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Satyajit Ray, Marxism and my other self

Every Saturday evening I relive my other self – an expatriate (that is the closest, though not the exact, translation of the Bengali word probashi) Bangali who craves for the sights, sounds and smells of Bengal each moment of his life in exile. The last bit sounds more dramatic than it actually is – I have not taken refuge in Delhi after being hounded by Marxist thugs or because the mullahs of Park Circus (my last Calcutta address) had put out a fatwa for my head.

In fact, I am in Delhi because of something as mundane and hateful as making a living, to escape from the starvation wages that The Statesman paid me, insisting that it was compensation enough that I should have a room in the then-hallowed 'Corridor’. I guess that makes my exile un-melodramatic, but it does not lessen the pain of living in Delhi’s essentially heathen society, pretending that I have assimilated with the puppies and yuppies, the hacks and politicians, the pseudo-intellectuals and the progressives dressed in Hauz Khas village ethnic chic. That is my visible self in Delhi.

So, to lessen the pain and make life in Delhi slightly more bearable, I live my other self and the only way I can do it is to shop at Delhi’s "little Calcutta", Chitta Ranjan Park (Dilliwallahs call it CR Park, in all probability ignorant of a person called C R Das) every Saturday evening. The market teems with probashi Bangalis like me, breathing in the smell of fresh freshwater fish laid out shimmering against the emerald green of water-drenched banana leaves, haggling over vegetables (tindas and laukis are banned) and stopping by at Mrs Sen's Home Delicacy for pantua, rajbhog and, if you are feeling very nostalgic, a pot of (runny) mishti doi.

I make an additional stop at the bookstall whose owner, having failed to lure second generation probashi Bangalis (I once overheard a teenaged girl, talking about the customary tug-of-war competition at Delhi’s community Durga Puja pandals, tell her friend: "Ma was pulling and Baba was pushing") to the charms of Bengali literature, has started doubling up as an estate agent. He refuses to stock the latest Bengali books, but is kind enough to spare some space on his counter to Bengali magazines – Desh, Sananda etc.

I usually round off my evening of buying fish, kumro saag, pantua, mishti doi and perhaps a scratchy recording of Rabindrasangeet with picking up a copy of Desh for myself and my wife, a copy of Sananda for my wife and a copy of Teens Today for my daughter.

Last Saturday, I picked up a copy of Anondolok, a popular film magazine published by the Ananda Bazar Group of Anandbazar Patrika fame. I take a rather dim view of popular film magazines and dimmer view of those who read them. But I was willing to make an exception because Satyajit Ray was on the cover and the blurb said: "I don’t know what Marxism means today," Satyajit Ray says in this unpublished intimate interview.

During his lifetime, the master film-maker had refused to ever talk of politics and about politicians and never appeared on a platform that could be remotely considered anything but apolitical. And now, years after his death, Anondolok had come up with an unpublished interview that had Ray talking of politics. So, I grabbed a copy – and was not disappointed.

Later that night, as I lay in bed reading the interview (it was really a reconstruction of what Ray had said during several adda sessions with the author), I was transposed back to my years in Calcutta and my two encounters involving Ray. The first was when I was all of 23 or 24 years old, a rookie journalist at The Telegraph struggling to survive in the shadow of M J Akbar's terrorism. Rajiv Gandhi, in his usual manner, had made an off-the-cuff remark that had greatly hurt Bengali pride – he had described Calcutta as a "dying city".

Although he was a great friend of Rajiv Gandhi, M J Akbar, the boy from Telinipara who had made it in life thanks to Calcutta Boys School, was as infuriated as all other self-respecting Bengalis. He planned a full-page of what was then called Weekend Telegraph that would carry the reactions of what famous Calcuttans had to say about Rajiv Gandhi's infamous remark. I was despatched, pen and pad in hand, to meet members of Calcutta's snob society, people who belonged to the charmed inner circle – people like Ray.

