Arts & Letters by DhakaTribune

Arts & Letters

Saturday, June 25, 2016

Satyajit Ray and our childhood n Rifat Munim

have long wanted to bring out issues solely dedicated to the genius of Satyajit Ray, the writer and filmmaker without whose creations our childhood would have been duller and less fun. Some of our most exciting moments were when we, as avid, adolescent readers of detective and thriller stories in a small town, would pay our visits to the small book stores in the bazaar area, twice or thrice a month. We’d always find something new from Sheba Prakashani, an ever fertile resource of children’s fiction. Even when there was no new Sheba title, there always were several piles of the old ones from which we could always rent at two or three takas each. But when news spread that a new Feluda had arrived -not one of those pirated copies, but the original with the cover and the inside paintings done by Ray himself -- each one of us would rush home to see where

ANNOUNCEMENT I’m very pleased to announce that Arts & Letters is going to revert to the monthly stand-alone format with a revamp. From now on A&L will come out on

the moms hid their purse and the dads put their shirts and pants, and to scour through them secretly for whatever remained in those pockets: a few coins or two or five taka notes. The Feludas were not as cheap as the Masud Ranas or the Tin Goyendas. So we had to put our brains and stolen money together. There were, of course, those consequences of being caught at times, with which came extra hours of reading on top of some heavy scolding. But there we were, braving all risks, and it all felt right, so right, because, after all, it was a new Feluda and we were desperate to be carried away wherever Topse, Lalmohan Babu and Feluda would take us to. But when we got hold of the book after going through so much, instead of fighting over it, we’d sit together to look through the pages that contained the drawings and illustrations, to take in the nuanced contours of the figures drawn and form a mental picture of a tall Feluda with a serious face and a short

the first Saturday of the month as a 16-page supplement with a wider range of articles and writeups on literature, music, films, theatre, painting and sculpture, and architecture.

Lalmohan Babu with a round face. We were equally excited when a new Professor Shonku arrived. But a detailed picture of those days should be saved up for another day. In this issue, Arts & Letters takes a look at some of Ray’s sketches, which were drawn neither for any book nor for any advertisement. These were sketches he had drawn before the shooting for Panther Panchali started. They tell us how he actually conceived the scenes, translating the setting, as described in the novel, into a sequence of visuals. They also tell us how Ray always gave us something of a multifaceted artwork, by enriching his literature and films with illustrations in some way or another. In the coming issues, we hope to run more stories and articles on other aspects of his genius such as his gift for composing music and writing lyrics and scripts. l The writer is editor, arts & letters.

The current four-page weekly format, we have realised, utterly fails to offer readers the variety and richness of our English writing scene that has seen a vibrancy in recent years with the emer-

gence of fresh new voices. We hope readers will like the new format and writers will respond by contributing new pieces. – Editor, Arts & Letters

Arts & Letters

Saturday, June 25, 2016

CLASSIC BANGLA

The making of Satyajit Ray’s ‘Pather P and photos from ‘The Pather Panchal

Subir Banerjee (Apu) and Uma Dasgupta (Durga) during the shoot.

Cinematographer Subrata Mitra with Karuna Banerjee (Sarbajaya).

Indir Thakrun.

4 Satyajit Ray during the filming of ‘Pather Panchali’.

n Scroll Staff

atyajit Ray’s stunning debut Pather Panchali is back in the news with a new restoration by the American DVD label Criterion and the L’Immagine Ritrovata laboratory in Italy. Posters, sketches and on-location photographs of the 1965 release, which have been floating around in bits and

4 pieces for years, have now been collected in one place. The Pather Panchali Sketchbook provides a glimpse of how Ray imagined his adaptation of Bibhutibhushan Bandyopadhyay’s novel of the same name to be. The publication includes Ray’s original drawings that served as the visual blueprint for the screenplay, photographs of the cast and crew on location, and his illustrations from

