He appears with an angelic glow on his face - as if from nowhere - for the interview in the conference hall of Neeri guest house. We (our galvanizing and motivating force, the 79-year-old young erudite Mr MYB, my colleague Nee and me) are ready to interview the towering personality of Bengali cinema Soumitra Chatterjee.
Time only 10 minutes. What to ask my icon from childhood? Which films gave you more pleasure? How did you feel while acting with Maha Nayak Uttam Kumar? Was there any competition between you? Nah! Not possible. Damn with those lifeless tasteless Qs. He is so an endearing personality, the hero of the masses, like one's next door neighbour, I threw the idea of asking all formal questions into the 'dustbin'.
He appears and I spring up from the sofa. "Aasun dada, ekhane bosun" (please sit here honourable elder brother), I urge him with excitement. "No, no", he says softly pointing to the air-conditioner with a little disdain. He takes a seat in another sofa avoiding direct cool air from the gadget. And my colleague Nee starts asking questions with true journalistic authority. But my mind drifts away and starts wandering somewhere in the autobiographical play, 'Tritiyo Onko, Otoeb…' (Third Act, Therefore…), enacted last night by this illustrious son of Bengal. It was the portrayal of his own life, played by three actors, Soumitrada himself, his daughter Poulami and Dwijen Banerjee.
And strangely enough, the man, who played a major role in sending the Bengali cinema to the highest absolutism, and who was bestowed with many foreign and national awards including the Dada Saheb Phalke, did not mention a single word (in the drama) of his glorious achievements. Perhaps, here lies the greatness of the man with grace and elegance in this world of self adulation. What the play projected was only the unknown side of Manikda's (Satyajit Ray) choicest hero - his childish acts in childhood, the infamous 1943 Bengal famine, struggle in the youth, a job in the All India Radio and in the Tritiyo Onko (Third Act), the deteriorating health and sufferings, augmented by medical persecution through continuous multiple painful tests on his body.
I am engrossed in the last night’s drama and say, “Dada, kalker oi dialogue ta, ‘Ektu fan debe maa….maa-go, ektu…’ bare bare aamar mathay aaghat hanchhe, sara raat ghumute parini”. (A dialogue, which describes the 1943 famine, in the drama delivered by his daughter was, “Mother, I beg a little rice starch to appease my burning stomach”. It is still resonating in my head and I could not sleep well last night for those heartrending words)). Dada’s face turns effulgent. He instantly snatches my words, and says, “Oke kintu keu bole dayni je kemon kore dialogue ta bolte hobe. O shudhu ghatanata shunechhe, aar dialogue ta nijer thekei bolechhe (Nobody told my daughter how to deliver the dialogue. She did not witness the state of affairs. She just heard it and did it on her own). Dada, who turned down many national awards for various reasons, feels happy, perhaps thinking that he could infuse the gravity of the situation in the minds of his audience. He goes emotional, strolls down the memory lane and presents a horrid narration of mass destruction where at least 50,000 people died in and around Kolkata. He does not forget to mention the names of some Marathi literary stalwarts who took down the 1943 catastrophe which influenced him to a great extent later.
"What's about present day rajniti (politics)"? I ask. The classic crusader of humanism heaves a sigh of despair and says, "Now a days it's simply the siphoning of public funds into private pockets".
"And Taslima Nasrin"? "A good writer. I read her book Lajja. She has described well the Hindu-Muslim antagonistic existence. But she is not a literary authority", says the master who is well-versed in both the Bengali and English literature.
“I saw your film ‘Atanka’ (terror). It showed pathetic social deterioration and loss of moral values in youth force. And the tradition still goes on”. “Oh yes, it was Tapan Sinha’s film”, his eyes twinkle with the reminiscence of the classic movie. “Situation is worsening, but someone must emerge for the change”, he adds with a voice of optimism.
“Dada, I should not, but I must say that with advancing age (he is 79), you are glowing more”. Dada blushes, and says, “na na, etato baire, bhetorta to khali (no, no, it’s only in outside, inside is empty).
Dada gets up and says, “now let me go, I have so many things to do”. Oh! Instead of 10 minutes, he has given us over 30 minutes. Perhaps real artistes are emotional and unmindful of time.
But... “Danran! (wait)”, I shout, as if suddenly I am losing something invaluable. The tenor was a mild tremor for all. More so for my hero. “Ekta pranam to kori (Let me bow before you)”, I add instantly, and that intoxicating smile is back on his face. (Next time if we meet, I would definitely ask about his smile, whether it was ever discussed by anybody, including the great Satyajit Ray. “Na na thak, pranam aar korte hobena (no, no, you need not bow), he tells softly. “No, I need it, I don’t know whether we will meet again”. I say, bow and touch his feet. His blissful hand on my barren head transpires a feel of enlightenment, my ultimate gain. After all, he is the sage of the sages in the world of art.
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