best in cinema. Satyajit Ray, Akira Kurosawa, Ingmar Bergman, Antonioni, John Ford, William Wyler, Fellini, Jean Renoir… And I watched a whole lot of films on the American Movie Chain (AMC). There I discovered all of Spencer Tracy’s films and fell in love with his sense of timing and under playing. It was also a time when I discovered Guru Dutt and marveled at his brand of filmmaking from Pyaasa, Kaagaz Ke Phool, Chaudhvin Ka Chand, Sahib Biwi Aur Ghulam to Aar Paar and Mr & Mrs 55[2].
It is hard to believe I began the shoot for The Outhouse on September 18, 1996, and completed it in 14 days – on October 1. After we went through the rushes, we required two more shots to link the gaps. Since I was on a shoestring budget of a few lakh rupees, I had rehearsals with the cast for close to three months. I doff my hat to them in gratitude as 90% of the film was canned on first takes. I could not afford retakes, and I worked with a brilliant cameraman, S Ramachandra, who was very supportive and encouraging. He shot most of B V Karanth, Girish Karnad, and Girish Kasaravalli films as well as the popular tele-serial Malgudi Days[3]. A number of first-time directors like myself, had benefitted immensely by his generosity and patience.
Since it was an independent film, whatever little finance I had, I sunk into the film. And then it took me a year to complete post-production for lack of finance.
I was particular about the casting. I wanted the Anglo-Indian look, feel, mannerisms, costume, interiors to be authentic. I met each cast member and spoke to them at length about the vision I had for my film. Almost all of them were from the Bangalore English Theatre, and all of them were cooperative. Moreover, Cooke Town is a quaint little place with many English bungalows and outhouses. After some struggle, I found one on Milton Street which suited my story perfectly.
After The Outhouse was selected for the Indian Panorama in IFFI ’98 and received the two national awards, I just walked into Plaza Theatre on MG Road in Bangalore and met the owner, Mr Ananthanarayan. He had heard about the film and asked me to meet the distributor, Nitin Shah of Hansa Pictures in Gandhi Nagar, the biggest distributor of English films. He put it on for a noon show for three weeks while Fire was on for the matinee and evening shows. The distributor then put it in Mangalore and Udupi for a week. And when I received the Gollapudi Srinivas National Award in Chennai, Aparna Sen was one of the honoured guests. She saw a small portion of the film and said that she would speak to Mr Ansu Sur to screen it at Nandan in Kolkata — founded by Satyajit Ray to help screen small independent films. A theatre owner in Kolkata recommended a person who took the film to the North East. It was also screened in parts of Kerala.
Coincidentally, this April 30th, The Outhouse will be screened in the leafy neighbourhood of Cooke Town next to the outhouse where the film was shot.
Still from The Outhouse, provided by Ratnottama Sengupta
RS: In the last 50 years we have seen films by directors like Aparna Sen, Ajay Kar, Anjan Dutt. Even before these, Ray had touched upon Anglo Indians in Mahanagar. These are all films made in Kolkata. Is it because this is the erstwhile capital of the Raj?
LC: Many of the films on Anglo-Indians were based in Calcutta. It was the influence of the British Raj and its culture that was so much a part of their long history of ruling there. Of course their influence was in other parts of the country as well like Madras, Hyderabad, Bangalore, Whitefield and Kolar Gold Fields, the railway colonies all over the country, the hill stations, and many other cities which has pockets of Anglo-Indians.
RS: I remember one Hindi film, Julie that had an Anglo-Indian protagonist. How has the community been projected in popular culture? Was it lopsided or biased?
LC: Throughout our film history Anglo-Indians have played bit roles here and there. Some significant roles came their way in Bhowani Junction, the teleserial Queenie, 36 Chowrighee Lane, Bow Barracks Forever, Bada Din, Cotton Mary, The Outhouse, Saptapadi, Mahanagar, Julie, and Calcutta I’m Sorry[4].
Some of the characterisations have been quite biased; some not well fleshed out; some in passing fleeting moments of drunkenness, prostitution. The song and dance sequences have not helped the community, sadly.
RS:What led you to writing? The screenplay for The Outhouse?
LC: I wrote the screenplay of The Outhouse on plain A4 sheets of paper, on both sides. This is not done but I did it to save on cost. I gave the screenplay to my cinematographer S. Ramachandra, and in his generosity he understood my purpose. I went by what was taught at the New York Film Academy. Of course, I had to combine all the elements to make it whole. The idea of the screenplay came to me while I was at the film school in 1995.
RS: What was the trigger for writing Smoke in the Backwaters?
LC: As an artist, filmmaker, and writer, I have tried to combine all the elements of story-telling – fact and fiction — keeping in mind the flow of ideas, pace and momentum to engage and interest my audience and readers.
I remember beginning to write the novel two decades ago when my mother — who studied in Kannada medium — said, “I hope you will write it in simple English so I can read it too.”
And I wanted it to be reader friendly with regard to the font size, the brightness of the paper, the spacing, the clarity and the size of the book. I was lucky my publisher ‘Anglo-Ink’ was supportive and combined well to find that centre.
Provided by Ratnottama Sengupta
RS: How are you marketing the book? Through Litfests? Bookstore readings? Airport bookstalls? A H Wheelers?
LC: Since Anglo-Ink is a small-time publisher, we’ve had a dream launch in my hometown Bangalore at the Catholic Club. My book seller is Bookworm on Church Street in the heart of Bangalore and for people in Cooke Town it is in The Lightroom’ library.
We are looking at launches in various cities as well, through book readings, LitFests, Airport book stalls, AH Wheelers, readings at schools and colleges.
Since a major portion of the novel is set in Germany, we are looking at translating it into German. I hope to get it translated in a few Indian languages as well.
RS:Since the sunset decade of 1900s, Anglo Indians have been migrating to Australia and Canada. What triggered this migration? Economics or politics?
LC: The migration of Anglo-Indians was inevitable. It was bound to happen for reasons more than one, be it political, economic or social. First under the ‘Whites Only’ policy, many fair skinned Anglo-Indians migrated — the brown and dark skinned were left behind. Slowly they opened up and even they left. Some felt they would adapt better to a western culture, and have adopted their new country as their homeland.
RS:You were a big support for me when my son joined NLSUI in 2000. Again, when I curated Anadi, the exhibition of paintings by Contemporary and indigenous artists from MP and Chhattisgarh. Bangalore has since become an international megalopolis. How has life changed for the locals?
