During an extensive interview, Pankaj Kapur, the highly acclaimed actor, director and writer, nostalgically remembered his days in NSD[1] as a student in the 70s and of Ebrahim Alkazi who was the guiding light of the school as the Director from 1962-77. Mandi House was the vibrant cultural hub where the quartet of NSD, Triveni Kala Sangam, Sriram Art Centre and Kamani Auditorium breathed cadences of art, music, dance and theatre. As the presiding deity of NSD, Alkazi’s prodigious talent in all aspects of theatre except costume (where his wife was the moving spirit) brought his dynamic genius into the quest for intercultural and interdisciplinary thinking in artistic expressions that was both transformative and liberative for his myriad students like Sai Paranjpye, Nasir, Om Puri, Surekha Sikri, Uttara Baokar and Pankaj Kapur[2], who later on lit the stage and celluloid though their exceptional talents and skill. He would have been a hundred this month. Amal Allana, his daughter has authored a biography of her father, Ebrahim Alkazi: Holding Time Captive. The book makes an absorbing read.
She brings out Alkazi’s early encounters and reception by the Hindi Theatrewallas of Delhi in the early 60s. It is the story of a western educated Bombayite who was presumptuous enough to think he could teach Delhi theatre buffs a thing or two. As a second-year student, Sai Paranjpye recalls Ebrahim as a storm under whom a metamorphosis took place in the NSD overnight. Walking in to the den of Hindiwallah writers’ camp, Alkazi caught them unawares by picking up the works of the most cerebral and experimental of the Hindi new wave movement; Mohan Rakesh’s Aashadh Ka Ek Din[3]and Dharmavir Bharat’s Andha Yug[4]. Aashadh ka Ek Din, a play with a rural background, was the story of the Indian villager, whose lifestyle, pace and values were succumbing to the inevitable onslaught of urbanisation. The basic theme was autobiographical to Mohan Rakesh himself, where he identified himself with a classical playwright like Kalidas. This mix of history and the present entwined in to a single entity, was a modernist strategy that Alkazi too had attempted while contemporising myths. He exquisitely crafted the mise en scene[5]that sparkled with delicate, nuanced performances from young student actors such as Sudha Sharma as Mallika and Om Shiv Puri as Kalidas.
India had lost a war with China in 1962. Alkazi had chosen Andha Yug, set during the last days of the Kurukshetra war, when Aswasthama stood in rage, prepared to use the ultimate weapon to annihilate the mankind. It was just not the play’s topicality, its anti-war thrust that drew Alkazi to it. Alkazi tried to shrug off the baggage of European modernism he was carrying, embarking now on a foundational journey towards a deeper ‘discovery of India.’ Through Andha Yug, Alkazi came closer to learning about India’s value system and philosophy as explored in the Mahabharata, while Aashad gave him an appreciation of the artistic sensibility of the great Sankrit poet-dramatist Kalidas, India’s veritable Shakespeare. From now on, he would engage with the idea of India between the two polarities: India as a myth and India as a kind of documented reality. Alkazi was introducing the idea that theatre was a performance art, not literature performed on stage. He was creating a language of performance that was distinct from the language of words.
The making of Tughlaq and its staging in Purana Qila is a watershed event in the theatre landscape of Delhi. Alkazi was greatly drawn to Girish Karnad’s play Tughlaq. Karnad had confided in him how Tughlaq was the most idealistic, the most intelligent king ever to come on the throne of Delhi and one of the greatest failures also. And how in the early sixties India had also come very far in the same direction. Alkazi felt that this play effectively reflected the trials and opposition a visionary leader faced, while trying to function within a corrupt political scenario. The cast of Tughlaq had some of the most brilliant actors, each painstakingly trained by Alkazi himself. There was Manohar Singh who was playing Tughlaq, Surekha Sikri and Uttara Baokar were doubled as Sauteli Ma, Nasiruddin Shah as the Machiavellian Aziz, Rajesh Vivek as Najeeb. The young reporter members included Pankaj Kapur, KK Raina, Raghuvir Yadav, a veritable who is who of latter-day cinema. Tughlaq was staged in 1972 at the Purana Qila (Old Fort) in Delhi, utilising the historical ruins as a backdrop for the dramatic spectacle. This production is considered a landmark event in Indian theatre, combining history, politics and performance to create a commentary on the reign of Tuqhlaq[6] and politics of the 60s.
Nehru’s dream of reconstructing the nation needed a powerful and unitary concept of ‘nationalism’ to recognise all productive forces in the country. Culture was very much a part of the reconstructive process that needed to be systematised and brought under one umbrella and for this purpose, three national academies had been set up: the Sangeet Natak Academy, the Lalit Kala Academy and the Sahitya Akademi. The desire to modernise Indian theatre was part of the same reconstructive cultural policy. And Alkazi was the mascot of the theatre movement and Mandi House, the epicentre of cultural conflation and crescendo.
The Purana Qila festival in 1972, with Tughlaq, Sultan Razia and Andha Yug became the most talked about cultural event of the decade He wanted to offer both the hoi polloi and the cognoscenti, including burqa clad women, high quality theatre that did not conform to ‘popular taste’; theatre that had a social relevance, that both instructed and entertained. This was Alkazi’s ideal of what constituted national theatre.