Aam Aantir Bhenpu, a children’s edition of the novel. There are also essays by Dhritiman Chatterjee and Sharmila Tagore, both of whom have acted in Ray’s films, and contributions by cinematographer Subrata Mitra, production designer Bansi Chandragupta, and editor Dulal Dutta. Ray “did not use his now-famous kheror khata (red notebook) to write the screenplay”, writes his

son, filmmaker Sandip Ray, in the preface. “He did some sketches in a drawing book after he had come back from London in 1950 and illustrated a succession of pictures (in pen, brush and ink) for the sequences of frames as they would come up in the film. He used to take them to the producers and explain the sequences. The producers he approached, however, had no interest, nor could they

understand the whole process.” Some of the shot divisions were scribbled on chits of paper and cigarette packs.

The birth of Apu: ‘Where is the wailing coming from?’

Satyajit Ray had donated his sketchbook to the Cinematheque Francais in Paris, writes Sandip Ray, and a scanned copy has served as the foundation for the

CINEMA

Arts & Letters

Saturday, June 25, 2016

FICTION

Panchali’: sketches li Sketchbook’

Friendship This is the second installment of a two-part story

durga gets drenches

the birth of Apu

n Junaidul Haque

W the iconic train sequence

latest publication. “Visual authenticity was of the utmost importance,” Ray wrote about his adaptation. “The characters were real, with no hint of idealisation, and they had therefore to perform against real backgrounds... I also felt that it was worth trying to get ‘atmosphere’ into the film at any cost, because I believed it would heighten the drama. The subtle shades of differ-

ence between dawn and dusk, the dramatic qualities of the hot midday sun, the grey humid stillness that precedes the first monsoon shower – all these had somehow to be caught and conveyed. This involved a respect for natural ‘available’ light to an extent which sometimes created tough problems for the cameraman. But undaunted, we shot nearly all the scenes on location, and as far as

possible in the time of the day and season in which they were supposed to have taken place in the story… We did not adopt short-cut methods, because we did not know of any.” l Excerpted with permission from The Pather Panchali Sketchbook, HarperCollins India. The book is edited by Sandip Ray, the master filmmaker’s son. These excerpts first appeared in scroll.in.

e shall be here for a few days. We shall chat a lot with your wife. You have been making her suffer for quite a few years now, no? Don’t hurt her, okay? No, no. Don’t worry. I have a good wife. I am not a bad person either. Sonia, I took her to India a few days back. We thoroughly enjoyed the trip. We remembered you a lot but you were in the USA then. Next time I shall visit your family in Mumbai. We would love to meet Naseeruddin Shah and Shabana Azmi, Om Puri and Satyadev Dubey, and all those disciples of Ibrahim Alkazi. They are all your family friends. How is Jimmy, Sonia? You haven’t even forgotten Jimmy! (Smiles) He is settled somewhere in the USA. May be Humayun is in touch with him. Hopeless Jimmy is very smart but he doesn’t have my passion. Isn’t it, Sonia? You remember me more than him, don’t you, darling? Come on. I have no time to remember your dull face. (Uncontrolled laughter) Still angry with Jimmy! I never even noticed the hopeless guy properly! You are as emotional as you were fifteen years before. (Smiles) No anger. I just love to consider him a defeated rival. Emotional? If you want I can chase Mark even now with a sword and flee with you on a

horse. Really? You don’t have to act like a young lover at this age, darling. Men from Kishoreganj are eternally kishores or adolescents, you used to tell me. You remember everything. That’s why you are such a great friend. I used to chat a lot with you. If Mark and you are Rama and Sita, I am your loyal Laxmana. Whenever you are in Dhaka, just let me know. My Urmila and myself will be always with Mark and you. Urmila of The Ramayana is a neglected person but not my one. I never mention the mermaid to her. I am a loyal husband. Sonia, please tell my wife what a nice person I was! Charm, chivalry – I had all in plenty. Yeah, yeah. You had so much charm that you had enough of it left for me even after loving the mermaid for seven years. (Sudden sweet smile) How do you feel while getting old, Mr Pogo? (Sadly) I felt old even at eighteen. I walked into the world of serious literature, got introduced to European melancholia and never recovered from it. My leftist friends tried their best to turn me into a strong-willed, highly active toughie. But I remained the sad, lazy, past-loving man all my life. This even dulled my writing skills and never allowed me to become the writer that I was supposed to be.  Page 18 column 1

