The world of cinema has continued to fascinate a chunk of today's pop-culture lovers, so much so, that it has greatly impacted their perception of the world, and for me, my perception of my hometown, Kolkata.
A meadow with a great array of Kash Phool (Kans grass), an innocent, impoverished sister standing lovingly by the side of her younger brother, overjoyed at the precious sight of a train billowing out steam come together to form the iconic scene of Satyajit Ray's Pather Panchali. Yet, when Ray created the film that would change the course of his career, he could hardly envisage that it would be venerated as a timeless masterwork and set forth a new era of Indian cinema. This raw, strangely captivating portrait of rural Bengal that defied all conventions of early twentieth-century filmmaking brought about the creation of two more masterpieces and, thus, the celebrated Apu Trilogy.
Pather Panchali at 13
I was thirteen when I watched Pather Panchali for the first time. I like to think it was a strange impulse; my winter vacation had only just begun, and something about the blustery cold, the traditionally-knit kantha blankets and the good 'ol aroma of Darjeeling tea reminded me of the amusing simplicity of winter days in Kolkata.
Thanks to the ability of my little thoughts to expand into a long train, my mind traced back to Bengali cinema, and as a Bengali, it would almost be blasphemy if Ray was not the first filmmaker you can recall. A worse act of blasphemy would, however be to never have watched his films, and remembering that I, too, was guilty of that, I clicked on the movie on my computer, driven by the fear of being ostracized by my own Bengali society.
I don't quite know what caught my heart more, the monochromatic pictures, the emotive quality of the film or the poignant visuals of the Bengal countryside. A raging tempest of emotions swept over me as all the symbols and images in the film flitted past my eyes. How the children, despite getting by with almost nothing, found little sources of joy in their life, the tragedy of the protagonist's sister, Durga's death and the departure of the family from their small old home, travelling through an unpaved path in a cow-ridden cart with the film's iconic theme music playing stirred my very soul. I could write pages and pages unrestrainedly on Pather Panchali and its impact, yet to put it in a few words, I would call it a brilliantly and divinely evocative creation, one which ignited my fascination with films, not merely about Bengal or in the Bengali language, but set in Bengal.
When fifty-eight years after the release of Ray's legendary work, Kaushik Ganguly made Apur Panchali, an intriguing take on the life of the titular character's actor in the Apu Trilogy, Subir Banerjee, and how his life was eerily similar to that of Apu, it was hailed as a tribute to all forgotten child actors.
However, for me, it was a tribute to all the emotions that throng Kolkata, to all the stories that stand as a testament not only to its name as "the city of joy", but also to its nature as a city of unfinished love, friendships, as a city that transitions, suffers and still moves forward, despite the heaviness in its heart, like Banerjee was bravely portrayed to do in the movie. Needless to say, I found it painfully hard to recover from the intensity of the emotions the film evoked.
Piku, Bala Seshe And Connections
Then, in 2015, came Piku, one of the most enduringly popular works of Shoojit Sircar, which, with its cleverly injected humour and range of emotions, charmed me, to say the least.
Piku depicted Kolkata as a land that connects families, that brings back all the love, closeness and joy that had somewhere got lost amidst the restlessness of our lives. For Bhaskor, it was a last journey to that welcoming, wondrous land, the land he called his home and from where he would depart into the unknown. It was as if, somewhere, unconsciously, Bhaskor had sensed the limited time he had left to reconnect, both with his daughter and his loving homeland.
For Piku, the trip was a chance at love, at opening her eyes to Kolkata, its culture and its beauty and at bidding farewell to her affectionate albeit nagging and defiant father. In addition to that, Piku's touching yet captivating theme music always takes me back to the long roads of Kolkata, clothed in the sunshine and soaked in fond memories.
In Bela Seshe, a similar picture of Kolkata was painted. A series of broken marriages were mended, and a despairing family was brought together in the heart of Bengal. Bela Seshe portrayed Kolkata as a city that reconciles, a city that sutures irreparable wounds. It brought out the charm of its internationally celebrated Durga Puja and its strange ability to restore all the joy and festive cheer that had fallen to ruins, even if for a fleeting moment. O Thakur, the film's opening song, attests to that, especially the ending lines of its chorus, "O thakur jeona bisorjon/ Hasimukh thakuk priyojon/ O thakur jeona bisorjon" ("Oh Goddess (Durga), don't leave us, let our loved ones be happy, Oh Goddess (Durga), don't leave us."). Even as I write this, sitting in a dimly lit room in early May, with the city looking dead in the absence of the splendid array of lights and the ear-shattering sounds of dhak attributed to Durga Puja, I feel an intense sense of wistfulness, yearning for October to come.
Undoubtedly, Durga Puja forms the essence of Kolkata. Such is the strength of its pull that each year during the festival, Kolkata is replete with millions of people from different corners of the world revelling in the festive joy, despite all their differences. Srijit Mukherji's Uma, a heart-rending tale of a father's attempt to arrange a fake Durga Puja in the month of March for his dying daughter, is a token of that. In Uma, Kolkata is depicted as an unwitnessed home a young child longs to go halfway across the world for. A deep-rooted sense of hope and longing is attached to the city here.
The film begins with a sense of sorrow and distress yet ends on a note of hope, signifying that it was the child's long-awaited visit to Kolkata, bathed in festive glory, that gave birth to that hope. Uma remains etched in my heart as a film that could capture the magic of my hometown, its grandeur and its sense of belongingness with remarkable finesse.
The Indian Film industry has made quite a great number of films on Kolkata and the Bengali culture. It's rather strange how a few hours of images in motion can leave behind an indelible mark on our senses and our thoughts. For me, cinema has always been a gorgeously adorned gateway through which I feel obligated to pass to explore every hidden corner of my beautiful, variegated hometown. It has made me feel closer to my city and appreciate it more. It has transformed the way I look at my city and allowed me to view it from a different perspective.
Cinema unveiled a different picture of Kolkata for me. It revealed to me the enchanting city that remains steeped in art, history, richness and romance, the city that shall never leave me no matter how far I crave to travel away from it. It is a city that will never let me find a 'home away from home'. Such is the bond that it connects its dwellers with.
The power of cinema has no end. If I ever was to leave Kolkata, more than the memories, it is in its films and music where I would seek comfort and solace. Through its extraordinary stories, I would carry a small fragment of the city to allow its splendour to remain within my heart, regardless of where life leads me.