There have many stars in firmament of Indian theatre. Ebrahim revitalised Indian theatre. Habib Tanvir, blended folk traditions with modern drama. Badal Sirkar revolutionised Bengali theatre by challenging conventional norms. They are like the great troika of Indian Cinema, Satyajit Ray, Ritwick Ghatak and Mrinal Sen.
Alkazi left NSD as it was denied autonomy by scheming bureaucrats. Allana brings out how Alkazi passionately believed that an artist belongs to no political party, and has no religious ideology. An artist has to distance himself from each one of these in order to see each one of these objectively. “And finally, he has to distance himself from himself.” He wrote: “ It is our duty and moral responsibility to study history dispassionately, but with a passion for the truth, with humility and with a profound sense of responsibility and to ask ourselves seriously: What is the legacy that we shall leave behind?”
[6] A 1964 Kannada play by Girish Kannad, translated to Urdu in 1966 in NSD and most famously performed for in Purana Qila, New Delhi, in 1972
Satya Narayan Misra is a Professor Emeritus and author of seven books. The latest, Against the Binary, waspublished in December 2024. He is a regular columnist and reviewer of books for several leading newspapers in Odisha and digital platforms likeScroll.in and The Wire. He was associated with the NSD in the 70s.
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Ratnottama Sengupta introduces a prolific, popular and celebrated Bengali writer and an artist
Dhruba Esh; Courtesy: Kamrul Hasan Mithon
“Dhruba Esh, born 1967, is a full time cover designer – and a part time writer. He has authored stories for children and thrillers for grown-ups. A total of 40 books — or maybe more.”
This is from the cover flap of one of the artist’s published works. Cryptic? Yes. But it does not fail to convey the whimsy every Dhaka-based publisher and poet identifies with the name, Dhruba Esh. Read what Humayun Ahmed (1948-2012), a prolific author, dramatist and director of unforgettable films like Ghetuputra Kamola[1], saysabout the designer in Chaley Jaay Basanta Din[2]. “Must get hold of Dhruba Esh. For some unknown reason he’s been out of reach. Pasted on the front door of the flat he lives in is an A4 sized paper. It is adorned with the sketch of a crow in flight and is signed off with these words in Dhruba’s handwriting: ‘The Bird has Flown the Nest.’
“What I need to do is this: Throw away that A4 sheet and replace it with another, inscribed by these words: ‘Come back, Birdie!’
“Dhruba Esh might not know, but a bird that takes to its wings always returns to its nest. Only the caged bird has nowhere to fly off to. Its only reality is to stay put in one location…”
Why am I taking a serious note of what Humayun Ahmed wrote? Not only because Dhruba Esh has penned the biography, Tumi Achho Kemon, Humayun Ahmed? More so because this custodian of Bangladesh literary culture, who continues to be a top seller at Ekushe Book Fair[3], is one of the cornerstones of modern Bengali literature on either side of the barbed wires.
Dhruba Esh is himself a legend in the Bangla literary firmament, I learn from Kamrul Hasan Mithon, a photographer turned publisher cum writer has been instrumental in reconnecting me with my father, Nabendu Ghosh’s roots in Kalatiya, once a village in Dhaka district that is now a suburb of the capital city. Bhaiti, as I affectionately address him, has been writing a column, Dyasher Bari (Ancestral Home), in Robbar (Sunday) magazine published online from Kolkata. Featured in it are all the major names of Bengali art, literary and cinema world — from Suchitra Sen, Mrinal Sen, Paritosh Sen to Ganesh Haloi, Miss Shefali, Sabitri Chatterjee and not forgetting Baba.
“Dhruba Esh is just one of his kind. He does not have a wife, no mobile, nor a Facebook page. He does not even ride a bus or train. If a destination is too long to walk, he travels only by rickshaw. He is most indifferent to money matters. But he is most enthusiastic about painting and designing.
“Starting in 1989, when he was still a second year student at the Dhaka University, he has designed nearly 25,000 book covers. In addition he has designed music albums – and T’s too! Three years ago he was bestowed with the Bangla Academy Literary Award for his contribution to Children’s Literature – with titles such as Ayng Byang Chang[4] and AmiEkta Bhoot[5].”
I fell for ‘Amiyashankar…’ at the very first reading. How effortlessly the surreal narrative etches a contemporary reality obtaining in the land of my forefathers!
Amiyashankar Go Back Home
Story by Dhruba Esh, translated from Bengali by Ratnottama Sengupta
Subachani or Bar footed Geese flying over Himalayas: From Public Domain
“Amiyashankar Go Back Home!”
“That’s the title of the book?”
“Yes Sir.”
“Is there a poem by this name?”
“No Sir. There’s no mention of Amiyashankar in my poetry.”
“No mention at all? Oh!”
“Can I send you some of my poems?”
“You may send.”
“Can you do the cover within this month?”
“Not this month. You’ll get it on the 12th of the next month. Only sixteen days to go now.”
He started laughing.
He’s a small town poet. A young professor. I have been to the town where he teaches in a girls’ College. It’s like a watercolour painting. There’s a river to the north of the town. Blue mountains in the distance complete the view.
