“Satyajit babu, this is my-son-in-law, Basu. He is a director, as you know. And my eldest daughter, Rinki.” Ma raised her head, not seeing me in her line of vision. Slumped in the low Jacobean sofa, Ray turned 180 degrees to look at my husband, Basu Bhattacharya, and me. His baritone echoed in the vast sitting room, “You must be the one who writes,” he said, looking at me. Ma had invited Ray—Manikda, as I began to call him—and his wife Bijoya for dinner.
Inspired, in fact emboldened, by his encouraging words, my correspondence with him began through notes, letters, cards; all promptly answered in his distinct handwriting. My Kolkata trips always included a visit to Manikda’s home; he was a natural raconteur, ever ready for a hearty adda.
In 1976, Manikda was shooting for Shatranj Ke Khilari and his invitation—“Why don’t you come over this afternoon? I am shooting with Richard [Attenborough]”—made me drop everything else. What a privilege! Watch him at work, and see Attenborough in person.
RB: Like a mass uprising?
SR: Yes. This comes through not with mass action, not as if there is a revolution in the offing. It is not a planned uprising, but guided by somebody… it’s not concerted, it happens at an individual level. But there is a definite expression of anger. Perhaps also, at the same time, helplessness, as it cannot achieve anything. The fact that the individual has the courage to show anger is already an advancement over the 1930s’ situation.
RB: In Sadgati, one does feel that this man is confronted.
SR: Do you mean the Brahmin?
RB: I felt the lower caste man has an unconscious gnawing that he is being exploited by the upper caste man.
SR: The very next moment, you find he is helpless. It goes like that. When he throws the axe away and it lands at the feet of a Brahmin, he does it out of rage. But then he is cowed by the fact that he has confronted a Brahmin!
RB: Which is relevant of the period it was written in.
SR: Absolutely.
RB: What perplexes me is the lack of spontaneous response to your delightful fantasy films—for example, Goopy Gyne Bagha Byne or Hirak Rajar Deshe—from your Western critics. Why is that?
SR: These works are meant essentially for Bengali audiences. Generally, what happened in the past was that films took three to four years to reach the foreign market. There was a definite time lapse of three years in showing it here and there.
I don’t think India is the place to be obscure, or avant-garde, or abstract. Unless you are making a film on Super 8 [a film format] or using your own funds. Then you can do whatever you like. And it’s good to do experiments from time to time. But when you consider yourself part of the commercial set-up, as I do, subconsciously you always think of an ‘ideal’ audience. You are thinking of an audience. Not necessarily the lowest common denominator but an ‘audience’. And you expect that audience to respond to what you are doing. After a certain degree of experience, you more or less know what that audience is capable of responding to. One keeps that in mind.
RB: Many of the contemporary filmmakers find it increasingly difficult to select relevant subjects. Is this one of today’s problems? Finding the suitable story?
SR: That should not be a problem. India is such a vast country; with so many issues. [There is] such a rich fund of stories that there is enough for one lifetime. But there is such a thing as an ‘uncastable’ story. If you want to make, for instance, a Bengali film with a character like the zamindar in Jalsaghar, in the absence of the late Chhabi Biswas, I can’t think of anybody else to play that role.
RB: Or you might even talk of Nayak.
SR: Well there you are! No, there is no Uttam Kumar either. And Uttam, with whatever one might say, had a certain flair in a certain direction; a screen presence very few actors have. No question about it. As Chhabi babu had, of course. I made four or five films with Chhabi babu and all the characters were written—well not all, Kanchenjungha was written by me—by others. When I was actually writing the screenplay, I had Chhabi babu in mind all the time. I wrote dialogues that would suit him, which he could turn into something interesting.
Chhabi babu is gone. Uttam is gone. And most of the actors over the age of 55, who were professionals and could be depended on to do demanding roles, are just not there. That is why I think more and more in terms of Hindi. In Bombay [now Mumbai] and elsewhere you have more actors to choose from. This is important I think. Any story that I take up to read, I try to cast for it at the same time. You always do that.
(This story appears in the 15 May, 2015 issue of Forbes India. To visit our Archives, click here.)
Great interview with Great Director. Dr.A.Jagadeesh Nellore(AP)
on May 7, 2015