LC: Bangalore has changed dramatically and drastically. The change was bound to happen because of its growing prominence of an International City. The IT industry brought jobs, slowly other industries, started picking up from real estate, fashion, digital technology and social media platforms, start-ups, academics, sports, games, recreational and tourism.
The moderate climate was a huge bonus that attracted people from all over. Bangalore has always been cordial, encouraging and accommodative of people from all over through their mild manners, hospitality and gentleness.
Today Bangalore is unrecognisable. Still, some pockets retain that old world charm of neat, clean and green Bengaluru from the old Pensioners Paradise of Bangalore.
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[1]The Ten Commandments (1956), The Bible (1966), Hatari (1962), To Sir, with Love (1967)
[2]Pyaasa (Thirsty, 1957), Kaagaz Ke Phool (Paper flowers, 1959), Chaudhvin Ka Chand (The Full Moon, 1960), Sahib Biwi Aur Ghulam (The Master, the Wife and the Slave, 1962), Aar Paar (This shore or that, 1954), Mr &Mrs 55 (1955).
[4]Bhowani Junction (1956), TV miniseries Queenie (1987), 36 Chowrighee Lane (1981), Bow Barracks Forever (2004), Bada Din (1998), Cotton Mary (1999), Saptapadi (Seven Steps, 1981), Mahanagar (The Big City, 1963), Julie (1975), and Calcutta I’m Sorry (2019)
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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A stock taking of women in Bengali cinema – as protagonists, actors and directors – by Ratnottama Sengupta
Actress Rituparna SenguptaLate actress Kanan Devi (1916-1992)From Public Domain
“Mother, allow me to go and get a slave for you,” this conventional line may have been uttered by the husband essayed by Anil Chatterjee in Mahanagar (The Big City, 1963), as he set out to marry Aarati alias Madhabi Mukherjee. Women of those years had no problem accepting such husbands as their Lord and Master. But the lead actress of Ray’s film evinced determination of a different order. That’s why even today, 52 years after its release, Mahanagar remains so contemporary.
Time was when women in Indian — rather than just Bengali — films were typecast as mother, sister or beloved of a male character. The mother would sacrifice her creature comforts, her career, her every happiness for her son — but if she cared for her brother, she would be rebuked (Mejdidi, Second Sister, 1950; 2003). If she offered shelter to her orphaned sister, she would have to ‘repay’ her in-laws for the favour by making her work overtime (Streer Patra, The Wife’s Letter, 1972). It was ‘her’ responsibility to stay ‘pure’. If she were ‘tainted’, she had no option but to embrace death. The long-suffering Indian woman has left way behind her ‘helpless’ (abala) definition: No Nirbhaya needs to die of shame if she’s the victim of rape. The silver screen is reflecting this transformation. She’s no goddess (devi) nor a slave (dasi) — she’s proud to be what she is: a woman (nari).
But a woman is always more vulnerable, more fragile compared to a man. Reason? Could be biological, economic, social structure, or her lack of confidence born of mental malnutrition. Perhaps that is why women have provided material for intense human drama. At times she is Lady Macbeth or Lady Chatterley, at other times she is Mrinal (of Streer Patra), or Ashapurna Devi’s Subarnalata (1981). Besides, Bengal worships Goddess Durga — in this state, women are simultaneously Saraswati, the goddess of learning; Lakshmi, the deity of prosperity; and Kali, the icon of destruction. That may be why, from the beginning of Bengali cinema, lead personalities have enjoyed multidimensional projection. Sometimes a mere ‘actress’ becomes a mouthpiece for a socially sensitive and relevant issue, sometimes she is the face of psychological conflict, sometimes she is a philosopher, preacher.
Un-Covered
There are many different ways to approach the projection of women in Bengali films. Literature has always been the first to convey their self-sufficiency — be it on this soil or elsewhere. Gems mined from Bengali literature provided the raw material for pioneers like Naresh Mitra (1888-1968), Pramathesh Barua (1903-1951), Debaki Kumar Bose (1898-1971), Nitin Bose (1897-1986), Bimal Roy (1909-1966) — giving us landmarks such as Jogajog (Connections, 1943; 2015), Durgesh Nandini (Queen of the Fortress, 1956), Bishabriksha (The Poison Tree, 1922; 1983), Debi Chaudhurani (1974; upcoming 2025), Biraj Bou (Biraj, the Wife, 1972), Pather Dabi (The Right of Way, 1977), Udayer Pathey (Towards the Dawn, 1943). However, the minute we utter the two words — ‘women’ and ‘literature’ — in one breath, we think Pratham Pratishruti (The Early Promise, 1971) and Subarnalata (1981). Together they are a flawless portrayal of social transformation and women’s emancipation.
Dinen Gupta had filmed Pratham Pratishruti even before Ashapurna Devi had won the Jnanpith Award. Its protagonist Satyawati kept at it but did not succeed in altering the social dynamics of Women’s Education. Her daughter Subarnalata is married off in her childhood, into an urban family with rustic mindset. Alone, unsupported she fights the male chauvinists (and this includes the women too!) who were unfamiliar with the word ‘self-identity’; whose only understanding of women’s honour, sanman, comprised of ghomta-sindoor, the veil and the vermilion. Despite her efforts, how often do we hear of a Bakul (Subarnalata’s daughter) who rides a bike to drop off her elder brother to his college?
Streer Patra devolves around ‘Mejo Bou’ Mrinal (Madhabi Mukherjee). She has the freedom to offer shelter to her sister-in-law’s sibling but not to love, educate, and honour her. When the sister, pushed into marriage with a mentally deranged person, commits suicide, Mrinal leaves home in protest. But her protest is not a sentimental reaction, so she does not end her life in the ocean. Nor does she sign off her letter as ‘Mejo Bou’ — the Second Bride of the joint family – which was till then her only identity. She is now ‘Charantalashray Chinna Mrinal’, one who has lost the protection of her husband’s feet.
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Long before Purnendu Pattrea, Bimal Roy had set an example in ‘deconstructing’ the well-entrenched structure of male domination even in wealthy families. When it came in 1943, Udayer Pathey had broken several norms: Jyotirmoy Roy was an unknown writer, Binata Roy was not a conventional beauty. As the daughter of an industrialist — read, a 20th century princess — she takes up the fight for labourer’s rights and leaves the shelter of her father and brother to make a home with a ‘hired’ writer. She was emboldened by her predecessors like Kanan Devi who became a star in Mukti (Liberation,1937).