The geese of Subachani had flown over this town on their journey towards the Manasarovar to restore Ridoy to his human size. The poet was unaware of this. He has not read Buro Angla[6].
“What is the book about? Birds?”
“You can find the PDF on Google.”
“Thanks. I will read it.”
Two days later he called. “Reading BuroAngla has sparked some fireflies in my mind. I’d not read the book until now.”
He was given my number by Rasul Bhai, a poet and a cricketer from the same town. He just about looks after the family publishing business. A good person. Last year I had done the cover for his book of poems, Lake Mirror of the Full Moon.
The poet had emailed his poems. He had said he’d send some poems, instead he had sent the PDF of the complete book. On the basis of Divine Selection I read 13 poems. He cannot be faulted for not reading Buro Angla. This poet writes good poetry. In two days I readied the cover for his book.
*
“Is Amiyashankar a friend of yours?”
“No.”
“Why are you telling him to go back home?”
“Because he is Amiyashankar.”
“What?”
“His wife waits for him.”
“He has no one of his own but his wife?”
“He has kids. One son, one daughter.”
“What does he do?”
“He’s a teacher in a government primary school.”
I was startled. Subhankar, Tushar, Amiyashankar, me — we are childhood friends. Our Amiyashankar is a teacher in a government primary school. He has a son and a daughter. The poet who lives in another town has never been to our town. He is not likely to have set his eyes on or made an acquaintance of Amiyashankar. Or, is a person likely to know another person through social media?
“I am not on social media,” said the poet.
“Why?”
“I get disoriented. Confused.”
“Oh. Your Amiyashankar’s wife is named Mitra?”
“Mitra. Yes, I did not tell you, sorry. Amiyashankar’s son is called Arnab, his daughter is Paramita.”
“Why are you creating Amiyashankar?”
“I have no friend.”
Our Amiyashankar’s wedded wife is Mitra. His son is Anu, Miti his daughter.
I call him.
“Hey, what’s the proper name of Anu and Miti?”
“Here — Anu is Arnab…”
“And Miti is Paramita?”
“Yes. You know it already.”
Really tough to suffer this.
I mentioned the poet. Amiyashankar did not read or write poetry. He had never heard of the poet.
“A modern poet?” he was curious.
“A post-modern modern poet.”
“Now what is THAT? Good to eat or wear?”
“Eat. Wear.”
“Does it hide your shame?”
“It covers your shame.”
“Good if it hides all.”
“Yes. Right. Where are you now?”
“I’m here, at Moyna and Dulal’s stall, sipping tea.”
“Aren’t you cold? Go back home.”
Amiyashankar, go back home.
*
On the 12th I sent the EPS file of the cover to the poet.
“If you don’t like it you may discard it,” I messaged.
Reply: “Will you design another cover then?”
Reply: “No.”
Reply: “This will do. I like it. There’s no Amiyashankar but one can visualise him. Thanks. Do I pay you online through bKash?”
I sent my bKash number. He sent the money.
End of give-and-take.
*
I blocked the poet’s number. I deleted every bit of communication in the mail. We had an Amiyashankar in flesh and blood. The poet had concocted an identical Amiyashankar. That Amiyashankar did not live and breathe – how’s that? Such convolution and complication! I was fed up of continuously, endlessly, unendingly living in complexity.
Better to shut my eyes and think of uncomplicated glow worms in my mind.
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[1] A 2012 film by Humayun Ahmed centring around the exploitation of ghetupatras – young boy performers, Komala being a ghetupatra.
[6] Book by Abanindranath Tagore (1871-1951, nephew of Rabindranath Tagore) published in 1953. Buro Angul is Thumb in Bengali. This is the humorous story about a mischievous boy, Ridoy, who was shrunk to the size of a thumb. He had to journey to the Mansarovar in Himalayas to regain his original size and meets various creatures, including the geese referred to here.
Dhruba Esh, born 1967, is a full time cover designer — and a part time writer. He has authored stories for children and thrillers for grown-ups. A total of 40 books — or maybe more. This story was first published in Bengali in a hardcopy journal called Easel.
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
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
Shyam Benegal (1934-2024)Street art: Shyam Benegal From Public Domain
“If I enjoy the film I have made, then I am quite certain viewers will too. And what business do I have to burden viewers with what I myself do not enjoy?”
–Shyam Benegal (in an interaction with Ratnottama Sengupta)
Art is not elitist. Nor is artistic experience one that only the elite can enjoy. The world’s greatest art has been accessible to all mankind. Taj Mahal was erected in memory of Mumtaz Mahal but it is for the world to access and admire. The cave paintings at Ajanta propagated a certain philosophy but thousands of years later too they mesmerise one and all. And, anyone who goes to Tanjore temple experiences its magnificence. Cinema too is capable of providing such universal experience. What is more, it is possible to provide such an experience without distorting or oversimplifying an idea.
