Tag: Raja Ram Mohan Roy

An Unfinished Memoir

Title: Janaki Ballav Patnaik: An Unfinished Memoir

Author: JB Patnaik

Translated into English from Odia by Bhaskar Parichha

Publisher : BK Classics

Chapter 17 A Journalist across Continents

My association with Prajatantra[1] also opened doors to experiences beyond the country. In 1959, the British Information Services invited four journalists from eastern India to visit England. From Odisha, I went as the editor of The Eastern Times. Along with me were representatives from The Statesman, Amrita Bazar Patrika, and Searchlight of Patna.

Our visit to England proved deeply enriching. We toured institutions such as University of Oxford and University of Cambridge, and also visited the British Parliament. At Bristol, we paid our respects at the tomb of Raja Ram Mohan Roy. We were taken to an atomic energy plant, a steel factory, and even a coal mine in Wales. On London’s Fleet Street, where most of the major newspapers were published, I had the chance to observe the workings of the Daily Telegraph office—its news gathering systems, teleprinter composition, and massive printing machines. We also engaged in discussions with British journalists about our experiences and about Indo-British relations.

We had arrived in England in June. One day, the temperature rose to ninety degrees Fahrenheit. By Indian standards, it was nothing remarkable, but in a country accustomed to cold weather, it was almost unbearable. News came of workers in several factories halting work due to the heat. We visited places like Buckingham Palace and the bridges over the Thames, taking in as much as we could of London’s historic landscape.

From London, I felt a strong desire to visit Germany. It was not uncommon for distinguished Indian journalists visiting London to be invited onward, so I approached the German Embassy and expressed my interest. To my pleasant surprise, they promptly invited me for a fifteen-day visit and granted me a visa.

I reached Frankfurt around ten in the morning. There, I was warmly received by Dr. Reikel, secretary of the Indo-German Association. With a smile, he informed me that the annual session of the German Indologists’ Association was being held that very day in Essen, and asked if I would like to attend. I readily agreed.

At the conference, nearly four hundred scholars of Indology had gathered—an impressive assembly devoted to the study of India’s past. After the session, during lunch, I was greeted by a former German Consul General who had once served in Calcutta. He asked me which city in India I came from. In an affected English accent, I replied, “Bhubaneshwar.” He smiled gently and said, “You must have just returned from England. The correct pronunciation is ‘Bhubaneswar.’”

I felt a moment of embarrassment. But he went on to say something that stayed with me. He told me that it was in Bhubaneswar, while visiting the Rajarani Temple, that he had first met his future wife. Then, with quiet warmth, he added that the German people held India in great affection. “You have seen it yourself,” he said, gesturing toward the gathering. “Hundreds of scholars here are devoted to studying ancient India. Wherever you go, you will find a spirit of friendship.”

And indeed, that is what I felt—a sense of India’s presence, respected and cherished, far beyond its own shores.

From there, we took our leave and travelled to Bonn, then the capital of West Germany. Bonn, I found, was much smaller than Berlin. In those days, Berlin stood divided—one part belonging to West Germany and the other to East Germany, which claimed it as its capital. Surrounded entirely by East German territory, West Berlin remained cut off, an island of a different world.

Dr. Reikel next took me to a refugee camp in West Germany. There, day after day, people fleeing from East Germany sought shelter. Pointing them out to me, he explained that East Germany was a communist state, almost a satellite of the Soviet Union. Life there, he said, had become so difficult that many risked everything to escape into Berlin and beyond.

We then visited West Berlin. I was struck by its prosperity. It was hard to imagine that this thriving city had once been reduced to rubble by bombing during the war. The transformation was astonishing—order, wealth, and vitality had returned. Except for one ruined church, left deliberately unrestored as a reminder of the World War II, there was little visible trace of destruction.

Curious to see the other side, we boarded a tourist bus to East Berlin. The bus carried visitors from many countries. As we entered, the conductor announced that we could now compare capitalist Berlin with communist Berlin. The contrast was stark. East Berlin appeared plain, almost austere, lacking the vibrancy of its western counterpart. Many buildings stood incomplete, as if time itself had slowed. One could immediately understand why people were fleeing from East to West.

From Berlin, we flew to Hamburg, the principal port of West Germany and a city rich in history and beauty. Its City Hall, harbour, and music halls left a lasting impression on me. Later, I also visited Wildbad.

At a hotel there, I noticed the Indian national flag fluttering. For a moment, I wondered if some distinguished visitor from India had arrived. Dr. Reikel smiled and told me that there was no one else—it had been hoisted in honour of me, their guest. Not long before, he added, another Indian guest had stayed there—Narayan Dutt Tiwari, who too had been invited by the Friendship Society.

While I was still in Bonn, an incident occurred that touched me deeply. A professor of philosophy had come to my hotel and left behind a card for me. On it, he had written a simple yet profound message: that he had come to pay his respects to my country—the land of Mahatma Gandhi and of the Upanishads.

It was a quiet gesture, but one that reminded me how India lived in the imagination of distant lands—not merely as a nation, but as a civilisation.

Everywhere I went in Germany, I felt a genuine warmth—an unmistakable atmosphere of friendliness. Even in an ordinary park, if one happened to meet a passerby, he would acknowledge you with a gentle nod of greeting. It was a small gesture, yet it spoke volumes about the people.

From Hamburg, I travelled to Munich by train. From there, I was to take a flight onward to Paris. The margin between the train’s arrival and the flight’s departure was barely half an hour. I asked Dr. Reikel, half in doubt, what would happen if the train were delayed. He replied with quiet confidence that it would not be late even by a second. And indeed, it arrived precisely on time.

I took leave of him there. For fifteen days, he had been my constant companion, guiding me through the principal cities of West Germany with a warmth that felt almost familial. He was a widower, deeply patriotic, critical of Adolf Hitler, yet appreciative of the discipline and courage of the German army of that era. The German people, I observed, were extraordinarily industrious. Whether worker or employer, all seemed united by a culture of hard work. Strikes were rare, almost unheard of.

At the time of my visit, Konrad Adenauer was the Chancellor of Germany. There was a popular saying that captured the spirit of the nation’s recovery—that the Chancellor had asked every worker to add just one extra hour of labour to their day, and that this collective effort had helped rebuild Germany. Whether apocryphal or not, the sentiment reflected the ethics of the people.

From Germany, I travelled to Paris—a city steeped in history, as ancient in its own way as London. Paris had witnessed the rise and fall of monarchies, the turbulence of revolutions, and the flowering of culture. In terms of civilisation, it was often regarded as the cultural capital of Europe; in matters of diplomacy, some even called it the capital of the world. And when one spoke of fashion, Paris stood unrivalled.

Above all, Paris carried the legacy of the French Revolution—an event that became a beacon for oppressed people everywhere. From that revolution emerged the enduring ideals of liberty, equality, and fraternity—principles that have guided countless movements across generations. The revolution of eighteenth-century France remains one of the most profound and unforgettable turning points in human history.

I stayed in Paris for three days, in a modest yet elegant little hotel. By then, I was no longer an official guest of any government, as I had been in England or Germany. I was simply a traveller, left to discover the city on my own. And for that, the first necessity was a map. With it in hand, I resolved to begin from the city’s most prominent landmarks.

The most striking modern monument of Paris was, of course, the Eiffel Tower, followed by the imposing Arc de Triomphe. Guided by my map, I made my way from the hotel to the Arc de Triomphe, that grand arch built to commemorate the victories of Napoleon Bonaparte. Not far from there stood the Élysée Palace, the residence of the French President.

Paris, as I observed, bore the imprint of careful planning. During the time of Napoleon III, the city had been redesigned with remarkable foresight. From central points like the Arc de Triomphe, avenues radiated outward in all directions. Standing atop the monument, one could see twelve grand avenues stretching out with striking symmetry—a vision of urban elegance.

Near the lane where I stayed stood a well-known theatre, the Folies Bergère, famous for its ballet performances. The area around the Arc, however, was a ceaseless whirl of motion. With twelve avenues converging, traffic flowed endlessly from all directions, leaving hardly a moment for a pedestrian to cross.

Perplexed, I approached a policeman and asked—in English—how one might reach the monument without traffic lights. He offered no reply. Whether he chose not to understand or simply did not wish to respond, I could not tell. The French, I soon realised, take immense pride in their language; even if they understand English, they are often reluctant to use it.

Finding no answer, I half-humorously tried speaking in my own mother tongue, Odia. The policeman looked at me, puzzled, and remained silent. That, too, was an answer of sorts.

Over those three days, I explored the notable sights of Paris on foot. Along the way, I was joined by two fellow Indians—students from London studying accountancy. Together, we wandered through the city until one day we encountered a gentleman from Malaysia. At first glance, he might easily have been mistaken for an Indian; such was the resemblance. He turned out to be a senior official in his country’s archaeology department. From the next day onward, he became our companion.

One afternoon, as we strolled along the banks of the Seine River, he pointed out that the famed Louvre Museum was nearby. There, he said, we could see the celebrated painting of Leonardo da Vinci—the Mona Lisa.

We entered the gallery and stood before it. The painting’s fame, I realised, lay not merely in its artistry but in that enigmatic smile—so subtle, so elusive. Wherever one stood, it seemed as though her gaze followed. It is often said that no other portrait in the world carries such a delicate curve of expression.

At that moment, a line from the Odia poet, Jadumani Mahapatra, came to my mind, describing a smile of pure, almost celestial beauty—untouched by earthly colour or artifice. It felt as though that poetic vision had, in some distant way, come alive before my eyes in that quiet hall of the Louvre.

As I stood before the world-renowned Louvre Museum, gazing at Mona Lisa by Leonardo da Vinci, I found myself drawn not merely to the painting, but to the mystery of her smile—subtle, elusive, and impossibly pure.