Saturday, June 25, 2016

Arts & Letters FICTION

Continued from page 17

I could only talk with like-minded friends, listen to Tagore songs (best medicine for a sad man) and watch cricket. If there were no books, no adda, no Tagore songs and no cricket in this world, I would be a dead man. Let me be a little immodest for a second and tell you that I was once a bloody good student. Perhaps you guessed it. I had so far no regret spending my life as a glorified clerk in the corporate world. But now I feel a little weak after crossing forty. I feel quite sad. I qualified for the civil service but didn’t join. I was working for a bank but left it for more freedom and to avoid transfer. Now I feel bad. I never had what you call drive. I never had ambition or determination. I just drifted as a leaf on the river water. As a result, what was supposed to happen happened. I began with a bang and am going to end with a whimper. Well said. Now I know why you lost your mermaid. No ambition, no drive. A full-fledged pessimist. My mermaid and her father had every confidence in me but her mother refused to forgive my carelessness regarding my career. Tell me which mother will choose a pogo for her daughter? So we didn’t get married! When I understood that I was going to lose her, I suffered from a shock beyond description. At times I thought that I would finally get her and things would be right again. But that was wishful thinking. I always lived in my imagination and never knew reality. I clung to your friendship all the more to forget the terrible real world. It was not that I forgot Ilish Machh and chased you. Your superior intelligence and your sincerity helped me to tackle my crisis. I was talking about my sorrow. While youngsters enjoy their youth, I miserably failed to do so and was obsessed with old age and death. I didn’t want to grow old, I didn’t want to die. I didn’t want to remain eternally sad. But dejection never left me. To quote Yeats, I don’t remember spending a single day fully happy. I can say that I spent my youth only brooding and tackling my sorrow. I was sad in summer and winter. I was sad in spring and autumn. It was my mermaid who had made my life a little meaningful. But I didn’t get her finally. However, I had loved her with great passion. You know that I am an intensely emotional person. (Changing the topic) In fact, Sonia, I should have got my grandpa’s life. No complexity, no

Friendship

Bigstock

While youngsters enjoy their youth, I miserably failed to do so and was obsessed with old age and death. I didn’t want to grow old, I didn’t want to die. I didn’t want to remain eternally sad. But dejection never left me hard work. Spending eighty years in great comfort. And a highprofile, elegant wife like you. Don’t laugh. My grandma could rival you in beauty. One of my two childhood friends. The other was my mother’s mother. A scholar in Arabic and Persian. I was their eldest grandson and both doted on me. I wish I had such nice grandmas. Their affection turned you into a softie too. You showered affection on a lot of people. Now you don’t have to display an ear-to-ear grin! You had many flaws too, which I won’t mention now. Pogo, you used to say that you were born to fail in life. Would you blame women for your failure? Not at all. I don’t blame anyone. Mermaid gave me more happiness than sorrow. As a friend you were very positive. My wife is also liberal, encouraging, positive. How do I then blame women for my failure? Women are great. I didn’t only love them, I respected them. I put them on a pedestal and worshipped them. I respected their families. I have no regrets. I shall live like this even if I am blessed with one more life. Only I would like to be in a profession of my liking. No Motijheel or Gulshan for me. Teaching or full-time writing. I would love to write a