Shyam Benegal (1934-2024) had dinned this belief into me when I interviewed with him for the first time — in Bombay of 1980. Seven years before that he had proved it to the world with his debut film, Ankur (The Seedling, 1974). It had announced itself to cineastes through its nomination for the Golden Bear at the 24th Berlin Film Festival and had gone on to win three National Awards. In the wake of stylised trendsetters like Bhuvan Shome (directed by Mrinal Sen, 1969), Uski Roti (Others’ Bread, directed by Mani Kaul, 1969) and Maya Darpan (Illusory Mirror, directed by Kumar Shahani, 1972), everyone expected Ankur to be another “arty” film. In other words, “pretentious”, “pseudo intellectual”, even “boring”. Far from refusing to peter out of theatres due to lack of footfalls, the Rs 5-lakh budget film went on to garner millions because it engaged audiences of every shade and strata. And it was hailed as marking a new beginning in Indian cinema that had roots in the narrative tradition of earlier masters such as Bimal Roy and Benegal’s own cousin, Guru Dutt.
No, Ankur was not a fluke, Nishant (Night’s End, 1975) had proven. Once again, Benegal had set his film in Telengana, that part of Andhra Pradesh which had seen him grow up with his siblings in the household of his father whose livelihood came from a photo studio. “Alwal was a semi-rural semi-urban area, so I had seen both sides of a feudal society coming to grips with modernity setting in,” Benegal had explained to me.
Ankur had touched upon several ills of the feudal system: class difference, caste inequity, sexual exploitation of women, of the physically challenged, and even alcoholism among the poor. It had a sequence of thrashing, and it closed with the indication of violent protest. Almost all these themes would flower into independent saplings in Benegal’s subsequent films. Because the important thing for him, as he once said to BBC, was that “post-Independence India was changing its feudal character to the kind of society we wanted to create. Industrialisation at one level, creation of the middle class at another level, and disappearance of the regressive values of the feudal life.”
At that time, when I was yet to step out of my teens, I was deeply impacted by the oppressive ‘liberty’ of the caste person who thought he had a right over the lowborn woman. The empowerment of women was a theme Benegal felt strongly about. “The idea had started during the national movement with Gandhi, who first talked about women having equal responsibility,” pointed out the director of The Making of a Mahatma (1996). “They have to become aware of their strength and empower themselves because 50 percent of your population comprises of women.”
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From the birth of a new nation to the birth of a nation, Benegal constantly grappled with these themes. With “the whole business of tradition and modernity,” to borrow his words. “In an ancient society like India where so much of tradition is still valued and revered, when will we get rid of the dubious virtues?” he wondered.
Benegal functioned with a sensibility that was native to the length and breadth of the land that was his canvas. “As long as one functions with one’s sensibility, it will resonate with every person of that sensibility,” he maintained.
To me the most endearing trait of a Benegal film is the simplicity of its narrative. His incidents came out of life, his characters were from his surroundings. And his unfolding, though devoid of gimmick, was not bereft of drama nor of violence. He learnt to steer clear of artifices while making ad films where, “because you have to make your point in one minute, you tend to fall back on gimmick.”
Clarity of purpose and simplicity of narration were the two rails that never let his script go off into a meander of ultra mystical or complex metaphors. Magic realism? Hyper realism? High pitched melodrama? Benegal had need for none of these ploys. “The most complex of ideas have a simple way of projecting themselves,” he’d say. That, and not its reverse, was the most valid mantra of his life.
Why did the Phalke or the Padma Bhushan awards like simple story telling? “Because I like to involve people, and that happens when there is a dramatic juxtaposition of characters.” The use of drama did not in any way dilute the significance of his subject — be it casteism (Samar, Conflict, 1999), women’s empowerment (Bhumika, Role, 1977), portrayal of the principles of national heroes (Making of the Mahatma), or the struggle to wrest power from an oppressor (Junoon, The Obsession, 1978). Be it in feudal Telengana (Nishant), in a Borgadar’s Bengal (Arohan, The Ascent, 1982), an industrial Bombay (Kalyug, The Age of Vice, 1981), in Bose’s Burma (The Forgotten Hero, 2005), or Mujib’s Bangla (Mujib: The Making of a Nation, 2023).
In the process he dispelled the notion that showing our reality in cinema cannot engross or entertain. In fact, he questioned the very definition of the word ‘Entertainment’. “If a serious talk or a news holds you spellbound, isn’t that also entertainment?” he had asked me.
So, in order to engage the viewers, Benegal plunged into problems and miseries of the marginalised Indian: the milkman (Manthan, The Churning, 1976) and the weaver (Susman, The Essence, 1978), the untouchable (Samar) and the glamorous (Bhumika), the royals (Zubeidaa, 2001) and the entertainer (Sardari Begum, 1996), the middle class households where women are mere birthing machines (Hari Bhari, 2000), or the illiterate voters of Sajjanpur (Welcome to Sajjanpur, 2008).
Through all these voters, men and women, landlords and servants, on the banks of Katha Sagar (A Sea of Stories, 1986, TV series) or in the arid Birbhum or in the Mandi (Market Place, 1983) of flesh, Benegal made spectators of us. “Even a road accident turns us into spectators, some mute, some aggressive, some caring,” he’d pointed out. “What is it we want to experience when we rush to the window when we hear a car screeching to a half?” he’d asked. “Why is an unanticipated death — or murder — part of the entertainment formula? Because the adrenaline rush, the excitement in these exorcises our fears,” he had explained.