Rebellion need not necessarily be a battle — won or lost — as Sujata (1974) showed. Litterateur Subodh Ghosh, who created the character, imagined her as a sweet, caring persona, who is alert to every little need of her foster family. But, despite all her care and love, she doesn’t become ‘a daughter’ to the parents she dotes on. Her fault? She is born of ‘untouchable’ genes. An even bigger fault? She is loved by the man whom the foster parents want to see as the husband of their biological daughter. Film director and writer, Pinaki Mukherjee, fired away with this double-barrel gun although he knew it was impossible to overshadow Nutan’s performance in Bimal Roy’s Sujata (1959).
Director is Special
Follow the director and you land at the door of Satyajit Ray. If his filmography opens with Pather Panchali (Song of the Road, 1955), his depiction of the mother, Sarbajaya, opens the pantheon to women who are found in any middle-class home. Women who are not dressed like the shiny stars of saas-bahu shows but cringe nevertheless when it comes to feeding their aged mother-in-law. Women who have no big dreams for their children but to protect them from any hint of slander by the neighbours.
Half a century later Mahanagar remains a head-turner. Its protagonist Aarati is a working woman whose pay-cheque keeps the kitchen fire going. But this does not place a halo around her head. Instead, society crinkles its brow at her. Still, she does not shy from protesting a wrong done to her colleague. Still, she does not think twice before turning in her resignation. She is not scared of the dark days ahead — because she has light within. She has confidence in her own entity.
Prior to that Ray had etched with care the homemaker Charulata (1964). She too is a housewife but from another world, in terms of both time and social status. The educated wife of a wealthy intellectual — an editor who has no time to chat with his wife or hear her out — she sews, she writes, she is published in journals… If the devotion of such a woman finds an anchor in her brother-in-law, what would the world say of the ‘homebreaker’?
Charu’s husband Bhupati must shoulder the blame for wrecking the marriage, but Nikhilesh (Victor Banerjee) of Ghare Baire (The Home and the World, 1984)? The zamindar stood by his wife when Bimala (Swatilekha Sengupta) stepped out of the inner courtyard and wedded herself to the nationalist fervour of Sandip (Soumitra Chatterjee). Perhaps that is why, when she realises that Sandip loves himself far more than his motherland, the disillusioned wife returns to her original ‘guru’ — her husband. There is no shame nor despondency of defeat in this, for this is not regressive, it is merely a ‘course correction’.
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Ritwik Ghatak, a contemporary of Ray, envisaged women as the Lakshmi-Saraswati-Kali of a partitioned Bengal.
Nita (actress Supriya Devi) in Meghe Dhaaka Tara (The Cloud Capped Star, 1960) earns to feed her parents, marry off her sister, build her brother as a vocalist… But who cared for her love? Her dreams? Her sheer desire to live? At the other end of the spectrum is Sita (Madhabi Mukherjee in Subarnarekha, 1965). She had held her fatherly elder brother’s hand when the child had to seek refuge across the barbed wires. She sacrificed that secure shelter (of her brother) to her love. When that love proved ephemeral, she sought survival in the world’s oldest profession. When that profession placed her face to face with a fallen angel — her brother — she turned into Kali, the destroyer.
Mrinal Sen’s Baishe Shravan (The 22nd of Shravan, 1960) was an essay in marital discord in the disjointed times of war. But times change, and with that going out to work becomes routine for women in Bengal. No one looks askance — so long as she returns home by nightfall. For, that is one routine that hasn’t changed: even today, exceptions to it are meant only for men. Even today, if a Nirbhaya is gang-raped, many react by asking, “Why was she out so late?!” So, when the breadwinner daughter in Ekdin Pratidin (And Quiet Rolls the Dawn, 1979) does not return home, she is branded a siren even before she is given a hearing.
Tapan Sinha has repeatedly pointed to women’s vulnerability. His Nirjan Saikate (The Desolate Beach, 1963) depicts the barren lives of single women, be they widows or spinsters. Jatugriha (The Inflammable Home, 1964) paints the pangs of legal separation and divorce. Adalat O Ekti Meye (The Law and a Lady, 1981) highlights the legal ‘molestation’ of a rape victim. Aapanjon (Dear Ones, 1968) bestowed a new kind of dignity on the uncared for senior widows. Wheel Chair (1994) became the symbol of struggle when a chairbound woman fights the injustice of a rape that leaves her incapacitated for life. Antardhan (Missing,1992) opened our eyes to the base trade in human flesh. And the Daughters of This Century (Satabdir Kanya, 2001)? Better not talk of them, Sinha might say, for like Kadambini of Jibito O Mrito (Alive and Dead), they have to die in order to prove they were living!
Aparna Sen, as a popular actress, did characterise some women of substance. She charmed us in Ekhane Pinjar (Caged Here,1971)as she slaved to provide her family a life of some worth. Much seen? Yes, it was a much seen reality in our midst. Shwet Patharer Thala (The Marble Plate, 1992), Prabhat Roy’s adaptation of Suchitra Bhattacharya, showed that despite the changed times, a widow’s is still a solitary struggle. A single shot in Paramitar Ekdin (House of Memories, 2000), under her own direction, makes her unforgettable. As the mother-in-law who loves fish, she’s chewing on a fishbone with deep satisfaction when she learns her husband is dead. “Over,” says the blank expression on her face, in her eyes, in her entire being, “no more fish.” That single look bespeaks sadness, disappointment, vacuum in the life of a Bengali widow. Why is it that a man does not stop having fish when his wife dies?
As a director Aparna uses the same fish, to establish a progressive mindset. When her daughter-in-law, Paromita (actress Rituparna), takes her to a restaurant and treats her to a fish fry, we viewers are delighted. She herself has suffered, so the daughter-in-law understands the mom-in-law’s suffering. Not for her the ‘revenge’ story of family dramas.
At the very outset Aparna Sen had given a fair indication of the road ahead. Elderly and lonely, Ms Stoneham in 36 Chowringhee Lane (1981) is poised against her ebullient, self-centred, even ruthless student Debasri Roy. The two worlds of seniors and youth clash again in Goynar Baksho.(The Aunt Who Wouldn’t Die, 2013). But this child widow, Pishima (the aunt), extracts every inch out of life. Even after death she demands her pound of flesh: she smokes, she bikes, she zealously guards her dowry, streedhan. She even encourages extramarital love! But, perhaps, Aparna Sen’s boldest statement is Paroma (The Ultimate Woman, 1985). Should a woman bury her sexuality simply because marriage has turned her into someone’s aunt or a sister-in-law? “No” — comes the unflinching reply.