It was then that a line from the witty Odia poet Jadumani Mohapatra surfaced gently in my mind:

“Chandi nishi dhaba dhabale mishichi adhavala jyoti kuranga
Kshira sagara udara adarichi naba mudira jyoti sanga
Bishuddha hase ramara
Nilimaara nahi sanchara
Emanta kirti jara shuddha kara ehi kala bichara.”

(A tint of blue, a trace of blemish, haunts all that exists—
the moon carries its stain; upon Shiva’s stainless form lingers the azure of his throat; and in the Ocean of Milk, Vishnu shines in a cloud-hued grace.
Yet, in the smile of a beauteous maiden, no shadow ever falls—
it remains the purest radiance of all.
Only those whose hearts mirror such unsullied purity
are truly worthy to partake of this poem.)

The essence of these lines struck me with renewed clarity in that moment. The poet reflects on how, in this world, even the most luminous and sacred entities bear a trace of imperfection—
the moon carries its blemish.

In that quiet gallery in Paris, an Odia poet’s verse and a Renaissance masterpiece met—across centuries—and spoke the same silent truth.

Paris seemed to carry its beauty with a quiet, unmistakable pride. The graceful flow of the Seine River, the wide and elegant boulevards, the triumphal monuments raised in memory of Napoleon Bonaparte, and the countless churches—along with the place where Napoleon himself lies buried—all stood as living testimony to the city’s grandeur.

One day, we found ourselves standing by the roadside, not far from the magnificent Notre-Dame Cathedral. As we lingered there, a few American women tourists approached us. They seemed a little lost and asked, in English, where Notre-Dame was. We simply raised our hands and pointed—it was right there, almost within sight.

They thanked us warmly, but then, with a hint of amusement and mild irritation, remarked that the French were rather peculiar. “We ask them in English,” they said, “but no one answers.” English, they insisted, was the most important language in the world—surely the French must know it. Yet, perhaps out of pride, they pretended otherwise, choosing silence over response. Still, in hotels, we noticed, the staff spoke English quite comfortably—practicality, it seemed, softened pride.

Three days later, my journey carried me to Zurich in Switzerland. The country’s two principal cities, Zurich and Geneva, each held their own significance. Geneva, in particular, stood as an international hub, housing several offices of the United Nations and serving as the headquarters of the International Labour Organization. Every year, representatives—labour ministers and worker delegates—from across the world gathered there for its annual conference.

Zurich, however, captivated in a different way. Adorned with serene lakes and set against a tranquil landscape, it was a city of quiet beauty. Its streets were lined with shops displaying exquisite timepieces—especially wristwatches—for which Switzerland is renowned. The country’s reputation also extended to its health resorts, places of rest and recovery nestled in pristine surroundings. Remarkably, during both the World Wars, Switzerland had declared itself neutral, and the storms of war had left it largely untouched.

I stayed in Zurich for just a day before setting out again—this time toward Rome.

Rome, the capital of Italy, seemed to breathe history at every step. Its past stretched deep into antiquity. There was a time when the Roman Empire stood as one of the greatest powers the world had known, extending from Britain across the Mediterranean to the edges of West Asia.

Rome is counted among the most ancient cities on earth. It is said to have been founded in 753 BCE, and with its origins comes a legend—one both strange and enduring. Two twin brothers, Romulus and Remus, were, according to lore, nurtured by a she-wolf who fed them with her own milk. In time, a quarrel arose between the brothers, and Romulus killed Remus. The city he founded thereafter came to bear his name—Rome.

The history of Rome unfolded in many forms: it began as a monarchy, transformed into a republic, later came under the rule of the Popes, returned again to monarchy, and eventually became a republic once more. Its story, like the city itself, is layered, dramatic, and endlessly fascinating.

From the first century, Christianity found its way into Rome. Saint Peter, one of the foremost disciples of Jesus Christ, is regarded as among the earliest preachers of the faith, and tradition holds that he too was martyred. After him, through the passage of centuries, a succession of Popes carried forward the leadership of the Roman Catholic Church.

Within Rome itself lies a distinct and remarkable entity—the Vatican City. It is the residence of the Pope and the spiritual centre of Roman Catholicism. Though enclosed within Rome, it stands as an independent state, and like Switzerland, it maintained neutrality during both World Wars. During my visit to Rome, I made it a point to see this sacred enclave.

The most imposing structure there was St. Peter’s Basilica—a vast and awe-inspiring church that seemed to embody centuries of faith and devotion. Equally captivating was the Sistine Chapel, whose ceiling is adorned with masterpieces by the great artist Michelangelo. Standing beneath those paintings, I felt a quiet sense of wonder, as though art and divinity had merged into one.

In the history of the world, two names stand out as champions of freedom and republican ideals—Giuseppe Mazzini and Giuseppe Garibaldi. They were inspirations not only for Italy but also for many Indian freedom fighters. Though the republic they envisioned did not endure for long, their efforts eventually led to the end of papal rule and the unification of Italy under a monarchy, which lasted until 1922. Thereafter came the era of Benito Mussolini and fascist rule; and after the Second World War, Italy finally emerged as a republic—a system that continues to this day.

Rome is also famed for its fountains—countless works of art in flowing water, built over nearly two thousand years. Wherever one walks in the city, one encounters these graceful structures. The city is equally rich in historical monuments: the ancient Colosseum, the timeless Pantheon, the broad Spanish Steps, and the many sculptures and paintings associated with masters like Leonardo da Vinci and Michelangelo. The Vatican Museums, too, draw countless visitors from across the world.

Rome has long been called the “Eternal City”—a name that feels less like a title and more like a quiet acknowledgment of time itself. Through cycles of rise and fall, glory and ruin, the city has endured, carrying its past within its present. In that sense, I could not help but think of Varanasi—or Kashi in India—another ancient soul that has survived the ages with an unbroken continuity.

In its earliest days, Rome was ruled by a succession of seven kings, one after another. Then came the birth of the Republic, and governance passed into the hands of a Senate—an institution whose echo we still hear in modern democracies. The very word “Senate” travelled across time and continents, finding place in systems like that of the United States Congress, composed of the Senate and the House of Representatives, as well as in the parliamentary traditions of United Kingdom and India, with their respective upper and lower houses.

In Rome, however, the Senate was once the singular centre of authority, and from its ranks emerged powerful dictators—figures entrusted with absolute authority in times of crisis. Among them, Julius Caesar stands preeminent. His life and death were immortalized by William Shakespeare in the play Julius Caesar, and later revisited by George Bernard Shaw in Caesar and Cleopatra.

The Roman Republic itself took shape around 510 BCE. Interestingly, around the time of Gautama Buddha, India too had republican states—Vaishali being one of the most notable, governed by the Licchavis.

Then, in 27 BCE, power took another decisive turn. Augustus—also known as Octavian—rose to authority through the Senate and declared Rome an empire. Under him, the vast dominion of Rome expanded and, in time, came to be divided into the Eastern and Western Roman Empires. The eastern capital, Constantinople (modern-day Istanbul), would go on to become one of the great cities of history in its own right.

During the reign of Augustus, the Roman Empire reached extraordinary heights, stretching across much of Western Europe. He was not merely a ruler but a patron of culture—supporting art, sculpture, and music. His court was adorned by great minds, among them the poet Virgil, whose Latin works continue to be celebrated.

Latin itself, like Sanskrit in India, is an ancient and foundational language. From it have flowed many modern tongues—English, French, Spanish, Portuguese, and others—each carrying faint echoes of that old Roman voice.

Before arriving in Rome, I had heard a caution—one must be careful, or one might easily be deceived. I had my own small lesson in this.

One afternoon, I stepped into a restaurant and ordered a thick vegetable soup. It was hearty and satisfying. Like in Paris, many restaurants in Rome spill out onto the streets, with tables and chairs arranged outside. I sat there, quietly enjoying my meal, when an Indian lady approached. She was from Bombay—a Parsi—and, noticing me, paused as if recognizing a familiar presence in a foreign land.

Watching me eat, she remarked gently, “You may be overcharged.”

And indeed, I was. The restaurant billed me five pounds for the soup—an amount far beyond its worth in those days, when even one or one-and-a-half pounds would have been reasonable. It was a small deception, yet it stayed with me.

Later that evening, in another restaurant, I encountered something entirely different. The owner, upon learning that I was from India, asked with a certain warmth, “You come from the land of Mahatma Gandhi?”

He spoke of Gandhi with deep reverence. “When my father died, I did not cry,” he said, “but when Gandhi died, I wept.”

I was struck by the contrast—here, in a distant Roman eatery, stood a man whose life had never touched India, yet whose heart had been moved by Gandhi. It reminded me how far the influence of a great soul can travel—beyond borders, beyond language, into the quiet corners of human feeling. When Gandhi passed, it seemed, the world itself had paused in grief.

Rome, in its own way, continues to remain connected to the wider world. It serves as the headquarters of the Food and Agriculture Organization, just as Geneva houses the International Labour Organization, and Paris hosts institutions like UNICEF. In these cities, history and modern purpose seem to meet—quietly shaping the world, even today.

I stayed in Rome for three days, and each day I walked nearly twenty to twenty-five kilometres, exploring these places on foot. I did not use any vehicle, for I have always believed that a city reveals itself best to those who walk through it.

A curious incident from those days often returns to my mind. When I was a Member of Parliament, Jagjivan Ram was serving as the Union Minister for Food and Agriculture. He had travelled to Rome to attend an international conference related to his department.

After his return, the matter came up in Parliament. From the benches of the Utkal Congress, Surendra Mohanty, the Lok Sabha member from Kendrapara, raised a calling-attention motion and began criticising the visit. Jagjivan Babu, with a touch of wit, replied, “I am not quite sure whether the honourable member is speaking about Rome or rum.”

