:: Kishwar Desai

The Kolkata syndrome

Kishwar Desai

Sept.12 : Perhaps it was the mellifluous song, O Sajna, Barkha bahar aayi (Parakh, 1960) which brought the heavens down. It was a wet and windy evening in Kolkata and we were celebrating the life and times of the marvellous cinematographer and director, Bimal Roy. Somehow the shamiana withstood the "Madhumati" weather and even the governor of West Bengal, Gopalkrishna Gandhi, was kind enough to sit through the storm along with us.

Our suspicion was that the location, the normally sedate and very pukka Tollygunge Club, may have been situated a little too close to the studios, New Theatres, where Roy had shot some of his greatest hits. So could Bimal Roy and his equally-talented colleagues such as Salil Chowdhury and Nabendu Ghosh be now battering at the air around us from the spirit world? It was an intriguing thought. Usually it is T-shirted golfers with their chota pegs and koi hai culture who inhabit the club and its rolling greens. But perhaps our presence, around 200 besotted Bimal Roy admirers, had changed the atmospherics? It was also 14 years since Salil Chowdhury died last week — so the incessant rain and howling winds bore powerful reminders of the wonderful era which has slipped away... I don’t think we can quite take credit for the floods in Kolkata which subsequently followed this blustery weekend but definitely that evening the mood, the music and the memories were closely intertwined with the rain.

Rinki Roy Bhattacharya was the catalyst for the evening — she is the daughter of Bimal Roy and has now brought out a diverse collection of essays on her father written by both those who knew him independently and others who have been deeply influenced by him. The subsequent book, The Man Who Spoke in Pictures, is a sensitive tribute — because it bypasses the usual hagiography which is churned out by children of famous people by inviting "others" to write. So the evening bore a true Kolkata warmth and friendliness and many of the children of "old timers" were present — such as the daughter of Nitin Bose, and the son of the founder of New Theatres. In fact, it was sobering to remember that only a few decades ago, as Dilip Sircar, the present owner of New Theatres put it, Kolkata was a prolific hub of cinema production. It was equal to Mumbai and Pune — and the films produced were aimed at the national market.

Sircar recollects that in the quarter century after its establishment, New Theatres alone had churned out 150 films. But with the Partition of Bengal, and the loss of East Pakistan (now Bangladesh), a lucrative market, New Theatres found the going difficult and ultimately sank into receivership. So began the migration of talented filmmakers such as Bimal Roy and Hrishikesh Mukherjee to Bombay (as it was then known). Had that not happened, Kolkata today would have been a major production centre of films — not just in Bangla but also in Hindi.

Kolkata in many ways is a city with a soul — with many who are devoted to cinema and the arts despite the vitiating environment. However, while other metros, such as Mumbai and Delhi, are now at least struggling to get their development agenda off the ground, Kolkata, right from its grotty airport with its filthy bathrooms, is still mired in the 80s. There is little sign of the much-touted attempt by politicians such as Jyoti Basu to push public-private partnerships, to encourage capitalism or entrepreneurship. The taxi-ride from the airport is a distressing pastiche of mounds of uncollected garbage and people tip-toeing about, trying not to get their feet wet in the smelly mix of rainwater and sewage. Despite the people’s government, the slums are as I remember them, 20 years ago. It seems as though many opportunities have been missed and the city has not been able to reconcile itself to the loss of a glorious past. Everywhere you go, the over-25 years of the Communist regime is being discussed with a sense of despair — but there is no hope for the future either.

Despite her deliberately cultivated humble look, Mamata Banerjee’s brand of politics is equally feared. Everyone alleges that she is being supported with money both from the Congress and industrialists who would prefer a more "protectionist" regime. If true, this would be simply another cynical ploy — to win elections and regional hearts. The money-bags would not like to see "outsiders" such as the Tatas come in and succeed, so they would rather all fail together.

There is not much difference between the son-of-the-soil arguments of the Shiv Sena and the hushed murmurings one hears about Trinamul Congress. But no one wants to say anything openly as there are political thugs on both sides who will be happy to settle scores with a gun. The daily drip-drip of stories in the media of corruption among the Communist cadres has not helped either. If you could get rid of the politicians out here, is the common lament, Kolkata could be a city of joy once again.

Perhaps nothing brings this message home than a visit to Jorasanko, that houses the once-beautiful Thakur Bari of Rabindranath Tagore. The imposing red structure with its Venetian balconies, intricate wrought-iron balustrades and grand Grecian pillars is almost hidden in a maze of dirty bylanes, and the final approach does not prepare you for the destroyed splendour you can now only imagine. Why should the bari of a poet laureate, celebrated all over the world, have unkempt gardens, birds nests and trees growing out of the structure? Parts of it have been wrecked by the setting up of government offices for its nonchalant keepers. The brooding bust of Tagore overlooking a messy patch of green shrubs bears a weary look: for someone who had created the vibrant culture of modern Bengal, actually changed its lifestyle and attitudes towards women — there would be no reason to hold his head high.

Nothing symbolises our disastrous approach to development more than our disregard for our cultural history. Jorasanko represents all that is wrong with our polity and social consciousness. Those who make their living by evoking the name of Tagore, and those who are busy writing tomes and getting Ph.Ds by cannibalising his work, do not have the time or the patience to fight to restore his home. On the contrary, they blame the "government" for the disregard. The "freedom" that his country has awoken to may, indeed, not be the same that Tagore dreamt about.

The writer can be contacted at kishwardesai@yahoo.com