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Women are deprived, exploited. They protest, they rebel. They stride ahead alone and draft a path for others to follow. Their confidence gets a boost, they enlighten hide-bound males, transform mindsets. This is how we see women in Rituparno Ghosh’s oeuvre. He drew our attention towards several issues, but the empathy in his tenor led us beyond the immediate pre-occupation and endowed his scripts with such universality that free-thinking men, too, had no issues with them.
In Unishe April (Nineteenth April, 1994), the national honour of a Padmashri for Sarojini angers her daughter. Because? She chose to be a danseuse rather than a homemaker, and sent her daughter to a hostel so that she could dance on. Dahan (Crossfire,1997)sees Ramita molested by strangers on the street, but the man in her bedroom? What about him? Surely you won’t construe a ‘husband’s conjugal right’ as ‘marital rape’?! On the other hand, Jhinuk has to pay a price as the witness. She is put in the dock by the law of the land, and dropped by her boyfriend. Banalata in the Bariwali (The Landlady, 2000) has aged but not married. Her dreams of a family are somewhat fulfilled when a film unit comes to shoot in her ancestral mansion. She drapes a red-bordered sari and dons sindoor in her hair too, for a single shot. But that’s mere acting! The director’s praise and love for her too was acting! Kiron Kher as Banalata realises this when she sits in the darkened theatre, and finds the scene has been clipped out of the film. How many times will you be shortchanged, lady, emotionally too?
In Antarmahal (The Inner Chamber, 2005), Zamindar Jackie Shroff authorises a sacrificial yagna to ensure the continuity of his line with the birth of a son. And what is that sacrifice? In the presence of his first wife (Rupa Ganguly), he will copulate with his child bride (Soha Ali Khan). Night after night. Isn’t this mental as well as physical torture? So what! Isn’t he a zamindar and the husband too!
Dosar (Companion, 2006) sees the husband (Prosenjit Chatterjee), a corporate bigwig, returning with his secretary from a weekend retreat in his love nest. A massive accident leaves the woman dead, the husband bedridden, and the wife in a fix. Should she leave the helpless man, or restore life in the faithless marriage?
Even when All his Characters are Fictitious (Sab Charitra Kalponik, 2009), Rituparno Ghosh speaks an Eternal (Abahoman, 2009) truth: Women’s efforts to create an identity for themselves have been wrecked by men. Women have had to confront layer after layer of inhibition, prejudice, agony. But it is much worse to be a woman trapped in a male body, Rituparno showed in his last film, Chitrangada (The Crowning Wish,2012).
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Bengali cinema was meant to be thus: modern, lively, brilliant. Viewers have said this time and again. After the release of Anuranan (Resonance,2006) Antaheen (The Endless Wait, 2009), Aparajita Tumi (You Undefeated, 2012) this was said for Aniruddha Roy Chowdhury. He has continuously shown that women ‘culture, nurture, explore’ life. Viewers had applauded when Bappaditya Bandopadhyay (1970-2019) handed over the right to ‘give away the daughter’ in marriage to the mother in Sampradan (The Offering, 2000). The director of films like Kaal (An Era, 2005) on human trafficking and Kantataar (Barbed Wire, 2005) on illegal migration, Bappaditya was ecstatic that in the present century, women are being recognised as ‘Researcher in Child Development and Interpersonal Relationships’. Women are morally superior, declares Srijit Mukherjee in Autograph (2010), when the jean-clad Srinanda (Nandana Sen) leaves her live-in partner (Indraneil Sengupta), for encashing the accidentally recorded confession of the star Arun Chatterji (Prosenjit) in an inebriated moment of weakness. Somnath Gupta projects a mofussil girl in Aadu (2011) who does not hesitate to write to the President of America to find out the whereabouts of her immigrant husband who went missing in Iraq after the outbreak of Gulf War 1. With Shunyo E Buke (Empty Canvas 2005), Kaushik Ganguly raises a question that still seeks an answer: Is a big-hearted woman less attractive than a big-chested one?
We have watched films that break stereotypes in startling ways. The protagonist of Atanu Ghosh’s Rupkatha Noy (Not a Fairy Tale, 2013) is a bride who flees home; an IT professional who admits to taking a life, and a gritty though little educated delivery girl at a petrol pump. Judhajit Sircar’s Khasi Katha (Saga of a Goat, 2013), centres around Salma, the motherless daughter raised in a convention bound Muslim family who works in a leather factory to feed her unemployed father and brother but fights to become a professional boxer!
The Actor is the Star
Irony, thy name is cinema. For, here, the deception of ‘acting’ must turn imagination into ‘real’. The personas are imagined, but they are rooted in our soil. Naturally, some characterisations remain with us forever. Thus, some actresses become the voice of women’s fight for emancipation. Suchitra, Supriya, Madhabi, Arundhuti, Aparna, Rituparna, Paoli –any of these actors in the central role promises a powerful document in the fight for women’s rights.
* It started even before Suchitra Sen (1931-2014), when Kanan Devi (1916-1002), Bharati Devi (1922-2011), Chhaya Devi (1914-2001) and Sabitri Chatterjee (1937) were playing at New Theatres, Chhayabani, Radha Films. We will return to Kanan Devi but meanwhile, let’s revisit Suchitra Sen. A married woman, mother of one, Mrs Sen became — and still remains — an icon, not only in the two Bengals but pan India. No gossiping with unit members, the detailing of her character, its costume, its co-actors kept her busy as long as she was in the studio. Understandably, her fame ignited jealousy and she was tarnished as temperamental, aloof, selfish…
Yes, unwilling to compromise in matters pertaining to her role, Mrs Sen would not spare even haloed producers like R D Bansal or Haridas Bhattacharya. But her glamorous dignity ensured a so-far unknown respect for actresses in Bengali filmdom, especially when her name was printed above Uttam Kumar’s, in posters pasted all over the town. Nylon sari, sunshades, short hair, sleeveless blouse — every expression of ‘modernity’ became Mrs Sen. She came to personify the middle-class Bengali woman who — married or not — could be a professional: journalist, nurse, doctor, singer, lawyer… On the other hand, the single-minded determination that characterised courtesan Pannabai and her hostel-educated daughter Suparna (Uttar Falguni, In Her Autumn, 1963), Rina Brown (Saptapadi/ Seven Steps, 1961), Archana (Saat Paake Bandha, Knotted by the Vows, 1961), and Radha (Deep Jwele Jai, To Light a Lamp, 1959) only reflected Mrs Sen’s own firmness of intent.