The remark drew laughter, for Surendra Babu—celebrated writer though he was—was also widely known for his fondness for drink. During the Kendrapara elections, a popular slogan had even circulated: “Surendra, Surendra in Kendrapara—one a socialist, one for hire.”

In the 1971 Lok Sabha elections, the contest in Kendrapara had been particularly close. Surendra Nath Dwivedy of the Praja Socialist Party and Surendra Mohanty of the Utkal Congress stood against each other. In the end, Mohanty won—by the narrowest of margins, a single vote. Such was the drama of democracy.

From Rome, my journey next took me to Cairo, then the capital of the United Arab Republic (Egypt). At that time, the country was led by Gamal Abdel Nasser—a towering figure in the Arab world, regarded by many as a liberator and a voice of dignity for his people.

Nasser was also a close friend of Jawaharlal Nehru. Along with Josip Broz Tito, the three of them stood at the forefront of the Non-Aligned Movement, guiding newly independent nations through the uncertain currents of the Cold War.

What struck me most about Nasser was not merely his stature, but his simplicity. Despite being President, he lived in a modest two-storeyed house, leading the life of an ordinary, disciplined, and devout man.

I had long been drawn to Cairo—not only because of Nasser and his revolution, but also because of the ancient pyramids. As fate would have it, the day before my visit, the anniversary of the Egyptian Revolution was being celebrated—a reminder of the country’s transition from monarchy to republic.

I stayed in Cairo for two days, determined to see the pyramids. When I asked the hotel manager how best to get there, he arranged a guide for me, advising that we settle the charges beforehand. A camel was hired, and I set out—riding across the sands—toward one of the world’s most enduring wonders.

Soon, I stood before the Giza Pyramid Complex—those immense triangular structures rising out of the desert like frozen time itself. Among them, the Great Pyramid of Giza remains the most renowned, a monument not just of architecture but of human ambition.

Egypt’s history stretches back into a past so distant that it almost feels mythical—thousands upon thousands of years before Christ. The Pharaohs, anticipating death, built these pyramids as their tombs. Within them, their bodies were preserved with remarkable care—wrapped in layers of cloth and treated with substances that allowed them to endure across millennia.

Many such tombs have since been excavated, revealing mummified remains still intact, silent witnesses to a vanished age. Yet, alongside history, there lingers legend: it is said that those who disturb these resting places invite misfortune—even untimely death. And, strangely enough, there have been occasions when such stories seemed to find unsettling echoes in reality.

Standing there, before those ancient stones, I felt both awe and unease—as if I had stepped, briefly, into the deep and watchful memory of civilization itself.

Returning from the pyramids of Giza, I stood by the window of my hotel and let my eyes rest upon the quiet, flowing beauty of the Nile. It struck me then how often the English, in their time, had altered the names of cities and rivers across the world. The Nile, for instance, they had called “Nile”, while its truer name, as my guide gently corrected me, was simply Neel—the blue river.

When I mentioned the “Nile,” my guide smiled and asked why I used that word at all. “That is an English distortion,” he said. “Its real name is Neel.” And indeed, as I looked at its waters, they seemed clear and faintly blue—much like the Ganga appears in Varanasi during the autumn months. Even the Ganga, he reminded me, had been turned into “Ganges” by the English.

The thought stayed with me. Names like Munger becoming “Monghyr,” Cuttack remaining “Cuttack,” Bhubaneswar once pronounced differently, Calcutta instead of Kolkata, Bombay instead of Mumbai—these were all echoes of a time when language itself had been reshaped by foreign tongues. Some places, like Kolkata and Mumbai, had since reclaimed their original identity, though others still lingered in their altered forms.

My guide frequently used a word—sabr—urging patience, asking me to wait. It was an Arabic word, one that had found its way into Urdu as well. There is a saying built around it: “Sabr ka phal meetha hota hai”—the fruit of patience is always sweet. In that distant land, the familiarity of such words felt strangely comforting.

My stay in Egypt lasted only two days, but within that short time, I visited another remarkable place—the old museum of Cairo. There, the grandeur of ancient Egyptian civilization unfolded before my eyes. Golden statues of the Pharaohs, intricate ornaments, and objects of daily use—all fashioned in gold—spoke of a culture both opulent and enduring.

Among the other notable places were the grand mosque of Muhammad Ali, with its vast domes and imposing structure, and Al-Azhar University, one of the greatest centres of Islamic learning in the world. It was here, I was told, that Maulana Abul Kalam Azad had once studied.

At one point, my guide led me through a narrow lane, famous for Egyptian attar—perfumed oils known for their rich fragrance. “One must buy some attar when visiting Cairo,” he insisted. I obliged, though it seemed to me that, like many guides, he was not entirely free from a touch of commerce.

Two days later, I left Cairo and returned to India via Mumbai, carrying with me memories of an ancient land where history seemed to breathe through every stone and street.

The following year, another journey beckoned. An invitation arrived from the Ford Foundation, under the auspices of the United States government—a two-month visit to America.

About the Book:

From the Translator’s Note

An Unfinished Memoir (Asamapta Atmalipi) by Janaki Ballav Patnaik is more than the recollections of a public figure. It is also a record of the political, social and cultural changes that shaped Odisha and, in many ways, modern India. The memoir takes us through different stages of his life—from childhood and education to journalism, public life and politics. Along the way, we meet the people who influenced him and encounter events that left their mark on the Odisha of his time. The book is valuable not only for its account of public events but also for its glimpses of everyday life. Patnaik writes about teachers, friends, colleagues, political associates and ordinary people, often beginning with a small personal memory and moving towards a larger reflection. This movement between the personal and the public gives the memoir much of its character.

My primary aim in translating the memoir from Odia into English has been to remain faithful to the original while preserving the author’s voice. A translation should convey

more than the literal meaning of words. It should also carry the tone, mood and character of the original. I have therefore tried to retain the simple and reflective quality of Patnaik’s writing, particularly in passages dealing with people, places and memories from his younger years.

Translating a work rooted in Odisha’s language and culture presents its own challenges. Many Odia expressions, idioms and references do not have exact equivalents in English. This is especially true of words associated with local customs, festivals, social practices and everyday life. Where a literal translation seemed inadequate, I have tried to convey the sense and spirit of the original. Certain words, names and cultural references have been retained because translating them would have diminished their flavour or meaning.

I have also tried to preserve the historical character of the memoir. Some political terms, institutional references and descriptions belong to an earlier period of Indian public life. Rather than unnecessarily modernising the language, I have sought to make these passages clear while retaining their original context.

The title Asamapta Atmalipi itself is significant. It suggests a record of the self that remains unfinished. The memoir was left incomplete, and that incompleteness is part of its character. It does not present a neatly concluded life story. Instead, it offers fragments of a long journey—memories, encounters, experiences and reflections that together provide a picture of both the man and his times.

For readers familiar with Janaki Ballav Patnaik, the memoir may bring back memories of an important period in Odisha’s public life. For younger readers, it offers an opportunity to see that period through the eyes of someone who lived through and participated in many of its developments. For readers outside Odisha, it provides an introduction to a political and cultural world that deserves wider attention. No translation can reproduce every shade of another language. There will always be expressions, associations and rhythms that resist being carried across. My effort has simply been to build a bridge between the Odia original and the English reader, without coming between the author and his readers. I hope this translation will allow a wider readership to discover Janaki Ballav Patnaik not only as a political leader, but also as a journalist, observer, traveller and chronicler of his times—and to encounter, through his unfinished memoir, a part of Odisha’s own journey.

About the Author

Janaki Ballav Patnaik (1927-2015) lived in many worlds at once—politics, literature, journalism, and public life. For more than five decades, he remained close to some of the defining events and personalities of post-Independence Odisha, while pursuing a parallel life of books, ideas, and language. ‘An Unfinished Memoir’ is an attempt to look back on that journey. From his childhood and student years to his early political awakening and long career in public life, the memoir brings together people, places and encounters that shaped him.

Unlike a conventional autobiography, this is a personal narrative—insightful, candid and observant of the world around him. It offers glimpses of the making of a public figure while revealing the writer, scholar and observer behind the politician. It is at once a record of a remarkable life and a window into an important period in the history of Odisha and India.

Part memoir, part history and part reflection, the memoir is a cherished account of a life lived in public.

About the Translator

Bhaskar Parichha is a journalist and author based in Bhubaneswar, with a professional career spanning over three decades. He writes in both English and Odia on politics, society, people, and culture. His work reflects sustained engagement with Odisha’s heritage and its contemporary transformations. An incisive observer of public life, he has authored nine books. Through his journalism and writing, he continues to chronicle the evolving story of Odisha and its place within a rapidly changing India.

[1] Democracy

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Essay

Moving Images of Tagore

By Ratnottama Sengupta

Rabindranath Tagore spells different things to different people: National Anthems; the Nobel, Rabindra Sangeet, a veiled woman, Sriniketan or Santiniketan. A cineaste might think of Charulata or Kabuliwala, Chokher Bali (Best Friend) or Kadambari. But the subject ‘Tagore and Cinema’ would mean talking of Tagore’s exposure to cinema, his interest in the medium, the fate of his involvement with celluloid, the films based on stories penned by him, their interpretation in a world that is so far removed from his, in historical, economical, and cultural terms… In other words, it would mean talking of what about Tagore endures — and why it reaches out to the wide world of humanity.