But Benegal’s wasn’t a conventional definition of entertainment. Nor did he decry the use of violence in mainstream cinema. “Indeed, it helps society because viewers find vicarious release from the stress that builds up in the tension filled life in urban societies.” As for his own films rooted in the remote pockets away from the metros? “Sometimes we need to use force because some social problems have got so deeply entrenched,” he was unabashed about violence in his films. “Change in certain situations can come only from the use of violence. But be careful never to lose your moral compass,” he immediately warned me. “Violence cannot be indiscriminately justified nor universalised. And in no circumstance should it be glamourised.”
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So human impulses, and social well-being were his prime concern. The constant interaction between an individual and his or her milieu; suffering inequities, and standing up against exploitation — we gained insight into these when we sat in darkened auditoriums to watch Arohan, Sardari Begum, Mammo (1994), Well Done Abba…(2010)
Socio-economic. Socio-political. Socio-legal. No label of genre could own Shyam Benegal. Because? “That will restrict my own thinking. How can I keep pace with the galloping changes that come with the ticking of centuries? And when the march of science unleashes computers and cellular phones, Internet and digital filmmaking?”
But what prompted his choice of subject every time he sat down to work on a script — with Shama Zaidi or Girish Karnad, Satyadev Dubey or Khalid Mohamed[1]? “There’s an electic streak in me that will not let me go where I’ve been before or do what I’ve done before,” Benegal was clear. So historical patterns to saw him go from The Making of a Mahatma on Gandhi, the advocate of non-violence, to Bose, The Forgotten Hero who escaped home incarceration and travelled through Himalayan hurdles and joined the Japanese to fight the British colonisers of India. From the Junoon of the Sepoy Rebellion of 1857, to Bharat Ek Khoj (India, a Search, 1988 TV serial) exploring the roots of India. From my Samvidhan (2010, TV mini-series), the formulation of the Constitution that is the firm foundation of the nation he mapped through his films, to Mujib on the birth of Bangladesh.
This refusal to be contained in a box had seen Benegal go from making promotional ads to documentaries on Steel Authority of India and Artificial Insemination in Animal Husbandry, on Nehru and Satyajit Ray. Benegal’s refusal to be boxed and labelled saw him make
Manthan and Hari Bhari — two prime examples of turning a documentary subject into a feature film. Why, his varied interest saw him making a documentary that mapped the course of a raga which originated with Mallikarjun Mansur hearing a leaking tap in the kitchenette of a friend in Bombay – and went on to capture the spirit of the financial capital!
What explains the prolificity of the man who celebrated his 90th birthday on December 16 and bade goodbye a week later? His indomitable and indefatigable spirit.
Unusual Concerts: The documentary on Mallikarjun Mansur (1910-1992) and Bombay
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
Ratnottama Sengupta talks to Ruchira Gupta, activist for global fight against human trafficking, about her work and introduces her novel, I Kick and I Fly. Click here to read.
The White Lady by Atta Shad has been translated from Balochi by Fazal Baloch. Click here to read.
Sparrows by Ihlwha Choi has been translated from Korean by the poet himself. Click here to read.
Tagore’s Dhoola Mandiror Temple of Dust has been translated from Bengali by Mitali Chakravarty. Click here to read.
Pandies Corner
Songs of Freedom: What are the Options? is an autobiographical narrative by Jyoti Kaur, translated from Hindustani by Lourdes M Supriya. These narrations highlight the ongoing struggle against debilitating rigid boundaries drawn by societal norms, with the support from organisations like Shaktishalini and pandies’. Click here to read.
Ratnottama Sengupta travels back to her childhood wonderland where she witnessed what we regard as Indian film history being created. Click here to read.
Aditi Yadav explores the universal appeal of the translation of a 1937 Japanese novel that recently came to limelight as it’s rendition on the screen won the Golden Globe Best Animated Feature Film award (2024). Click here to read.
Love is a many splendoured thing and takes many forms — that stretches beyond bodily chemistry to a need to love all humankind. There is the love for one’s parents, family, practices one believes in and most of all nurtured among those who write, a love for words. For some, like Tagore, words became akin to breathing. He wrote from a young age. Eventually, an urge to bridge social gaps led him to write poetry that bleeds from the heart for the wellbeing of all humanity. Tagore told a group of writers, musicians, and artists, who were visiting Sriniketan in 1936: “The picture of the helpless village which I saw each day as I sailed past on the river has remained with me and so I have come to make the great initiation here. It is not the work for one, it must involve all. I have invited you today not to discuss my literature nor listen to my poetry. I want you to see for yourself where our society’s real work lies. That is the reason why I am pointing to it over and over again. My reward will be if you can feel for yourself the value of this work.”
And it was perhaps to express this great love of humanity that he had written earlier in his life a poem called Dhoola Mandirthat urges us to rise beyond our differences of faith and find love in serving humankind. In this month, which celebrates love with Valentine’s Day, we have a translation of this poem that is born of his love for all people, Dhoola Mandir. Another poet who writes of his love for humanity and questions religion is Nazrul, two of whose poems have been translated by Niaz Zaman. Exploring love between a parent and children is poetry by Masood Khan translated from Bengali by Fakrul Alam. From the distant frontiers of Balochistan, we have a poem by Atta Shad, translated from Balochi by Fazal Baloch, for a fair lady — this time it is admiration. Ihlwha Choi translates poetry from Korean to express his love for a borderless world through the flight of sparrows.