One Meghe Dhaka Tara alone was enough for Supriya Devi to shine through the annals of Bengali cinema. Add to that the appeal of Komal Gandhar (Soft Note on Sharp Scale, 1961). In many a film she is the beloved of matinee icon Uttam Kumar. What firmed her position was her boldness in accepting roles with negative shades. Be it Lal Pathar (The Red Stone,1964), Sanyasi Raja (The Monk Who Was a Monarch, 1975) or Mon Niye (All About Her Heart, 1969) — her presence gave a shine to both, the persona and the film.
* Sharmila Tagore went away to Bombay and Bollywood gobbled her, but she remains evergreen as Aparna of Apur Sansar (The World of Apu, 1959), the newly wedded bride in Devi (Goddess, 1960), the journalist in Nayak (The Hero, 1966), the questioning eyes in Seemabaddha (Company Ltd, 1971) and the irrepressible, dark-complexioned tomboyish Ghetu of Chhaya Surja (Overshadowed, 1963). If Ray films cast her as the silent conscience speaking mainly through her eyes, Partha Pratim made her unforgettable in casting her in an opposite role.
* For a while, Tanuja ruled the Bengali heart from the theatre chain of Minar-Bijoli-Chhabighar. The frothy actress from Bombay became a hit with the superhit musical romance, Deya Neya (Give-n-Take, 1963). Uttam Kumar’s Antony Firingee (1967) immortalised her as Saudamini. And Nandini of Teen Bhubaner Pare (Beyond Three Worlds, 1969) broke new grounds in a society where it was customary for men to marry illiterate women, but unthinkable for an academic woman to marry an unlettered, alcoholic blue-collar worker. Husbands, after all, had to be superior, right? That’s why the highly educated princess of Ujjain during the Gupta period (3-4 CE) was ‘taught a lesson’ by being fooled into marriage with the worthless Kalidas, who eventually rose to be the peerless poet of Sanskrit classics like Abhijnana Shakuntalam and Meghdoot!
* In recent decades, Debasree Roy bagged the Golden Lotus through significant films like 36 Chowringhee Lane (1981),Unishe April (19the April, 1994), Asukh (Ailing, 1999), Ek Je Achhe Kanya (There’s This Girl, 2001), Dekha (Vision, 2001), and Nati Binodini (The Actress, 1994). Her contemporary, Rupa Ganguly scored nationally as Draupadi in the television serial Mahabharat (1988). The riveting beauty of the epic had ruled the five Pandava brothers who took on the male order of the Kauravas — the clan that de-robed her — even as their patriarchal head remained a silent spectator. Rupa endowed the persona with a rare dignity that came to the fore again in Antarmahal (The Inner Chamber, 2004) saving it from becoming voyeuristic. Instead, she evoked pathos and a certain sadness in us when her husband proceeded to copulate with a younger wife in front of her eyes. Again she won our applause and institutionalised laurels in Abosheshey, (Finally, 2011) as the mother whose separated son, raised in America, comes to know her heartbreaking love for her child after her death. And in Sekhar Das’s Nayanchampar Din Ratri (The Tale of Nayanchampa, 2019) she breathes life into the marginalised character who epitomises the multitudes that travel from the suburbs to serve as maids in urban homes.
Rituparna Sengupta, the first of the divas from Bengal today, wears the mantle of Kanan Devi. Like the icon, she excelled in acting, bagged the Golden Lotus for her performances, and then started a production house, Bhavna Aaj O Kaal. This has enabled her to get a veteran like Tarun Majumdar to direct her in Aalo, (Light, 2003) and a young Ranjan Ghosh to explore her creativity in Aaha Re! (Wow! 2019).
Form and Content Too: Actor Turns Director
Roopey tomay bholabo naa – I will not entice you by looks alone, women directors have been saying for long. Thus, Manju Dey (1926-1989) not only starred in Jighansa (Blood Lust 1951), Neel Akasher Neechey (Under the Blue Sky, 1959), ’42 (1942, 1951),her Abhishapta Chambal (The Blighted Ravine, 1967) based on Tarunkumar Bhaduri’s accounts. recounted the life of legendary dacoits of Chambal who paved the way for Phoolan Devi.
Arundhati Devi, (1924-1990) the unforgettable Bhagini Nivedita (1962) who lives on through Tapan Sinha’s Kshudhita Pashan (Hungry Stones,1960), Jatugriha (1964), Harmonium (1976), turned director with Megh O Roudra (Clouds and Sunshine, 1969) to highlight a young widow’s quest for education. Apart from making Chhuti (Vacation, 1967) and Padipishir Bormi Baksho (The Burmese Casket, 1972), she also composed music for Shiulibari (The House of Jasmines, 1962) and produced Bicharak (The Judge, 1959). In her personal life the independent minded actress-director had divorced writer-director Prabhat Mukherjee to marry Tapan Sinha — later highly decorated — in the-then convention-bound Tollygunge. Prior to her only Kanan Devi, the singing star of New Theatres classics who was celebrated across India, had taken upon herself the onus of producing films, by setting up Srimati Films.
Coming after them, Madhabi Mukherjee did not produce films. But the “beautiful, deep, wonderful … (lady who) surpasses all ordinary standards of judgment” justified the praises heaped on her Charulata by not merely acting in Baishey Shraban (22nd Srabon— July-August, 2011) Mahanagar, Subarnarekha, Kapurush (The Weakling, 1965), Dibaratrir Kabya (The Poetry of Everyday Lives, 1970), Streer Patra, Biraj Bou, Utsab (The Festival, 2000). She also took on the then chief minister Buddhadeb Bhattacharya in an election.
* Aparna Sen has been an inspiration to an entire generation of women directors. Satarupa Sanyal has garnered praise in the multiple roles of an actor, producer, director and editor. Her Anu (1998) exemplifies an idealist who is raped by the political opponents of her incarcerated fiancee. It is a crime they perpetrate, but a greater crime is perpetrated when her fiancée, Sugato, refuses to marry her because she has been raped!