To me, it is Tagore’s awesome, inspiring humanism that offers us immense scope to transcreate, reinterpret, relocate the socially relevant developments and rooted characters again and again onscreen. Like Shakespeare, his works are universal in terms of age, geophysical location, terrain of the mind and tugs of emotions…

Rabindranath was almost seventy when he exhibited his paintings that were so radically different from the style associated with the Tagore family artists, Abanindranath, Gaganendranath, Sunayani Devi, or Nandalal Bose. For, if the Bengal School looked East and sought inspiration in delicate miniatures, Chinese watercolours or the sparseness of Japanese zen, Tagore absorbed the boldness of German expressionism and created a unique style. It’s impossible for someone so open to avant garde trends to take no interest in cinema, the 20th century art form that was silently taking its juvenile steps in India when Tagore won the Nobel.

When he visited Russia, he watched Battleship Potemkin, the classic ‘handbook for editors’ (to quote Phalke winner Hrishikesh Mukherjee) that influenced a long line of filmmakers in India too. By 1931, the year when Alam Ara (Hindi) and Jamai Shasti’(Bengali) turned ‘movie’ into ‘talkie’, Tagore was in the last decade of his life. So, when he directed Natir Puja (The Dancing Girl’s Worship) at New Theatres, he was substantially assisted by Premankur Atorthi, who was the first to direct a film based on a Tagore composition. This was the only time when the Renaissance personality directly interacted with the celluloid medium. His nephew Dinendra wrote the screenplay, albeit under Tagore’s guidance, and students of Santiniketan acted in it. More importantly, Tagore himself essayed an important role in the dance-drama which was shot with a static camera over four days. However, the result was more a staged play than cinema. A greater tragedy is that the reels perished within 10 years, when a fire ravished the New Theatres Studio in 1941.

Atarthi’s own direction of Chirakumar Sabha (1932) set off a tradition that received a robust boost, first in the 100th year of the poet’s birth, and again in 2011, when he turned 150 and further. If literary treasures like Gora (1938) and Chokher Bali (1938) were adapted onscreen by Naresh Mitra and Satu Sen, they were remade and reinterpreted by Rituparno Ghosh who veered towards Tagore rather than Saratchandra, the more popular litterateur of Bengal who was a staple of Tollygunge for years. In fact all major names of Tollygunge, from Nitin Bose, Agradoot, Tapan Sinha, to Purnendu Pattrea, Partha Pratim Chowdhury and Rituparno Ghosh have announced their coming of age in cinema with a film based on a Tagore composition.

It is interesting to note that when Tagore visited Russia in September of 1930 members of the Cinema Board who had a conversation with him regarding his “new film stories” were deeply impressed by the short versions of the stories (as narrated) by the Poet, and they met him at his hotel to discuss in detail the possibilities of filming them. Tagore himself had enough interest in cinema to visit the Amalgamated Cinema Union, where he was received by its president M Rutin and was shown Eisentein’s Battleship Potemkin and portions of Old and New, we learn from his Letters from Russia.

Although evoking the Bengal of his time in divergent hues, Tagore’s stories continue to inspire man to go beyond divisions of nation, religion, caste or gender, perhaps because they explore how society shapes our love and relationships. This essay dwells on films that highlight the pervading themes of feminism, humanism and universalism in Tagore’s literary works.

Not Slave, Nor Goddess

The champion of women tells us to enunciate aami nari, I am a woman … with pride, because a woman is not a slave nor needs to be the other extreme, a goddess. That it is right for a woman, whether young, maiden, or widowed, to be a person of flesh and blood. That Tagore empathised so deeply with his women characters that today’s social historians are talking of an androgynous strain in the humanist.

* When Satyajit Ray filmed Ghare Bairey (The Home and the World), we got a glimpse of the regressive practices that ailed even the wealthy and educated households. However the most symbolic scene was the one where Bimala is inspired by Nikhilesh to step out of the inner quarters of the zamindar’s household. Even Sandip, the false god, hails it as a ‘social revolution’. Tagore the author goes on to criticise the pseudo rebel but at no point does he criticise Bimala — not even when her sister-in-law cautions Nikhilesh about the freedom his wife is abusing. We find a repeat of this theme in Char Adhyay (Four Chapters) – but we’ll come to that later.

* Chokher Bali, first filmed in 1938, turned the spotlight on the deprivations young widows were subjected to even after the reformist crusades of Raja Ram Mohan Roy and Ishwar Chandra Vidyasagar. Very sympathetically, and most aesthetically, it held a brief for their sensuality — even sexual needs, especially when Rituparno Ghosh filmed it in 2003. But even here, before Mahendra’s mother dies, she urges that in her memory he should host a feast for widows — “people feed Brahmins, beggars, even animals, but never for the unfortunate widows,” he underscores.

* Nitin Bose’s bilingual Noukadubi was probably the first to take Tagore to Hindi cine-goers. Incidentally Rituparno and Subhash Ghai’s Noukadubi were also bilingual. In 1944, Milan afforded Dilip Kumar opportunity to mature as an actor, for here Ramesh upholds the flag of humanism. After being boat wrecked he comes home with Kamala, the ‘bride’ he has not deigned to look at, and realises that she is in fact someone else’s wife. The gentleman in him decides to take her to a convent and give her not just protection (from a par purush, stranger) but also proper education — even at the cost of his own spotless reputation and his chances of finding happiness with his beloved, Hem Nalini.

* In Charulata (1964), although Satyajit Ray continues to unfold her story from Amal’s point of view, his sympathy without reservation lies with the lonely wife. For half a century and more viewers have no doubt that Charu was an alter ego for Tagore’s Natun Bouthan – his sister-in-law Kadambari Devi, who took her own life. This story has inspired Bandana Mukherjee’s Srimati Hey and Suman Ghosh’s Kadambari (2015). Ray underscores this aspiration aspect in the film when Charu writes, gleaning from her experiences, and her writings are published in a magazine. This was unthinkable in the 19th century — and only a deeply humane soul could understand that a woman too needed to express her intellectual and creative self. (This aspect is completely missing in Charulata of 2011, directed by Agnideb Chatterjee, although it unfolds from the woman’s perspective and unabashedly speaks of her physical intimacy with Amal.)

* For Tagore, perhaps the stifling of this intellectual self was as great a tragedy as the ‘burying’ of her potentials within the walls of domesticity. In the poem ‘Sadharan Meye’ (Ordinary Girl), he urges his contemporary Sarat Babu to write a novel where the protagonist — a scorned woman — goes on to study, travel abroad, re-valued by several admirers, including the man who ditched her for being an ‘ordinary’ woman. The core thought of this poem had inspired a script by Nabendu Ghosh, an altered (and unacknowledged) version of which was made by Hrishikesh Mukherjee as ‘Pyar Ka Sapna’ (Dream of Love, 1969). In recent times the theme has been most successfully revisited in Vikas Bahl’s Queen (2014).

* In Megh O Roudro (Clouds and Sunshine), Rabindranath’s short story creates a protagonist whose struggle to affirm her dignity in the British ruled 19^th century prompts her to read and write under the tutorship of a stubborn law student who is jailed for constantly challenging the discriminatory ways of the imperialists. By the time he is released, she is a prosperous widow who courteously acknowledges his role in her achieving self-confidence. In 1969, Arundhuti Debi, herself raised in Tagore’s ethos at Santiniketan, chose this for her second outing after Chhuti (Holiday) and her lyrical treatment brought her recognition as a director of substance.

* But what happens when a woman cannot fulfill her destiny, as in Streer Patra (A wife’s Letter, 1972)? How did Rabi Babu want his Mejo Bou — haus frau — to behave when the acutely male dominated household turns a blind eye to the injustice of marrying off the hapless orphan Bindu to a lunatic? Not drown her woes in the vast ocean at Puri but to slough off, in a moment of illumination, the shell of ‘Mejo Bou’ and become Mrinal, a woman with .her own soul and individual identity Why must she end her life like his Natun Bouthan — “Meera Bai didn’t,” he points out. And to us, even by today’s standards, it is the ultimate expression of feminism.

* Perhaps because of the class she belonged to, and with the support of a rebellious brother, Mrinal could do what Chandara couldn’t in Shasti (Punishment, 1970). Tagore knew that neither his ‘Notun Bouthan’ nor his own wife Mrinalini got the opportunities enjoyed by his ICS brother’s wife. Far from it: Chandara’s husband Chhidam places the burden of his Boudi’s death at the hands of his elder brother on his wife. In the prevailing patriarchal society it wasn’t unthinkable: a wife was expendable because you could get another, but not a brother. But the unlettered Chandara has her own estimation of the sanctity that is the conjugal bond. When her husband comes to meet the wife condemned to hang, she denies him the right of visitation by disdainfully uttering a single word: “Maran!” How should we read it today? Go, drop dead or go hang yourself!

* Jogajog (Connection) was written in 1929 in a society where there were caste/ class distinctions even amongst zamindars. Tagore had first-hand experience of this within his family. His crude protagonist is a johnny-come-lately who seeks revenge by marrying the educated and cultured Kumudini. He cannot stand any expression of respect for her brother and feels belittled at the slightest hint of will in his wife. Matters go so far that in the 2015 film, director Sekhar Das can effortlessly trace moments of marital rape in their conjugal discord.

* Chitrangada had poised the question: where lies a woman’s true beauty – in her outward appearance or her inner worth? Should the princess, raised to be as good as a prince, deny her essential self to please a man? Or is she wrong to sacrifice her being for one she loves? In 2008, Rituparno Ghosh gave a whole new androgynous reading of the dance drama, with Madan/ Cupid becoming a psychoanalyst.

Child — The Father and Mother of Man

Robi, who immortalised his childhood in Chhelebela (Boyhood), could never forget the restrictions imposed by adults and the suffocating effect it had on an imaginative soul. Therefore in Ichhapuran (Wish Fulfillment,1970), directed by Mrinal Sen for the Children’s Film Society of India, he effected a role reversal whereby their bodies get swapped. The naughty child Sushil becomes the father and the senior who covets the youthfulness becomes the free spirited son.