Suzanne Kamata writes a light-hearted yet meaningful column on the recent Taylor Swift concert in Tokyo. Aditi Yadav takes up the Japanese book on which was based a movie that won the 2024 Golden Globe Best Animated Feature Film Award. Sohana Manzoor journeys to London as Devraj Singh Kalsi with tongue in cheek humour comments on extracurriculars that have so become a necessity for youngsters to get to the right schools. Snigdha Agrawal gives us a slice of nostalgia while recounting the story of a Santhali lady and Keith Lyons expresses his love for peace as he writes in memory of a man who cycled for peace.
In reviews, Somdatta Mandal has explored Tahira Naqvi’s The History Teacher of Lahore: A Novel. Srijato’s AHouse of Rain and Snow, translated from Bengali by Maharghya Chakraborty, has been discussed by Basudhara Roy and Bhaskar Parichha has reviewed Toby Walsh’s Faking It: Artificial Intelligence in a Human World. News and Documentary Emmy Award winner (1996) Ruchira Gupta’s daring novel born of her work among human traffickers, I Kick and I Fly, has been brought to our notice by Sengupta and she converses about the book and beyond with this socially conscious activist, filmmaker and writer. Another humanist, a doctor who served by bridging gaps between patients from underprivileged backgrounds, Dr Ratna Magotra, also conversed about her autobiography,Whispers of the Heart — Not Just a Surgeon: An Autobiography, where she charts her journey which led her to find solutions to take cardiac care to those who did not have the money to afford it,
We have fiction this time from Neeman Sobhan reflecting on how far people will go for the love of their mother tongue to highlight the movement that started on 21st February in 1952 and created Bangladesh in 1971. Our stories are from around the world — Paul Mirabile from France, Ravi Shankar from Malaysia, Sobhan from Bangladesh and Ravi Prakash and Apurba Biswas from India — weaving local flavours and immigrant narratives. Most poignant of all the stories is a real-life narrative under the ‘Songs of Freedom’ series by a young girl, Jyoti Kaur, translated from Hindustani by Lourdes M Supriya. These stories are brought to us in coordination with pandies’ and Shaktishalini, a women’s organisation to enable the abused. Sanjay Kumar, the founder of pandies’ and the author of a most poignant book about healing suffering of children through theatre, Performing, Teaching and Writing Theatre: Exploring Play, writes, “‘Songs of Freedom’ bring stories from women — certainly not victims, not even survivors but fighters against the patriarchal status quo with support from the organisation Shaktishalini.”
While looking forward in hope of finding a world coloured with love and kindness under the blue dome, I would like to thank our fabulous team who always support Borderless Journal with their wonderful work. A huge thanks to all of you from the bottom of my heart. I thank all the writers who make our issues come alive with their creations and readers who savour it to make it worth our while to bring out more issues. I would urge our readers to visit our contents’ page as we have more than mentioned here.
My aunt Ranjita and uncle Praphulla Ghosh were tenants of a barsati[2] at 4A Motilal Nehru Road. Next door lived Padma Khastagir, who would become the first woman chief justice of West Bengal. And if you walked through the gate separating the two houses, you would walk into the house owned by Purabi Chakladar — Khokondi to us.
One day, while we were visiting from Bombay, Baba abruptly stopped in his track. “Mrinal Babu!!” he called out. The gentleman in white kurta and Aligarhi churidar spun around, and responded at the same pitch, “Nabendu da[3]!!”
I was taken aback. I did not know Mrinal Sen then. Instead, I knew his lanky young lad, Kunal, though only by sight. I knew him because, as my friend Haabu — ‘good name’ Tapan — told me, he used to call his dad ‘bandhu[4]‘. In return, his father too calls him bandhu, Haabu had added, to my amusement and intrigue. Leapfrogging through time, I am now reading with a smile on my lips that Bandhu is the title of the biography of Mrinal Sen penned by his worthy son Kunal…
I also knew that Kunal’s mama[5], Anup Kumar, lived with them in that house. So was the actor famous as ‘the’ Palatak[6] really his maternal uncle? Naah! But I wasn’t intrigued. After all, Dulal mama and Amal kaku[7] and Sudhir mama too lived with us, in our tiny house in Bombay…
Soon I got to know Mrinal Sen. The director. Because I got to watch Bhuvan Shome[8]in a private screening at Indrapuri Studios. I had tagged along with baba[9] for the screening where the only other viewers were the Hrishi kaku — the famous Hrishikesh Mukherjee — and the lights wizard, Tapas Sen, and the man who had played the eponymous role of Bhuvan Shome. Yes, Utpal Dutt. And let me excerpt from my piece in Sillhouette and my piece in Blue Pencil’s Tribute to Mrinal Sen and provide a glimpse of that evening.