* With financial help from NFDC, Urmi Chakravarty made Hemanter Pakhi (Autumn Bird, 2003). It offered another new experience. A housewife shoots into the limelight by authoring a book, but her middle-class husband and sons are not thrilled. They would rather she remained the demure housewife, cooking and caring only for them.
* Aditi Roy won Rupa Ganguly a Lotus through her Abosheshey. Meanwhile Anumita Dasgupta won awards with Jumeli (2012) that tells the story of a tribal woman whose husband turns her pain of losing her child into a business commodity. How? The only balm for her pain lies in breastfeeding newborns. So? Get her pregnant, repeatedly, and get her to abort, again and again! The impact on her health? Her morale? Her childbearing ability? Who cares!
* Now we have Nandita Roy and Sudeshna Roy. Both are creating a buzz with their co-directors Shiboprasad Mukherjee and Abhijit Guha respectively. Nandita-Shiboprasad have come out with Icche (Desire, 2011), Muktodhara ( The River of Freedom, 2012), Accident (2012), Alik Sukh ( Unreal Happiness, 2013), Ramdhanu ( Rainbow, 2014) — all of which including their latest Amar Boss (My Boss, 2024) focus on various walks of our social life, be it education, accident, medical ethics, or jail reforms.
* Sudeshna-Abhijit started with focusing on the sexually free relationship of gen-next, or the unrestricted use of abuses by urban youth, and graduated to Jodi Love Diley Na Prane (If There’s No Love, 2014), which shows that even undying love, once behind us, should be left behind. They used Chaplinesque spoof to tell the story of Hercules (2014), the power within us, which alone can give us the strength to fight bullies. Their latest Aapish (Office, 2024) recounts the plight of working women, whether they belong to the upper class or come from the suburbs.
Post Script
To conclude: Be it men or women, as director or actor, or even a writer like Suchitra Bhattacharya — they have all made it clear — that women in Bengali films are not mere sex objects. Yes, many films still use ‘item-numbers’ to titillate the male fantasy. But then, with Takhan Teish (When He Was 23, 2010), Atanu Ghosh records the attitudinal change in our men — through a woman protagonist who is a professional porn star. Rightly, then, we may say that Bengali films carry on the tradition of Kanan Bala who outclassed her humble origins to become the revered Kanan Devi.
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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 writes 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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PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
ProfessorFakrul Alam brings to us Tagore songs in translation and in discussion on the season that follows the scorching heat of summer months. Clickhereto read.
“May is pretty, May is mild,
Dances like a happy child…”
Annette Wynne (Early twentieth century)
Each month is expressed in a different form by nature in various parts of the world. In the tropics, May is sweltering and hot — peak summer. In the Southern hemisphere, it is cold. However, with climate change setting in, the patterns are changing, and the temperatures are swinging to extremes. Sometimes, one wonders if this is a reflection of human minds, which seem to swing like pendulums to create dissensions and conflicts in the current world. Nothing seems constant and the winds of change have taken on a menacing appearance. If we go by Nazrul’s outlook, destruction is a part of creating a new way of life as he contends in his poem, ‘Ring Bells of Victory’ — “Why fear destruction? It’s the gateway to creation!” Is this how we will move towards ‘dancing like a happy child’?
Mitra Phukan addresses this need for change in her novel, What Will People Say — not with intensity of Nazrul nor in poetry but with a light feathery wand, more in the tradition of Jane Austen. Her narrative reflects on change at various levels to explore the destruction of old customs giving way to new that are more accepting and kinder to inclusivity, addressing issues like widow remarriage in conservative Hindu frameworks, female fellowship and ageing as Phukan tells us in her interview. Upcoming voice, Prerna Gill, lauded by names like Arundhathi Subramaniam and Chitra Divakaruni, has also been in conversation with Shantanu Ray Choudhuri on her book of verses, Meanwhile. She has refreshing perspectives on life and literature.
Devraj Singh Kalsi has written a nostalgic piece that hovers between irony and perhaps, a reformatory urge… I am not quite sure, but it is as enjoyable and compelling as Meredith Stephen’s narrative on her conservation efforts in Kangaroo Island in the Southern hemisphere and fantastic animals she meets, livened further by her photography. Ravi Shankar talks of his night hikes in the Northern hemisphere, more accurately, in the Himalayas. While trekking at night seems a risky task, trying to recreate dishes from the past is no less daunting, as Suzanne Kamata tells us in her Notes from Japan.
May hosts the birthday of a number of greats, including Tagore and Satyajit Ray. Ratnottama Sengupta’s piece on Ray’s birth anniversary celebrations with actress Jaya Bachchan recounting her experience while working for Ray in Mahanagar(Big City), a film that has been restored and was part of celebrations for the filmmaker’s 102nd Birth anniversary captures the nostalgia of a famous actress on the greatest filmmakers of our times. She has also given us an essay on Tagore and cinema in memory of the great soul, who was just sixty years older to Ray and impacted the filmmaker too. Ray had a year-long sojourn in Santiniketan during his youth.
Eulogising Rabindrasangeet and its lyrics is an essay by Professor Fakrul Alam on Tagore. Professor Alam has translated number of his songs for the essay as he has, a powerful poem from Bengali by Masud Khan. A transcreation of Tagore’s first birthday poem , a wonderful translation of Balochi poetry by Fazal Baloch of Munir Momin’s verses, another one from Korean by Ihlwha Choi rounds up the translated poetry in this edition. Stories that reach out with their poignant telling include Nadir Ali’s narrative, translated from Punjabi by his daughter, Amna Ali, and Aruna Chakravarti’s translation of a short story by Tagore. We have more stories from around the world with Julian Gallo exploring addiction, Abdullah Rayhan with a poignant narrative from Bangladesh, Sreelekha Chatterjee with a short funny tale and Paul Mirabile exploring the supernatural and horror, a sequel to ‘The Book Hunter‘, published in the April issue.