The comical confusion this ensues in the village leads both to realise the importance of their individual positions in life. They get back to their original self with the profound lesson for humanity – that each one of us has a place in the world no one else can ever fulfill.

* Of course the best known child in Rabindra Rachanabali (Creations of Tagore) is Amal. Essentially Dakghar (Post Office) was a testimonial against the crushing of childhood Tagore suffered. In the recent past actors Chaiti Ghoshal and Kaushik Sen have proved the enduring appeal of Dakghar — she in the form of a recorded audio play (CD); he on stage. Chaiti Ghoshal interprets the protagonist she had played with Shambhu and Tripti Mitra not as a Rabindrik character but as any child today, familiar with cricket and computer. Manipur’s Kanhailal has used elements of dance and drama to reinforce this message of freedom beyond frontiers. And, following the 2007 police firing in Nandigram (that killed 14 persons who were opposing state officials on land acquisition drive), Kaushik Sen had interpreted Amal’s desire to send a letter as a message to every household to raise awareness.

Sen’s Dakghar, then, was not about death but about liberation from life in bondage. “Perhaps that’s why, a day before Paris was stormed during WWII, Radio France had broadcast Andre Gide’s French translation of the play,” Kaushik had said while staging the play. “Around the same time, in a Polish ghetto, Janus Kocak had enacted the play with Jewish kids who were gassed to death soon after.” After such multi-layered readings of the text, Dakghar as filmed by Anmol Vellani in 1961 remains a simplistic viewing — perhaps because it was made for the Children’s Film Society.

* In The Postmaster the child – an illiterate village girl in this instance – metaphorically becomes a mother and a priya , or beloved, of the pedantic city boy who is stirred by beauty of the moon but can’t wait to go back. When he falls critically ill she dutifully serves him and cares for him like a wife. When he is set to depart by simply tipping her with silver coins, the child with a maturity beyond her years refuses to say goodbye. Rejection doesn’t need words: she can negate his very existence by her silence.

* Samapti (Finale) the concluding story of Teen Kanya (1965) remade by Sudhendu Roy as Upahaar ( The Gift, 1975), builds on the flowering of a woman in an unconventional girl child. Mrinmoyee is certainly not a Lakkhi Meye…a good girl , she’s a scandal in rural Bengal of 100 years ago. She escapes her wedding night by climbing down a tree, she spends the night on her favourite swing on the riverbank, she snatches marbles from her friend, a boy… When they try to tame her by locking her up in a room she throws things at Amulya. But when he returns to Calcutta and she’s sent back to her mother’s, she realises grown up love for the man she’s married to, and sneaks into his room by climbing the same tree!

* Buddhadev Dasgupta had woven Shey from Tagore’s late novel written for his granddaughter, and then scripted a feature based on 13 poems by the bard. When we read a poem, certain images arise before our mind’s eye. The director interprets Tagorean poetry through such images and experiences. “It is about how a poet responds to another poet,” he explains.

Of Zamindars and Servants

Robi, the ‘good for nothing’ youngest son of Debendranath, had to prove himself in his father’s eyes by successfully performing the job he was entrusted with – that of collecting taxes, ‘khajna’, from the ‘prajas’, subjects, no matter how impoverished they were. We all know that in doing the job he came across a vast cross section of people of the land whom he would not otherwise get to know so intimately. And while he could not be lenient as his father’s representative, he created caring characters like the zamindar in Atithi ( The Guest) who brings home a vagabond, gives him education, and even prepares to give his daughter in marriage to the free spirited boy whose restless soul drives him away…

* But having seen the reality of the lives of the subjects Rabindranath also created uncaring zamindars like the one in ‘Dui Bigha Jami’ (Two Bighas of Land) that had inspired the Bimal Roy classic Do Bigha Zamin (1953), set in a post-independence India that was rapidly industrialising. Debaki Bose attempted a more literal visualisation as part of Arghya, his Centenary Tribute to Tagore, along with his poem ‘Puratan Bhritya’, (Old Retainer).

* Robi, the motherless child who was raised in a large household in the rigid care of servants, said ‘Thank You’ to them through characters like Kesto, the old family retainer who refuses to leave even when he’s dubbed a thief or driven away. Instead, he saves his master from small pox at the cost of his own life. Tagore, in fact, goes a step further in his short story, ‘Khokababur Pratyabartan’. The trusted servant even raises his son to eventually give him up as the master’s child lost to a landslide in the river!

Oppression of Religion

Pujarini (Worshipper) was immortalised by Manjushri Chaki Sircar’s dance. Although set in the revivalist times of Ajatshatru who was set upon putting the clock back and wipe out the Buddhist tenor of his father Bimbisara, we can easily identify with Rabindranath’s condemnation of any excess – violence in particular – in the name of Religion. Visarjan (Immersion) too raises consciousness against violence in any form, against even animals, in the name of religion.

* Nor can we overlook instances where he raises his angst ridden voice against the inhuman treatment of humans on grounds of caste or creed. In Chandalika, the untouchable gets a new mantra to live by when the Buddhist monk Ananda says “Jei manab aami sei manab tumi kanya (You, lady, and I are part of the same humanity).” The act becomes a beacon for Sujata, the eponymous protagonist of Bimal Roy’s film, who is on the verge of ending her life (following casteist discrimination).

* Tagore’s poem called ‘Debatar Grash’ (God’s Greed), lashes out against the cruelty people can unleash through the heart rending plight of the mother whose child is snatched from her and thrown into the raging waters to appease the villagers superstitious belief in god’s wrath. Shubha O Debatar Grash (Shubha and God’s Greed, 1964) remains a signature film of Partha Pratim Chowdhury.

* Tagore questioned the very concept of belonging to ideological boxes. His time-transcending novel, Chaturanga (Four Quartet), points out that human experiments (like, say, Communism) have failed because they put ideology in watertight boxes that do not have any room for flexibility. This inspired Suman Mukhopadhyay to film it in 2008. Tagore, who himself created walls and broke them, questions this through Jyathamoshai, his uncle, and Sachish, who invite Muslim singers and feed them at shraddha or funeral as much as through Damini, whom Sachish wants to domesticate much against her wish. She even questions her husband’s authority to will her away along with his property, to his religious guru. Tagore uses the graphic imagery of a hawk and a mongoose that Damini has as her pet (it is well known that these animals cannot be domesticated).

Nationalism to Internationalism

‘Where the world has not been fragmented by narrow domestic walls, and the clear stream of reason has not lost its way into the dreary desert sand of dead habits: into that heaven of freedom’ Tagore, forever and always, wanted his compatriots to awake. That is why Nikhilesh, in Ghare Bairey, does not condone violence even in the name of nationalism. That is why he decries Sandip, who uses the passion of young freedom fighters and the wealth of the poor to fill his coffers.

Beware the false god: Tagore repeats the criticism in Char Adhyay. In 2012 Bappaditya Bandopadhyay revisits the novel filmed by Kumar Shahani in 1997, the golden jubilee of Independence. But Ela’s Char Adhyay review it for its politics, its backdrop of ultras and violence, for the debate that acquired a new validity in the world after 9/11. Tagore was much in favour of non-violence, so much so that he criticised the nationalist movement too when it turned violent. How much of a visionary he was to ask a full century ago: “What will be the state of the nation that is based on violence?”

Young filmmakers are amazed by Tagore’s vivid criticism of the deterioration of party structures although he himself never belonged to any party. Sarat Chandra’s Pather Dabi (Demands of the Path), written about eight years before Char Adhyay, had taken a populist stand while Tagore didn’t hesitate to say through the protagonist Atin, ‘I am not a patriot in the sense you use the term.”

* That Rabindranath was against any form of regimentation is well established. His play, Tasher Desh or the land of cards, perhaps, written to criticise the submission of the conscience in Hitler’s Germany, remains the ultimate critique of regimentation. Directed by Q in 2012, the text layers his criticism of contemporary society by “trippy” visuals. By Q’s own submission, it is a “quirky” retelling of the Tagorean allegory.

* Gora (directed by Naresh Mitra in 1938) goes further: He bows to his adopted mother, hails her as his Motherland and says, every child is equal for a mother, she does not differentiate on any ground. Tagore here gives us a blueprint for an ideal Republic where a hundred flowers can fill the air with a hundred different colours.

* Perhaps the ultimate example of Tagore’s humanism is Kabuliwala, directed in Bengali by Tapan Sinha in 1958 and in Hindi by Hemen Gupta in 1961. An Afghan selling his wares in a Calcutta 150 years ago and striking a friendship with a child who reminds him of his own daughter back home, is a story that will strike a chord in anybody, anywhere in the world, at any given point in time — even in a world swamped with internet, chat rooms, mobile phones and multimedia messaging.

All of this reiterates the ‘forever-ness’ of Tagore. It also redefines the need to interpret his farsightedness, his comprehensiveness, his universality for our own times, in our own terms. Tagore himself had observed in a letter: “Cinema will never be slave to literature – literature will be the lodestar for cinema.” So we may conclude that since Tagore was primarily delving into human emotions, into the psyche of men and women placed in demanding situations that forced them to measure up to social, political, cultural or gender-based challenges, films based on his stories not only continue to be made but find an ever-growing audience in the globalised world.