*
It was the summer of 1968. Hrishikesh Mukherjee, Nabendu Ghosh, Utpal Dutt, Tapas Sen and Mrinal Sen had gathered in Indrapuri Studios. A special preview had been organised for a film Mrinal — an associate of the other four from those IPTA [Indian People’s Theatre Association] days at Paradise Cafe — had just completed for Film Finance Corporation [FFC]. A 12-year-old – me – had tagged on. They watched in complete silence as the strict bureaucrat [Bhuvan Shome] from a metropolis took a break from his Rail Board office in the Kutch Backwaters, went on a wild duck shoot, was charmed by an innocent village belle and pardoned her husband, a corrupt ticket collector. The viewers were engrossed in the pristine landscape, the unspoilt villager, the incorrigible bribe-seeker. And they laughed when the quirky disciplinarian stood before a mirror, stripped, made faces, yelled and danced in joy, feeling liberated from the harness of doing the ‘right’ thing.
The scene was straight out of Mrinal’s own life: he’d enacted it in 1951, when he quit as a medical rep in Jhansi. All through the evening at Indrapuri, Mrinal was tense, wondering how the viewers would respond to the Bonophul story he’d wanted to make since 1959. The seasoned group of writers, directors, actors and theatre persons were a barometer the director trusted completely. Although he had eight films behind him, Mrinal was starting from a ‘zero point’. It was a radical departure for even him — and Indian viewers had certainly not seen such idyllic outdoors, such visual poetry, such disregard for romantic conventions. No sets, no stars, no songs, no happy endings, the dark comedy thumbed its nose at morality. FFC had agreed to fund it only because the amount was so low. But after the failure of the Oriya Matira Manisha (1966), Mrinal was sitting idle, with no Bengali producer willing to back him. He simply had to prove himself with this Hindi film.
Little did the man with salt-n-pepper hair, silver sideburns, rumpled kurta and Aligarhi churidar know that the evening’s youngest viewer — who had been completely ignored by the grey heads — could indicate the popular response to Bhuvan Shome. Here was a movie that had thrown traditional narrative to the winds and replaced it with a sweeping vision! It would sweep off its feet an entire generation of filmgoers who had no affection for mainstream affectation, social tragicomedies, or action drama. Unwittingly, Mrinal had ushered the New Wave in Indian cinema.
*
Wind the clock and set it forward by a few years. Mrinal da‘s biography was being launched at Kolkata’s Park Hotel. Baba arrived at the venue accompanied by me. Mrinal da got off the stage and headed straight for him. On his own he signed a book and placed it in Baba’s hand.
On the 90th birthday of Nabendu Ghosh, 27 March 2007, Mrinal Sen wrote:
“As a writer and a creative individual, Nabendu Ghosh has never believed evil is man’s natural state. Along with his characters, he has been confronting, fighting, and surviving on tension and hope.”
That same year, on 15 December 2007, Baba passed away. The minute he got the news, Mrinal da called me up. “Where are you people going (to take him)? Keoratala? I will be there.”
Without waiting for anybody — from the family or the press — he rushed to the cremation ground.
When we reached there, that presence was a balm for us in our bereavement.
[1] These musings are occasioned by the ongoing Birth Centenary of Mrinal Sen, which has seen the publication of two books on the cine maestro this month. These are Blue Pencil’s ‘Tribute to Mrinal Sen’ in English, and Bally Cine Guild’s Prasanga Mrinal Sen in Bengali. It is a matter of great joy for me that my writing is part of both the books.
Of equal joy to cineastes is that three films have been made in the Centenary year – by contemporary masters. Palan is Kaushik Ganguly’s sequel to Sen’s Kharij (1982). Padatik is Srijit Mukherjee’s biopic of the master featuring Chanchal Chowdhury of Bangladesh. And Chalchitra Ekhon traces Anjan Dutta’s journey with his mentor that started with Chalchitra/ The Kaleidoscope (1981).
But let me circle back to the very beginning – the story of Mrinal Sen and Nabendu Ghosh…Clickhere to read an excerpt from Nabendu Ghosh’s autobiographywhere he describes his interactions with Mrinal Sen.
[2] Rooftop housing, literal translation, a shelter from rain
[3] A respectful honorific for someone older – elder brother.
[6] Translates to Runaway, 1963 Bengali movie is the title of a Bengali movie by Jatrik, remade by Tarun Majumdar in Hindi as Raahgir/ The Traveler (1969)
[9] The late screenwriter and director, Nabendu Ghosh, is Ratnottama Sengupta’s father
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
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 NagarerKahini. 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 SwarnaSita[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.”
“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 — ”
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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PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
Interviewing Bulbul: Remembering Mrinal Sen… Ratnottama Sengupta introduces Bulbul Sharma to converse with her on Mrinal Sen, the legendary filmmaker, reflecting on Bulbul Sharma’s experience as an actress in his film, Interview. Click here to read.
In conversation with Gajra Kottary, eminent screenplay writer, and a brief introduction to her recent book of short stories, Autumn Blossoms. Click hereto read.
Translations
Nazrul’s poem, Samya or Equality, has been translated from Bengali by Niaz Zaman. Click here to read.
Masud Khan’s Fire Engine has been translated from Bengali by Fakrul Alam. Click here to read.
Let’s look forward to things getting better this New Year with wars tapering off to peace— a peace where weapons and violence are only to be found in history. Can that ever happen…?