I called up Ray, stammered that I was calling from The Telegraph and sought an appointment. Oozing politeness, he asked me, in his baritone voice and clipped accent, to come over right away. I remember popping into the washroom to comb my hair and see whether there was dirt on the shirt collar. Later, as I stood outside the door of his Bishop Lefroy Road flat, I felt my stomach doing a twist as I gingerly pressed the calling bell button, wondering whether I had pressed it too long.

The door swung open and I was ushered into Ray's famed study where the master was sitting on his favourite chair, reading a book. Sensing an alien presence, he looked up, put the book down and asked me what did I want to see him about. "Sir, Mr Gandhi has described Calcutta as a dying city," I stuttered, "We wish to record your reaction…" I had barely recovered from my stuttering that Ray cut me short in his baritone voice and clipped accent, "I am sorry but I don’t talk politics. You should have known this." And went back to the book he was reading.

I stood there for a moment, feeling utterly foolish and my stomach doing a double-twist and rock-n-roll at the same time. Like a boy spanked for wetting his bed, I crept out of the room, out of the mahogany door, down the stairs and virtually ran all the way back to office. I felt so stupid, so silly – I should have known something the whole world apparently knew. I felt done in by M J Akbar – he had purposefully set me up for some subbing error. With these dark thoughts I returned home and bawled out my father-in-law for being a Ray fan.

The other incident occurred some years later when I was working at The Statesman. Safdar Hashmi had been murdered by Congress thugs and the Progressive Writers Association or some such Left-wing organisation had arranged for a condolence meeting where all those believing in freedom of expression, etc etc would commiserate with his widow. I trooped off to attend the meeting, firm in my belief that I should join the protest against Hashmi's murder (I have since discarded much of my 'progressive' beliefs but I would still join a march to protest against curbs on freedom of expression).

Comrade Buddhadev Bhattacharya, Minister for Information and heir apparent to the throne currently held by Comrade Jyoti Basu, was presiding over the meeting. After all the speakers had showered Hashmi with what is described as "glowing tributes", Comrade Buddhadev Bhattacharya fished out a piece of paper from his kurta pocket and read it out to the audience. It was Satyajit Ray’s message. He was moved by Hashmi’s murder, Ray had written. He condemned it, he added. But he could not be present in person – that was the unsaid bit – because he could not share a political platform.

The same Satyajit Ray has now been quoted in Anondolok as saying, "I have never found the formula-cast so-called progressive attitudes interesting, valid or of any substance. I always found them an over-simplification… I don’t know what Marxism means today – Marxism has changed so much over the years. There's a huge difference between Marx’s Marxism and today’s Marxism… If you claim to be a Marxist, then you are a Marxist… (Marxism as we see it today) makes me feel as if all doors and windows have been shut…"

Taking a swipe at Mrinal Sen’s "angry political films" Ray says, "Some people must show their anger immediately… There are those who don’t show their anger but keep it within themselves – they are stronger." Ray implies that he belonged to the second group.

I am not an expert on films, but I have seen all of Ray’s masterpieces. And all of Mrinal Sen's films. I saw them when I was a Marxist – not by proclamation but by practice. I found Sen's films more honest, more expressive, more purposeful. I found Ray's masterpieces repulsive because he often celebrated that which we Marxists denigrated – for instance the scene where Victor Banerjee sits down for a meal in Gharey Bairey. Ray's perfectionism hurt Marxist sensibilities and the have-nots's sensitivities. Sen provided both with strength by fuelling their indignation.

I have parted company with the Comrades of the CPI-M, by proclamation and not necessarily by practice – I still believe in many tenets of Marxism and harbour extremely Left-wing views in an overwhelmingly Right-wing party. Therefore, my views on Ray and Sen would have remained the same had I not read the interview. Now that I know what Ray thought of Marxism and fashionable progressivism, perhaps I should see his films again. Next Saturday I will see if the video library at Chitta Ranjan Park stocks Ray's films.

Kanchan Gupta