(Courtesy: Tagore and Russia: International Seminar of ICCR 2011 held in Moscow. Har Anand publications, 2016. Edited by Reba Som and Sergei Serebriany)

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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Tags 2016. Edited by Reba Som and Sergei Serebriany, Abanindranath, Andre Gide, Anmol Vellani, Arundhuti Debi, Battleship of Potemkin, Bengal, Bengali, Budhadev Dasgupta, Chandalika, Charulata, Chaturanga, Chitrangada, Chokher Bali, Dakghar, Devtar Grash, Dilip Kumar, Do Bigha Zamin, Dui Bigha Jami, Eisenstein, Ghare Bairey, Gora, Har Anand publications, Hemen Gupta, Hindi, Hrishikaesh Mukherjee, Ichhapurna, Janus Kocak, Kabuliwala, Kadambari, Kaushik Sen, Manipur, Megh O Roudro, Moscow, Mrinaal Sen, Mrinalini, Nandalal Bose, Natir Puja, New Theatres, Noukadubi, Pather dabi, Phalke winner, Pujarini, Puratan Bhritya, Rabindrarachanabali, Raja Ram Mohan Roy, Ratnottama Sengupta, Russia, Rutin, Sampati, Santiniketan, Saratchandra, Satyajit Ray, Shambhu Mitra, Sriniketan, Tagore, Tagore and Russia: International Seminar of ICCR, Tapan Sinha, Teen Kanya, Tripti Mitra, Vidyasagar, Visarjan

Interview Review

Satyajit Ray – Was he really ‘The Man Who Knew Too Much’?

Post author By borderlesssg1
Post date September 14, 2022
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In conversation with Barun Chanda, an actor who started his career as the protagonist of a Satyajit Ray film and now is a bi-lingual writer of fiction and more recently, a non-fiction published by Om Books International, Satyajit Ray: The Man Who Knew Too Much

“[O]ne would like to remember Ray as one of the last truly great renaissance men of Bengal, moulded much in the tradition of Tagore, in the sense that his genius manifested itself in manifold directions: film-making, photography, writing, composing poetry, limericks, music, designing, drawing, developing new typefaces, you name it.

“For a long time, he was also our most distinguished cultural ambassador to the world.”

This perhaps is the one of the most apt descriptions of a man whose films were legendary in our lifetime and a part of the concluding chapter in The Man Who Knew Too Much by Barun Chanda. The book is an exhaustive account of Ray and his major films, how he made the films, what were the influences he had, how he directed the films and how versatile he was. Chanda is clearly impacted by this giant of Bengal renaissance, which started with Raja Ram Mohan Roy in the eighteenth century and encompassed Tagore.

The book is as much a memoir by Chanda about Satyajit Ray as it is a narrative about his films. Structured unusually, this non-fiction has an introduction sandwiched between two sections, the first being Chanda’s own interaction with Ray as a hero of his award-winning film, Seemabadha[1](1971), and the making of the movie; the second being the narrative that covers the titular content (borrowed from Alfred Hitchcock’s famous 1956 thriller), The Man Who Knew Too Much, about the genius of Ray as a filmmaker. Chanda shows us how Ray was truly unique and very gifted. He would remember all the dialogues and be intent on being involved with every part of film making, from costumes to camera, lighting and makeup — which is probably why his films had a unique touch so much so that he has to date been the only Indian filmmaker to win an honorary Oscar which Hollywood actress Audrey Hepburn, collected for him as he lay sick in bed (1992) breathing his last, saying: “Dear Satyajit Ray, I am proud and privileged to have been allowed to represent our industry in paying tribute to you as an artist and as a man. For everything you represent I send you my gratitude and love.”

And this note has been quoted by Chanda to bring out the uniqueness of a man who counted luminaries like Arthur C Clarke, Jean Renoir, de Sica, Kurusawa, Cartier-Bresson among his friends. He has unveiled the unique persona further. “As Ray was wont to say, everything that he had done earlier in his career, helped prepare him to be a complete filmmaker. His sense of framing stemmed from his knowledge of still photography. His deep love of Western and Indian classical music helped shape him as a music director. His sense of art direction came from his earlier stint at D.J. Keymer. His power of illustration helped him design the sets of Hirak Rajar Deshe[2]and Shatranj ke Khilari[3], both marvellous instances of art direction. And a combination of these two factors facilitated his making of some of the most original and impressive cinema posters ever.”

Chanda goes on to describe the full genius of Ray’s film making which even stretched to scripts, songs — both the lyrics and music often, and of course his ability to visualise the whole movie beforehand. Ray is quoted as having said: “I have the whole thing in my head at all times. The whole sweep of the film.”

Interspersed with anecdotes about the films, the text highlights the eternal relevance of some of the dialogues and lyrics that Ray wrote himself. For example, listening carefully to the lyrics of ‘Ore Baba Dekho Cheye[4]’ (Goopy Gyne Bagha Byne, 1969), one could see it as a comment from a current pacifist in today’s war-torn world. This book actually seems like an eye opener not only to understand Ray’s films, but also to find out what the world needs from the media, an important comment in times of false news and sensationalism.

However, the book is not all adulation. It is also a critique of the persona of a visionary who could risk all for realising his vision. Chanda tells us how to attain perfection, Ray could risk necks: “There was an element in Ray bordering on ruthlessness. To get a certain effect on the screen he wasn’t averse to taking risks, at times to dangerous levels.”

New perspectives are brought in from unpublished interviews: “In an unpublished Bengali interview of Ray which is in the possession of Abhijit Dasgupta, one-time chief of Doordarshan, Kolkata, when asked about his film Sadgati[5], the maestro is quoted to have said: ‘One needed to make a film on this story immediately. As a Marxist, Mrinal Sen would have probably made it differently, more angry … Had this film been angrier I’m not sure it would have served the purpose any better. I don’t think display of anger alone can lead to much of an achievement. To my mind a truly politically angry film hasn’t been made so far. Until now what has been done is to shoot at safe targets. It hasn’t made any difference to establishments in any way. If one were to achieve this kind of a thing, I would sooner be a political worker than a filmmaker.’”

While looking at the maestro through an objective lens, Chanda finds it hard not to express his affection for the giant who impacted not just him but a whole generation of movie goers, film personnel and the world. His last sentence says it all:

“As far as I’m concerned, he [Ray] is always present. Not past. Not even past perfect.”

Chanda, a man who started his life working in the same advertising agency as Ray and dreaming of being an actor, with four books and multiple films under his belt, himself mesmerised audiences as a protagonist in Ray’s award-winning film and then suddenly withdrew from the industry for two decades. Why would he do that? Let us find out more about him and Ray in this interview.

First of all, let me tell you I am very honoured to be interviewing a Ray hero from a film I have watched multiple times. So, tell me, why did you act only in one Ray film, have a hiatus of twenty years and then go back to acting with Hirer Angti [6] in 1992, the year Ray died. Did it have anything to do with Satyajit Ray’s presence or influence?

No. I’ll tell you what – after Seemabadha, I got a cluster of film offers, nine-ten offers and I did not accept anyone of them because they did not seem to be significant enough. I wasn’t interested in making money out of films or becoming a film star. I was interested in acting in good films. If they came my way, I would do. If they didn’t come my way, I wouldn’t. I would go back to my profession which is advertising. I was very happy there.

So, these offers that came didn’t quite satisfy me. And Manikda[7] did not call me back again for whatever reasons. The other significant filmmakers like Tapan Sinha, Mrinal Sen and Ritwick Ghatak – they did not call me. I suppose I was branded as a capitalist actor. Or Imperialistic actor! I suppose it became ingrained in their mind I was an executive and nothing else. They felt they could not bend me into the roles in their film. A pity!

Is this your first non- fiction? What led you to think of writing a book on Satyajit Ray?

Yes, it is my first non-fiction. I had harboured this thought for a long-long time but there is a natural reluctance about writing anything. I am, by and large, a lazy person and there were a whole lot of things that were pretty personal, and I thought, you know, let it be stored in my mind. Maybe, I could narrate to my close friends’ circle certain stories and certain things that happened between me and him. But not for everyone. Even in this book, I have not mentioned a whole lot of things that are too personal, which he confided to me in good understanding that I will not tell another. I won’t speak about it.

Then the centenary year came, and many asked me why I did not write my out my memories. Shantanu Ray Chaudhuri was one of them. He said the time is right and you have such wonderful anecdotes and experience, put it down for posterity. When I did the first part, I realised it could not just be my experiences but also something larger – in the sense what kind of a man was he in real life.

I was also dissatisfied with the books I have been reading about Ray and his works — starting with Marie Seton[8], who was supposed to be a gospel on Ray. I found it was a narration of his films in chronological order and what she thought of them. It was film-based assessment, not of the man himself or his qualities separated from the films. So, I decided to explore his persona. This book is quite different from any written on him. I have sections on music, editing with a whole lot of films but not in a chronological order. That is passé. The second part started with what has not been done. As I progressed, newer sections dawned on me – a whole lot of sections I have not used. I wanted a chapter on “The Rise and Fall of the Ray Empire” – but then thought I’d rather not finally. It would have been terrific, but I did not, perhaps want to spoil the public feeling about Ray. I did not want to criticise. I did do a chapter though — “Director or dictator”.

Absolutely. Your book is dispassionate but has no scandals or any unfair criticism. In fact, it seems to be based on not just your memories but also many interviews and lot of research. Can you tell us what went into the making of this book in this context? What kind of research and who all did you interview? How much time went into the making of the book?

I used Ray’s experiences with actors who are no longer alive – like Chabbi Biswas or Tulsi Chakraborty. I have used Aloknanda Roy who happened to work with Chabbi Babu in Kanchenjunga[9]. I used the living actors. I did not interview Soumitra Chatterjee – I know his feelings on Ray. So, I did not interview him separately. But there is a lot in the book about how Soumitra da perceived Ray or his equation with Ray.