All the genres we host seem to be topped with a sprinkling of pieces on Tagore as this is his birth month. A book excerpt from Chakravarti’s Daughters of Jorasankonarrates her well-researched version of Tagore’s last birthday celebration and carries her translation of the last birthday song by the giant of Bengali literature. The other book excerpt is from Bhubaneswar@75 – Perspectives, edited by Bhaskar Parichha/ Charudutta Panigrahi. Parichha has also reviewed Journey After Midnight – A Punjabi Life: From India to Canadaby Ujjal Dosanjh, a book that starts in pre-independent India and travels with the writer to Canada via UK. Again to commemorate the maestro’s birth anniversary, Meenakshi Malhotra has revisited Radha Chakravarty’s translation of Tagore’s Farewell Song. Somdatta Mandal has critiqued KR Meera’sJezebel, translated from Malayalam by Abhirami Girija Sriram and K. S. Bijukuma. Lakshmi Kannan has introduced to us Jaydeep Sarangi’s collection of poems, letters in lower case.
There are pieces that still reach out to be mentioned. Do visit our content page for May. I would like to thank Sohana Manzoor for her fantastic artwork and continued editorial support for the Tagore translations and the whole team for helping me put together this issue. Thank you. A huge thanks to our loyal readers and contributors who continue to bring in vibrant content, photography and artwork. Without you all, we would not be where we are today.
Ratnottama Sengupta time travels fifty years back as famed actress Jaya Bachchan recounts her first day on the sets of Satyajit Ray’s Mahanagar
In this event, Jaya Bachchan recounts her days while acting in Satyajit Ray’s award-winning film Mahanagar or The Big City. Photo provided by Ratnottama Sengupta
When Shanti Di, my eldest aunt’s eldest daughter, had got married in 1964, she was already working. So she did not have to face the resistance Arati, the pivotal character of Mahanagar had to face from her in-laws and son. But prejudices and cryptic comments she did face — from her male colleagues. “Women in workplace? They only deprive deserving men of a livelihood,” they would say. “Because, men have to run entire households on their earnings while women work only for the ‘sauce’ — jewellery and saris!”
Mahanagar poster designed by Satyajit Ray. Photo provided by Ratnottama Sengupta
I remembered this at the screening of a restored print of Mahanagar (The Big City, 1963) at Nandan, the West Bengal Film Centre, to mark the 102nd birth anniversary of Satyajit Ray. Based on Narendra Mitra[1]‘s novel, Abataranika (Staircase), the film followed the trials and triumph of Arati, a housewife who steps out of the narrow domestic walls when she finds her husband Subrato bending under the weight of fending for a superannuated father, an aged mother, a school going sister, and their little boy along with themselves.
But once she starts working, she enjoys her new role of conversing with and convincing women with deep pockets to buy her products — and soon her confidence in her work grows along with her empathy with other women who are yet to be empowered like her sister-in-law, Bani, her mother-in-law, Sarojini, her Anglo Indian colleague, Edith Simmons… When her husband loses his job, Arati firmly negotiates a raise. And when Edith is fired for absence due to ill health she takes up cudgel for the ‘insult’.
The remarkable sensitivity and the eye for details with which Satyajit Ray etched the ordinary lives of a middle class family earned him the Golden Bear at the Berlin Film Festival 1964. The director’s son, Sandip Ray, remembers attending the ceremony with his parents. “Why were you not there?” a voice from the audience asked Jaya Bachchan, who was in conversation with the maestro’s son, now a renowned director in his own right. “Why would they invite me, who was just a ‘cameo artiste’ as someone mentioned this evening?”
Jaya Bachchan and Sandipt Ray conversing at the event on May 1, 2023.
Jaya Di[2] — as I am privileged to address her, much like Sandip ‘Babu’ Ray — was much more than a cameo artiste in Mahanagar. Her ‘Bani’ was a flesh and blood character as she brought to life a marriageable sister who, in my childhood and not just in Bengal, was a part and parcel of any Indian household. Bubbly, sincere, attached to her Boudi as much as to her little nephew whom she mothers when the housewife is earning the family its bread, she is pampered by her brother even as she is being trained by her mother to pick up the haata-khunti…spatula-spoon…in the kitchen!
“I distinctly remember the first day of shooting in Indrapuri Studios. It marked my debut in films. Madhabi Di and Anil Kaku were in that shot which is reproduced whenever something is written about Mahanagar. I am at the study table, trying to write something. Those days I used to wear specs when I was reading. Manik[3] Kaku must have made a mental note of that, he said, ‘Don’t take off your specs, keep them on for the shot.’ I didn’t have any dialogue for the scene. So, although I had not even been on stage before this, I didn’t feel that I was acting. The camera in front of me with Subrata Mitra behind it was not daunting. I was comfortable, just my usual self…”
Little did Jaya Bhaduri know, then, that this ‘girl-next-door’ identity would become her calling card in the years to come, storming even the glamorous boulevards of tinsel town Bollywood.
*
How did Jaya reach the sets of Mahanagar? She didn’t: Ray had sent for the girl in her teens. In all probability, she was recommended by Robi Ghosh and Sharmila Tagore. “They were shooting for Tapan Sinha’s Nirjan Saikatey (1963) when I had gone to Puri with my father, Tarun Bhaduri,” Jaya Di recounts. “We met them and on their return to Kolkata both Robi Kaku[4] and Rinku[5] Di told Manik Kaku that ‘the girl for that role (of sister) has been found at last!'”
The first time she met Ray he did not ask her anything special. Nor did he ask her to do anything particular on the set. Young Jaya was told to read her lessons aloud, which she did, just as any school going child in Bengal did half a century ago. “I remember that Baba told Jaya Di to continue reading after the camera had moved on because he wanted an audio track of her reading in the background,” Sandip recalled in the course of the conversation. “She continued to read, but suddenly there was a sound of coughing. What happened?? In reply to everyone’s anxious query she coolly replied, ‘Why? Can’t a fly wing its way into my mouth while I’m reading?'”
Jaya Di herself has no recollection of this prank, but she vividly remembers that she would pester people on the set, incessantly asking questions. She especially questioned Subrato Mitra for taking time to light up! “It was as if we were out on a picnic,” she smiles. “The entire unit indulged me like a little girl. I was very comfortable because I had no burden to carry. In the presence of major actors I was required to do very little!”
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Jaya Bhaduri was not given any express direction — neither about how to speak her lines nor about action or emotion. She had full freedom to interpret the scene and react to the other characters. “Manik Kaku used to call all the artistes and read out all the dialogues to us. His intonation would give us an idea of what he wanted from us. We interpreted the scene according to our capacity and gave our best shot. He went about canning it, he never had any problem with my delivery.”