Perhaps, all of us need to imagine it together. Feeling the need for peace, if we could dwell on the idea and come up with solutions, we could move towards making it a reality. To start with, every single human being has to believe firmly in the need for such a society instead of blaming wars on natural instincts. Human nature too needs to evolve. Right now, this kind of a world view may seem utopian. But from being hunter-gatherers, we did move towards complex civilisations that in times of peace, built structures and created art, things that would have seemed magical to a cave dweller in the Palaeolithic times. Will we destroy all that we built by warring – desecrating, decimating our own constructs and life to go on witch-hunts that lead to the destruction of our own species? Will human nature not evolve out of the darkness and chaos that leads to such large-scale annihilation?
Sometimes, darkness seems to rise in a crescendo only to be drowned by light emanating from an unknown source. This New Year — which started with an earthquake followed the next day by a deadly plane collision — was a test of human resilience from which we emerged as survivors, showing humanity can overcome hurdles if we do not decimate each other in wars. Bringing this to focus and wringing with the pain of loss, Suzanne Kamata, in her column tells us: “Earthquakes and other natural disasters are unavoidable, but I admire the effort that the Japanese people put into mitigating their effects. My hope is that more and more people here will begin to understand that it is okay to cry, to mourn, to grieve, and to talk about our suffering. My wish for the Japanese people in the new year is happiness and the achievement of dreams.”
And may this ring true for all humanity.
Often it is our creative urges that help bring to focus darker aspects of our nature. Laughter could help heal this darkness within us. Making light of our foibles, critiquing our own tendencies with a sense of humour could help us identify, creating a cathartic outcome which will ultimately lead to healing. An expert at doing that was a man who was as much a master of nonsense verses in Bengal as Edward Lear was in the West. Ratnottama Sengupta has brought into focus one such book by the legendary Sukumar Ray, Abol Tabol (or mumbo jumbo), a book that remains read, loved and relevant even hundred years later. We have more non-fiction from Keith Lyons who reflects on humanity as he loses himself in China. Antara Mukherjee talks of evolving and accepting a past woven with rituals that might seem effete nowadays and yet, these festivities did evoke a sense of joie de vivre and built bridges that stretch beyond the hectic pace of the current world. Devraj Singh Kalsi weaves in humour and variety with his funny take on stocks and shares. Rhys Hughes does much the same with his fun-filled recount on the differences between Sri Lanka and India, with crispy dosas leaning in favour of the latter.
Our stories take us around the world with Paul Mirabile from France, Ravi Shankar from Malaysia, Srinivasan R from India and Rebecca Klassen from England, weaving in the flavours of their own cultures yet touching hearts with the commonality of emotions.
In conversations, Ratnottama Sengupta introduces us to the multifaceted Bulbul Sharma and discusses with her the celebrated filmmaker Mrinal Sen, in one of whose films Sharma ( known for her art and writing) had acted. We also have a discussion with eminent screenplay writer Gajra Kottary on her latest book, Autumn Blossoms and an introduction to it.
Somdatta Mandal has reviewed Sudha Murty’s Common Yet Uncommon: 14 Memorable Stories from Daily Life, which she says, “speaks a universal language of what it means to be human”. Bhaskar Parichha takes us to Scott Ezell’s Journey to the End of the Empire: In China Along the Edge of Tibet. Parichha opines: “The book evokes the majesty of Tibetan landscapes, the unique dignity of the Tibetan people, and the sensory extremity of navigating nearly pre-industrial communities at the edge of the map, while also encompassing the erosion of cultures and ecosystems. Journey to the End of the Empire is both a love song and a protest against environmental destruction, centralised national narratives and marginalised minorities.” Meenakshi Malhotra provides a respite from the serious and emotional by giving us a lively review of Rhys Hughes’ The Coffee Rubaiyat, putting it in context of literature on coffee, weaving in poetry by Alexander Pope and TS Eliot. Rakhi Dalal has reviewed a translation from Punjabi by Ajeet Cour and Minoo Minocha of Cour’s Life Was Here Somewhere. Our book excerpts from Anuradha Kumar’s The Kidnapping of Mark Twain: A Bombay Mysteryintroduces a lighter note as opposed to the intense prose of Srijato’s AHouse of Rain and Snow, translated from Bengali by Maharghya Chakraborty.
Translations this time take us to the realm of poetry again with Fazal Baloch introducing us to a classical poet from Balochistan, the late Mulla Fazul. Ihlwha Choi has self-translated his poetry from Korean. Niaz Zaman brings us Nazrul’s Samya or Equality – a visionary poem for the chaotic times we live in — and Fakrul Alam transcribes Masud Khan’s Bengali verses for Anglophone readers. Our translations are wound up with Tagore’s Prarthonaor Prayer, a poem in which the poet talks of keeping his integrity and concludes saying ‘May the wellbeing of others fill my heart/ With contentment”.
May we all like Tagore find contentment in others’ wellbeing and move towards a world impacted by love and peace! The grand polymath always has had the last say…
I would like to thank our contributors, the Borderless team for this vibrant beginning of the year issue, Sohana Manzoor for her fabulous art, and all our readers for continuing to patronise us.
With hope of moving towards a utopian future, I invite you to savour our fare, some of which is not covered by this note. Do pause by our contents page to check out all our fare.
Borderless 