The book worked well for me – I would have gone to a madhouse but for this book. You have to believe me. For it helped my sanity, writing this book during the Covid period[10]. The eighteen months—closer to two years. I could really concentrate on something as I am an outgoing person – not that I am a club person – but I would like to meet my friends, lead an active life. Suddenly, I felt imprisoned – it was like house imprisonment. So, I turned my attention to writing this book and whatever I could get out of YouTube, whole lot of other’s books, Ray’s interviews. One gentleman, Abhijit Dasgupta, who was the head of Kolkata Doordarshan, had conducted an interview. He gave me part of it which I found very intimate. You could do a book on Ray and Mrinal Sen dispassionately –Mrinal’s films would be of historical importance but not of relevance otherwise whereas Manikda’s films can be watched again and again because it touches your heart.

That is so true. Your book is structurally unusual with an introduction in the middle of two parts. Why did you follow such an unconventional format? Do you feel it helped your presentation in any way?

Yes. Because I was writing a different book. No one has written a biography in two parts. In a way it is not a biography, but it is trying to understand and appreciate Ray as a filmmaker. That’s what the book is.

I was in an advantageous position to write on Ray. Actually, Dhritiman Chatterjee could have done the same. I admire Dhriti for his thinking, but I guess there is an innate laziness. He did interview Manikda but I do not know where the tapes are.

I felt the way I did it was the right way. The book came naturally to me. For somethings, I went out of my way — like the titling.

To this date, no Indian director has made a film where the title is relevant to the film. The film follows from the title. The thought is not there. But it is there in the West. That is why you have people like Saul Bass. Ray wanted to do things himself – that might have been why he did the titling too. He would draw and present to the art director who would work further on it. I should have had a whole lot of drawings in this book, but it was not readily available.

I continue to feel I could embellish certain chapters, especially on music. Debojyoti Mishra, a film music director, has written a book in Bengali which actually traces from where Ray has borrowed what piece of Western Classical music. It is not unlike Tagore – there are analogies in the use of music between the two.

Ray spent a few years in Santiniketan when he was young, I think around 1940. Was he impacted by Tagore? Can you tell us about it? Did he meet Tagore or have any conversation with him as it was a year before Rabindranath passed on?

He did not actively seek out Rabi Thakur. He was a very shy person. There is no mention anywhere in his writings about seeking out Tagore, knowing very well Tagore held his father and grandfather in great esteem. His mom knew Tagore well. But he never sought him out. It is rather difficult to understand why he did not utilise the time speaking with Tagore. Maybe, Tagore was inaccessible. I could have asked him, but I never did. I do not know why I never asked.

Why would you borrow from Alfred Hitchcock to name probably one of the last of the Bengal renaissance men? Can you please elaborate?

I thought that the title was absolutely apt. As a director he knew more than any director did. It described him to perfection. He would draw, give music and work with his basic idea with the rest of the team.

What would you say is Ray’s most major contribution to the world?

The brilliance of Ray’s portrayal of the village was outstanding. You watch the film and think you cannot improve on it. And Ray knew it and has said it.

Does Ray continue to impact current trends in cinema?

Ray was a classicist. The film making style has moved away from that. He would not move the camera unless it became imperative to his film. But now, cameras are handheld, and they have fast shooting. Film making has transformed with the emergence of the web series. Shooting has become so much easier and quick, though they work very hard. There is something more raw about web series. The feature film is more stately, more crafted. Films have enough time. You cannot get a good film if the actors are not brilliant. You cannot shoot a good film in ten or twelve days as they do for web series. That is not physically possible. In the West, they take eighty to ninety days to shoot a film.

Ray wrote many novels on Feluda and Professor Sonkhu. Yet made few films on them. He made films of others’ books rather than his own. Can you tell us why?

Maybe, the writing part started late in his life. It was propelled by his need to feed Sandesh[11] and he had to supply stories to Desh[12] — one per year, for the puja [13]special. His writing came as an offshoot – it was an accident. But the preparation was there – if you read his scripts or lyrics, they are fantastic. The scripts he wrote were brilliant. There is much to admire and respect about him. He was a writer too.

You are known to be a writer too. Are your books impacted by your association with Ray?

What I learnt from him was how to write dialogues. The publisher of my Bengali books, Tridib Chatterjee, said he found my dialogues “smart”. Ray’s writing was very tight. I tighten my descriptions. I do not expect the readers to read a book like Tom Jones[14].

Can you tell us about your other books? Coke (2011) interestingly, is available in both Bengali and English. So, which came first — the Bengali book or the English? Are they both your handiwork? Tell us a bit about your novels?

I wrote it in Bengali first and then wrote it in English later. Actually, it was not a direct translation. I write in both the languages. Another one which is in English is Murder in the Monastery. The second edition is being brought out by Rupa, should be available on Amazon soon hopefully. Post-Covid, people have gone into hibernation. So, many have complained they cannot get it.

I have two books in English, Coke and Murder in the Monastery. The others are in Bengali.

Which genre is preferable to you — murder, mystery thrillers or non-fiction like this one?

I get my high writing fiction, especially crime.

Are you giving us any new books in the near future?

Yes, a collection of short stories in Bengali, probably after the pujas. I have created a character called Avinash Roy. He is learned and intelligent but not overtly brilliant like Sherlock Holmes. My favourite character [fictional] among detectives is that of Inspector Morse – I have seen the TV series but not read the books. He was very human. Absolutely brilliant. But coming back to my current book, it is also facing delays, but I am hoping it will be out this October.

Thank you for giving us your time and answering our questions

[1] Translates to ‘bound by limits’

[2] 1980 film by Ray, translates from Bengali as ‘In Hirak Raja’s Kingdom’

[3]1977 film by Ray, translates from Hindi as ‘The Chess Players’

[4] Translates from Bengali to ‘Oh dear look around’

[5] 1981 television film by Ray, translates from Hindi as ‘Deliverance’

[6] A film by Rituporno Ghosh, translates as ‘Diamond Ring’

[7] Satyajit Ray – he was often referred to as such by his friends

[8] Marie Seton: Portrait of a Director: Satyajit Ray, 2003

[9] Ray film released in 1962

[10] Lockdown due to the Pandemic

[11] A magazine started by Ray’s grandfather, Upendrakishore Ray in 1913

[12] A Bengali magazine that was started in 1933

[13] Durga Puja, the main festival of Bengalis, where the Goddess is said to return to her parent’s home for five days

[14] The History of Tom Jones, a Foundling (1749) by Henry Fielding

(This review and telephonic interview has been conducted by Mitali Chakravarty.)

PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL

Interview Review

The Making of Historical Fiction: A Conversation with Aruna Chakravarti

Post author By borderlesssg1
Post date August 14, 2022
1 Comment on The Making of Historical Fiction: A Conversation with Aruna Chakravarti

Aruna Chakravarti reveals how she wove a historic novel, The Mendicant Prince(Published by Picador India, 2022), from a controversial court case that took place in the early twentieth century and created ripples through not just Bengal but the whole country and even England.

Aruna Chakravarti. Photo courtesy: Swati Bhattacharya

Perhaps we can call her the queen of historical fiction or an author inspired by history, but Aruna Chakravarti, an eminent award-winning Anglophone writer, evokes the past of a united Bengal – long before the Partition along religious lines in 1947 — repeatedly giving us a glimpse of an age where culture superseded beliefs. She recreates a period where we can see the seeds of the present sowed. In her last novel, Suralakshmi Villa (2020), she gave a purely fictitious account of a woman who pioneered changes in a timeframe that dates back to more than a century. Before that in the Jorasanko novels (2013, 2016), she brought to life the Tagore family history. By then, she had written her own family history set in the same period called The Inheritors (2004), which was shortlisted for the Commonwealth Award. Perhaps, her grounding comes from having translated Sunil Gangopadhyay’s First Light and Those Days, both novels set around the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. She also won the Sahitya Akademi Award for translating Sarat Chandra’s Srikanta, a novel again set in a similar timeframe. She started her journey as a writer translating Tagore songs for which she won the Vaitalik award. Perhaps, this grounding has made her what she is today – a powerful re-creator of history where the characters come to life. You emote and react to their statements and on their actions. Her narrative carries you with it.

Her novel based on the real story of the Bhawal Prince which was launched last month, gives a clear glimpse of the event with historical accuracy. The Bhawal prince turned mendicant after losing his memory in 1909 in Darjeeling. He was recovering from a bout of syphilis. He fell prey to intrigue and might have been poisoned. The prince was abandoned as a corpse during his cremation and yet he survived …and then, twelve years later, he returned — having travelled through much of the country with a band of Naga sadhus — to claim his rightful place. Swapan Dasgupta, a journalist turned politician, wrote when he thought of the Bhawal case, the “Dreyfus affair in late 19th century France, the John F. Kennedy assassination in the US and the James Hanratty case in Britain are ones that come readily to mind.” He was reviewing an earlier historical narrative written by Partha Chatterjee(2002) called A Princely Imposter?, which Chakravarti tells us she has used as a resource.

Set against the independence movement and colonial era, she has painted a man, who though flawed, gains the sympathy and wins the heart of the reader. The writing is fluid and evocative. Given that the trial lasted for more than sixteen years, and his first wife and her family refused to acknowledge the prodigal prince, the story has been made into films multiple times, once Sanyasi Raja (Bengali, Mendicant Prince, 1975), the second time, a remake in Telugu Raja Ramesh (1977) and more recently somewhat anachronistic, a movie called, Ek je Chhilo Raja (There was a King, 2018). The Mendicant Prince departs from the films in being a stickler for the period, the historicity and brings to fore events and nuances the author researched by interviewing surviving Bhawal family relatives. What is amazing is the way in which Chakravarti has fleshed out each character to make the persona real, to the point where, as in her earlier Jorasanko novels, the reader can visualise them. Aruna Chakravarti’s strength is definitely her mastery over the language and her ability to breathe life into the past.