But lessons in acting she did learn on the sets of Mahanagar — by observing how the director groomed the lead actress. “I have seen Manik Kaku directing Madhabi Di to grow into the role of Arati. He literally groomed her in acting. ‘Look this way, through the corner of your eyes. Turn your head like this. Say it like this. Wear the sari in this manner…’ The fact is that Satyajit Ray had a strong visual sense. He envisaged how the character would look and behave at the outset, how she would change, how she would resolve her dilemmas.”
In other words, his actors were not puppets: he allowed the spontaneity of some, like Jaya; he moulded the emotive action of some, like Madhabi Mukherjee who would soon storm the silver screen as Charulata (1964).
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“Mahanagar was a very modern film, and not just at the time it was made,” Jaya Bachchan observes. Her critique of Ray’s first urban development film gains greater weight from the fact that, in the intervening years, she has ‘grown up’. From a school girl to a trained actor. From the heartthrob of every Indian family in 1970s to the heartthrob of her ‘Lambuji[6]‘ — Amitabh Bachchan — whose charisma straddles two centuries, three generations, five continents. From a reclusive personal life to a vibrant political presence in the upper house of India’s Parliament.
Young Jaya Bhaduri (now Jaya Bachchan) in between lead actress Madhabi Mukherjee and Anil Chatterjee. Photo provided by Ratnottama Sengupta
So let me elaborate on her observation, taking off from a scene between her and Subroto, her elder brother in Mahanagar, enacted by Anil Chatterjee.
Subrato has come home from work and his sister asks him for his pen as hers has run out of ink. He enquires when her exams are to commence, then he comments, “What use is this reading and writing? Sei toh henshel thelte hobey, you’ll end up dealing with only pots and pans!”
“Sekhaay toh,” Bani is quick to revert. “They teach us that too – it’s Domestic Science.”
That statement portrayed Ray’s attitude towards housewife. It was and still is a commentary on the identity — role — of a contemporary wife. It is in fact every woman’s attitude in contemporary India,
Jaya Di has observed: “Today every woman also has to and does work. Not only for economic reasons but for identity, purpose in life. Those who have had higher education, certainly do. Those who have not studied much, who help with housework also have such dignity. I see their confidence in the way they carry themselves. They know their mind and they don’t hesitate to say up front what work they will do and what they won’t; how much time they will apportion to a household and when they will leave. And like urban working women, they too save a little from their earnings, use some of it and keep some for emergencies.”
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Ray’s masterstroke is seen in the way he sketched the nuances of the bank clerk husband, complete with his angst and jealousy. He is proud of his wife’s charming appearance, he is confident she can steer herself through the career of a salesgirl, he is happy when the second income flows in. Yet — and especially when he loses his job — he suffers from insecurity, jealousy, suspicion. To the extent that the man who wrote her application letters, goads her to write a resignation letter. He is redeemed by the stand he takes at the very end when she gives up her much-needed job to protest a wrong against a colleague.
Critics have found Ray to be more kind to the protagonist than Narendra Nath Mitra, the Bengali author who also penned Ras[7] (made into the Hindi film Saudagar (Trader, 1973) which again builds upon how economic realities can make or mar a marriage. About a decade later Jaya Bachchan co-starred with husband Amitabh Bachchan in Abhimaan[8](1973). In it Hrishikesh Mukherjee takes to an extreme the consequences of a husband’s ego trip when his wife fares better than him, professionally and financially.
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Earlier Hrishikesh Mukherjee had, in Guddi (1971), given the young sister of Mahanagar a full canvas to come into her own as an actor. The same bubbly girl matures into a woman who can differentiate between love and infatuation. “After Mahanagar I was very selective. I chose to work only with directors who had a ‘Bengali’ sensibility,” Jaya Di says without a hint of hesitation.
And the rapport she struck with Ray? It lasted a lifetime. When she joined the Film and Television Institute of India (FTII) she asked her Manik Kaku for a letter of commendation to go with her biodata. He wrote back saying that she doesn’t need an institute but join it, “it is the place for you”.
She went thinking she would not last beyond a few months but with batchmates like Anil Dhawan, her co-star in Piya Ka Ghar (1972), and Danny Denzongpa, she stayed the full course. “And when Manik Kaku came with the print of Goopy Gyne Bagha Byne (1969), I felt so proud! I went to the airport to pick him up!”
That bonding would show every time they were in each other’s vicinity, Sandip Ray reiterates. “Once we were in Bombay and Baba stepped out of the Taj Mahal Hotel to leaf through books in the stall just outside. Suddenly a shrill voice screamed, ‘Manik Kakuuu!’ Jaya Di was passing by in her car and had spotted him!” “And I hugged him!” Jaya Di adds, “I took liberties others would hesitate to.”
So why was she was not seen in his films again? “There were talks of casting me in Pratidwandi (1970) opposite Dhritiman Chatterjee,” Jaya recalls, “but I was in FTII then. Later I accosted him for not giving me a thought (for the role) – ‘You could have at least called me!’ His reply? ‘It was not necessary.’ That’s all!
“As if to add insult to injury, Manik Kaku got Amitji to do the voice over for Shatranj Ke Khilari (The Chess Players, 1977) but a role for me? No! I was so angry I went and met him in Rajkamal Studio. His reply? ‘ Ha ha ha…’ Not a word more.”
Amitabh Bachchan doing the voice over for Satyajit Ray in Shatranj Ke Khilari. Picture from Bachchan’s FB, provided by Ratnottama Sengupta.
That did not stop Jaya Bachchan from going to Bishop Lefroy Road every time she happened to be in Kolkata. She had, after all, seen the films the ‘Towering Inferno’ made even before Mahanagar. “Every time I watched a film by Ray I felt this is his best. Until the next one came along…” So, when Charulata came, Mahanagar paled. But wait, to this day Debi (The Goddess, 1960) continues to haunt Jaya Bachchan.
And to think that, when Ray had sent for her, the young girl growing up in Bhopal was beset with doubt and hesitation. “I was studying in a convent school, and I feared that the nuns would disapprove of my acting in a film. But my father said, ‘It’s the opportunity of a lifetime — don’t let go of it.'”
Cut to the convent when she went back after Mahanagar. The same austere nuns came and said, ” ‘You have acted in a Satyajit Ray film?! You are so lucky!!’ That is when I first realised, even before he was crowned in Berlin, what a major director my Manik Kaku was!”
Jaya Bachchan on 1/5/2023. Photo provided by Ratnottama Sengupta
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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PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
Borderless 