lot. Let us drop the topic. I don’t want to make you sad. I always remembered you all these years. I always wanted to write to you. But could never finish a letter! You lazy bum, could you ever finish anything in time? You onehundred-year-old fool! Don’t call a pogo old! Don’t hurt him. You know what Charles Baudelaire had said? One who can recreate boyhood at will is a genius. You can call me a chhotokhato (small) genius. A glorified clerk but with a boy’s heart! (Raises his collar playfully). Oh really? Mr Chirakishore (evergreen youth), still feel like running after kishoris (young women)? And listen, stop calling corporate executives glorified clerks! No self-pity, please! You have been such a great friend! An old friend is life’s greatest gift. Sonia, please tell me about yourself. With your encouragement I have talked a lot today. This is called getting old. An introvert as a boy, now I love to talk. Although only with close people. I don’t have much to tell you. Got a PhD a few years back. ‘Muslim journalism in British India’. I knew this would make you happy. (Shy smile) Quiet married life. Nothing more to say. No admirers? Nobody troubled

you like the pogo? (Mock serious tone) No comments. (Smiles) You are as naughty as ever. We need some younger versions of you too. Get babies, quick! Thanks for the praise. Sonia, your English was splendid. Mine could never match yours. How could Dhaka beat Mumbai? You are right. But your English had literary merit. Your words were poetic. And you admired TS Eliot so much! Such generous praise from the tigress! Sad that I have crossed forty. Fifteen years back I would only be rebuked. You ungrateful liar! I praised you such a lot in your absence! You had no time to know that. Whenever you saw me you would rush to put poetry into my ears. ‘Ami bhubon bhromia sheshe eshechi nutan deshe/ Ogo bideshini ….’. My ears are still red. You poured such a lot of poetry into them. (Suddenly getting serious) Why are you full of despair, pogo? What keeps you sad even at this age? (Taking his glasses off and showing his face) Look, this is a sufferer’s face. I would like to quote Tagore with minor changes. If you are sensitive, you have to endure endless pain. You know that I have been a great admirer

of our own Shamsur Rahman all my life. Listen to a couple of his lines. ‘I listen to my heartbeat and find/Sorrow endlessly beating her clever drum’. Remember Frost’s ‘I shall be telling this with a sigh/ Somewhere ages and ages hence: Two roads diverged in a wood, and I took the one less travelled by’. So, after crossing forty, you have to sigh. I knew this even as a young man. Life gives you very little – affection of wise elders, love of children and love from your woman. Only this much. The last asks for a heavy price from you. But life is meaningless without it. When you were young, you were intelligent but never talked about the deep sorrow that you carry with you. You laughed at everything and were so easygoing! Today I am pained to find your eyes so sad. (Keeping quiet for a moment) However, I am happy that you are not at all bitter. You have a lot of sympathy and good wishes for others. In fact I have seen a very few people who can rival your ability to praise others. You have praised me so little though. (Displaying a naughty grin) Please praise me today. Please! (Laughs) Okay, okay. (Sitting straight) I have got a chance to tell you about my best memory of you. I shall never forget the incident. You took me to a crowded Dhaka market. We had the elderly Mrs Richards with us. I had a look at the market, couldn’t hide my despair and told you with a dark face, ‘Will you go inside? I am not feeling well’. ‘Why?’ You were surprised. ‘They will gape at you and push you. I can’t stand that.’ I finished speaking and looked at you. I was surprised to find you staring at me. Your eyes were wet. You were to leave for Mumbai a few days later. The smart, suave Mumbaiwalli looking at the simple pogo with affection, pride and tears of gratitude in her eyes. An apparently ridiculous comment of mine had given birth to a truly sublime moment. Instantly I understood that my spontaneous love for you as a friend didn’t go in vain. (Smiling happily but eyes looking glossy) Don’t be so sure, you fool! Hahaha! No problem. A pogo’s heart is as big as it can be. Once you enter it, you are always there. He never forgets a true friend.l Junaidul Haque is a fiction writer.