In this interview, Aruna Chakravarti tells us how she has woven the novel into the timeframe and created a novel based on history – an excellent lesson for aspiring writers of historical fiction from the empress of the genre herself.

What moved you to write a novel on the Prince of Bhawal?

The controversial prince of Bhawal, Ramendra Narayan Roy. The top is a picture of the claimant and the bottom has the picture of the prince as a Naga *sannyasi* or mendicant.

I first heard of the Bhawal case in 1950 when I was about ten years old. The time was the aftermath of Indian Independence and Partition when many Hindus from Pakistan were relocating in India. A family from East Bengal came to live in the government quarter next to ours and became very friendly with us. One of its members, we called him Uncle, was an excellent story teller and regaled us with many tales.

One was about a legal case concerning a prince turned sannyasi [mendicant] then prince again. It had taken place in Bhawal, a principality in present day Bangladesh. The case was still fresh in his memory. The Privy Council verdict had been announced as recently as July 1946 and it was natural for him, still nostalgic for the land he had left behind, to wish to talk about it. I was so mesmerised by the tale that it stayed with me for decades afterwards.

I never thought of writing about it till recently, when some friends distantly related to the royal family urged me to. ‘You have already done two novels on the Tagores so why not the Bhawals?’ I didn’t take to the idea easily. It seemed too big and complex a project. Then, during the Covid years, in the state of incarceration we all found ourselves, I started thinking seriously about it. But I was constantly beset with anxiety. ‘Would I be able to pull off such a delicate operation?’ A meticulous adherence to the facts together with dates was called for since these were already out in the public domain. There was no way I could take liberties with them. A reconstruction of the life and times of the concerned people, within these limits, called for tremendous imaginative power and an equal amount of discipline and concentration. Covid worked in my favour. In the complete silence and absence of activity; in the total encapsulation of self by the mind; I found myself getting slowly entrenched in the world I was creating. A world of queens and mistresses, liaisons and stratagems, faith and betrayal and a desperate British imperialism slowly eroding under the pressure of an awakening nationalism.

It seems amazing to me now. But it worked.

What kind of research went into it? Did you travel to Jaidevpur?

No. That was one of the hurdles Covid put in my way. For all my other novels I have made it a point to do an extensive amount of field work. This time, travel being rendered impossible, I had to depend entirely on secondary sources. My chief source was Dr Partha Chatterjee’s book A Princely Imposter? It contained a treasure trove of information. Articles in Bangladeshi journals of which there was quite a significant number and other books, both English and Bengali, fiction and non-fiction, helped me to understand and visualise the context in which the drama had unfolded. The two films Sanyasi Raja and Ek je Chhilo Raja also offered a few glimmerings. These, however, were negligible. What came in truly useful was the first-hand research I had done for my earlier work such as my translations and other novels. As also the conversations I had with some distant relatives and family friends of the Bhawals.

How much of your story is fact and how much is fiction?

This question, invariably put to me in the context of my creative writing, is difficult to answer since it is impossible to put a quantum to either. All I can say is that the events the reader is taken through in The Mendicant Prince are historically accurate and documented. But the book is not history. It is a novel; an imaginative reconstruction of a prominent legal case fought in the dwindling twilight of British India. The fictional element travels beyond the case to the lives of the people it affected, particularly the women of the family. Nothing much is known about these women so I have had to give them backgrounds and contexts; personalities and distinguishing characteristics that are wholly imagined.

It is true that you have woven history and fiction meticulously and seamlessly in the book. In creating the ambience of the period, you have touched on prevalent myths such as the education of a woman results in her widowhood. You have also mentioned bedes and kheersapati mangoes. Were these actually part of what you found in the Bhawal story? Or is it something you introduced? If so, what was the intention?

No. They had nothing to do with the Bhawal case. These details were provided to intensify the ambience; to make the world of early twentieth century Bengal come dynamically alive. Reformers like Ishwar Chandra Vidyasagar, Raja Ram Mohan Roy and Debendranath Tagore had advocated education for women. But the idea was fiercely resisted by the conservative section of Bengali society. Many clung to an age-old belief that educated women were liable to become widows. It was natural for Rani Bilasmoni [the prince’s mother], with her disdain for education even for her sons, to hold such a belief. In terms of the novel, this is a distinguishing trait of her character and brings into focus Bibhavati’s difficulties with her mother-in-law and her alienation in her husband’s home.

Pannalal Basu’s preference for kheersapati mangoes, along with other fictional details about his nature and tastes, takes him out of the realm of history and gives him a personality and voice. The presence of bedes at the river bank, just before the monsoon sets in, is a regular feature of the riverine culture of East Bengal, now Bangladesh. The addition of this detail enhances authenticity. In this case it provides a bit of dramatic irony as well. The band is travelling to Bhawal. Bhawal which has been the central focus of Pannalal Basu’s life for over six years…

You discussed the story with a relative of the royal family. What kind of interview did you have with him? Please share with us.

Actually I spoke to several members of the family. None of them are directly connected to the royal line. The person with whom I interacted most closely is the grand-nephew of the bara rani [the eldest queen], Sarajubala Debi. It was not a structured interview. Some family gossip and reminiscences, were shared, from time to time. That, too, mainly in connection with the bara rani. Among the bits of information I gathered, was the bricked over Bhawal vaults, filled with gold vessels, which ran across one entire wall of a room in the palace. Another was the conversation in which Bibhavati tells Sarajubala about the aridity of her sex life. I also came to know that the mejo kumar’s [second prince’s] second marriage was arranged by Sarajubala and that she had initial doubts about its suitability since Dhara Debi was small and slight and the mejo kumar very tall and hefty.

Your characters, each one are very well drawn, and the narrative makes readers travel back in time. How do you manage this? How do you gauge the reactions of the characters?

It is difficult to answer this. It has, I suppose, to do with instinct and the ability to internalise. In a historical novel, characters are conceived within a factual framework to begin with, then internalised and allowed to evolve through the course of the novel. The process is not planned. There is no strategy involved. It flows naturally and spontaneously. Not only the characters… the world that the author is recreating expands and grows in depth and richness as one goes along. Gradually it pervades one’s whole consciousness. So much so that sometimes one is not even aware of where fact ended and the imagination took over. I find myself in this state of confusion quite often. Did I read or hear about this somewhere, I’m often caught wondering, or did I imagine it?

Some women in your Jorasanko and Suralakshmi Villa are path breakers. But in The Mendicant Prince, they are more within the stream of history. Was this a conscious call or was it the circumstances? Please elaborate.

Suralakshmi Villa was pure fiction and I wanted to project a certain kind of woman as the central character. A woman who is far ahead of the times in which she lives; who breaks stereotypes and lives on her own terms; who dismisses societal expectations without giving it a second thought. A complex, enigmatic character whom people find difficult to understand, even a century later.

In Jorasanko, some of the characters were indeed path breakers. Digambari forbade her husband entry into his own home because, in her opinion he had strayed from the moral path. Jogmaya refused to obey her brother-in-law’s diktat that his entire family embrace the Brahmo faith, resulting in the rift that divided the Tagores into the Hindu branch and the Brahmo branch. Tripurasundari refused to give up her husband’s property. Jnanadanandini introduced many changes in the way the women of the household lived. These were real people and their actions are documented facts. There were no such progressive women in the Bhawal family. So how could I present them as path breakers?

The Bhawal case had been a mystery for a long time and no one knew why the prince’s first wife, Bibhavati, refused to recognise him. Have you figured that one out? Do you have an opinion on it?

No one knows the truth. Bibhavati’s insistence that the sanyasi was not her husband has left people baffled to this day. The case was fought many years after the alleged death and cremation of the prince and the verdicts given were based mostly on circumstantial evidence. I have tried to rationalise her stance and find a cause for it. This is where the fictional element comes in. It lies in the kind of person Bibhavati is and her relationship with her brother. In terms of the novel, I mean. Nothing has been made very explicit. But there are hints. I’m hoping readers will be able to figure it out for themselves.

You have written historical novels before this one. You have dealt with the Tagore family ancestry and your own. How different was working on this novel?

The difference was that this one dealt with a court case the details of which were already out in the public domain. There was very little known about the Tagore women and my own family of course. For the latter, I had to depend on what I had heard from family members, which was very little. For the Tagore women project I gleaned titbits of information from their own writing, biographies of Rabindranath, and Rabindranath’s autobiographical writing. The facts being few and far between the imagination was allowed full play.

Writing The Mendicant Prince was a different proposition altogether. The facts were well known. What could I add to them to justify a new work? And then an idea came to me. How would it be if I were to bring to the fore the women of the family who were strongly affected by what was happening but about whom nothing is known? They were only names in the drama that was unfolding around them. I could flesh out these women, give them thoughts, emotions, aspirations and distinguishing characteristics. This component would be pure fiction. As a result, the book came to be structured on two levels. It is an authentic record of the Bhawal case supported by documents like letters, diary entries, newspaper cuttings, legal papers and case histories. But the account is interspersed with the personal revelations of the women of the family. Gradually the musings of a few other characters were added. The District Judge and some of the subjects were also given a voice.

Do you have another book on the cards? What should we look forward from you next?

A collection of stories titled Through a looking glass: Stories is scheduled for publication by Om International. It should be in the market in a few months. There are nine stories showcasing women from across the spectrum of Indian society. Though coming from diverse religions and provincial cultures, they are all trapped in the tradition of silence which is the woman’s lot. Each has a secret space within her with a hidden story.

Thank you for giving us your time.

The Prince of Bhawal before he became a mendicant, early 1900s.

Click here to read the book excerpt

(This online interview has been conducted by Mitali Chakravarty)

PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL