PEN AND THE SWORD

(Extracts from a school boy's summer holiday diary) The school teachers keep reverberating the same questions every alternate year without knowing how tiring and uninteresting it is to appear in the examinations.'Pen and the sword', 'A village fair', 'A railway journey' keep repeating like poor report cards intentionally published by schools every December. Don't they upgrade themselves like my friend upgrades his cell-phone every winter? A pen is no more made of steel or such durable material. It's made from plastic these days and cracks even when it falls over a bale of stacked cotton. I love my class teacher so much that my heart refuses to use even a single dirty word against him. Otherwise I would have met Mr.Stuartson, the Principal and told him that he holes up a pair of dinosaur's testicles in his skull vault. He still believes that his pen is mightier than the sword. It's not just bull-shit, it's the dirty smelling shit my nearby slum dwellers evacuate at the pavement edges. My father is another such empty vaulted dinosaur like my class teacher. Last year when the dipsomaniacs from my nearby slum came for a festival bonus without earning it, my goddam father refused. They slapped him twice on the face believing that a professor might need two slaps for the memory engram to work. But it did not. He straight went to Mr.Dobson the chief law-keeper. The law keeper was having a vertigo he suffers every saturday night from the medicine he takes, prescribed by his doctor friend, an honour'ble member of the supreme bureau belonging to my honour'ble country. My father didn't know that Dobson was a left handed strong bull. Dobson gifted him one slap on right side of his face and angrily snatched the pen my father kept in his pocket. 'Writing a complaint?.....' uttering, he tore the letter my father carried to his office. With a sixty kilometers an hour blow to the pen, Dobson broke open the cap and pushed it's nib into the wooden table. 'See what I have done to your pen, it now looks like a silver beaked kingfisher', he said and left the room.

(from wikimedia commons)

He came back the next moment, still smelling. 'Do you know this?' ,he asked, pointing at his holster. 'This is a sword, a modern day sword. Its getting smaller and smaller, like your laptop', he uttered, 'Its my pen too, it doesn't write I know but it can make holes. 'You can write with holes too' he laughed.

NOBEL AND NOBILITY

Once a cricket frenzy friend of mine asked me, "Do you know who the best judge is to decide when a batsman should be discharged leg-before-wicket?" It was a difficult question indeed knowing well that half of such decisions invited controversies. Not much aware of the game, I used my intelligence and replied with confidence, "The wicket-keeper", believing he is the only man looking staright into the ball and positioned exactly behind the batsman. "No" was the bold reply from my honour'ble friend. His lightning, disgruntled behaviour just floored me. Sharp came the right answer which I haven't even dreamt of. "It's the batsman himself", he said. But the irony is, how many such batsmen we know have walked away before the umpire had raised his finger? I know of one such living person who has the courage but had never dared to express. But courage without it being delivered is of little value. It's Barrak Obama, the American President. He knows that he is not worthy of the Nobel Peace Prize but he lacks the strength to express. He is an intelligent man who ought to know whether he is treading the right path or not. The road; one less travelled by, he took, only a few months back is no more with him. He may be remembered in the history books to be the first black President of "guardians" of this unholy world but the book likely is to be a "cartoon book". Its October of 2009 and its high time before the bells ring in second week of December. Let the man rise from his humble chair and show the world, the astonishing strength of the color of his skin and genuflect before the world saying, " Let me be the first to refuse the prize which I know am not worthy of". He may then find the whole world genuflecting before him with tears in their eyes.

SESH ANKA (The last act)

(review of a nearly lost Bengali film)

If you wonder how infinitely stable buildings and bridges were built in ancient ages without modern sciences' gift of electricity and computers, it is time to think why good cinema is not produced these days even with the advent of newest tricks in Physics and Chemistry. With markets flooded by ever increasing mega pixels of sophisticated cameras and high ended film institutes, there is no sight of rebirth of Ray, DeSica or Ghatak. It was by mere chance that I came across a compact disc from Angel Videos of SESH ANKA a black and white drama produced in 1963, which later turned out to be an eye opener to my rusty sense of fine arts.

'Sesh Anka' is a full length feature film in Bengali produced from one of the Tollygunge studios in Calcutta. The movie was a hit but never counted a milestone. Based on a rather common story of 'whodunnit' it is worth watching how sheer power of editing, crisp dialogues and a bit of good acting can turn a film spellbinding. There are two types of 'whodunnit'. In the first type the person responsible is disclosed by the director at the very beginning of the film and later the magic continues in describing how it happens. In the second type, the feature never tells you who the culprit is and the viewers are mesmerized as the magic unfolds. Though the first type is surely the difficult one to portray ('Psycho' from Alfred Hitchcock or Billy Wilder's 'Double Indemnity'), the second type will only be remembered when its member will not lose its magic even on repeated viewing. 'Sesh Anka' is a member of the second type.

Directed by Haridas Bhattacharya, Uttam Kumar (all time hero of Bengali cinema) had the courage to act as an anti hero at the pinnacle of his acting career. Running through fourteen reels of celluloid, as it was measured in those days, Sharmila Tagore (Soma) as an actress recalls her charming innocence in Satyajit Ray's films in 1950's.

The film begins directly with title cards as was the style in those days, depicting innumerable names involved in the making of the film. But it delivered a unique haunting background music with it, which would later repeat itself in variations making it a string suspending the story. Uttam Kumar plays the role of Sudhangshu Dutta an affluent businessman who falls in love with Sharmila Tagore, daughter of a reputed (knighted by the British), wealthy lawyer of Calcutta. Sudhangshu had been married earlier to one named Kalpana. Kalpana died in a train accident. And it was then when Sudhangshu finally decided to marry Soma. Soma knew of Sudhangshu's earlier marriage but could not resist marrying him. There is nothing special about the camera work in this film which will make you restless but repeated jump cuts blending uniquely with excellent editing will attract your attention. The dialogues are down to earth relentlessly combining with the tempo of the film. The film never loses its tempo.

While the movie progresses it is worth to keep a watch on the background music. Soon after the first shot you will find a variation of the introductory theme when Sudhangshu hears Soma play a Tagore song on the piano. You will find repeated jump cuts and not fade outs hold the tempo of the film. But there is a unique transformation when the haunting introductory music (scene at the railway level crossing when Sudhangshu recalls Kalpana) dissolves into a song in Sudhangshu's lips (sung by Hemanta Mukerjee "ami to jani...."). Through jump cuts the film shuffles from one serene romantic moment to another hair raising drama of murder and moral decay. There is good music, fair amount of suspense (Salim Mia behind door) blending contagiously with persistent good acting. At one time viewers are bound to shift their attention from Uttam Kumar (the hero) to Bikash Roy (multiple identity). There are a complex set of dialogues describing dozens of little known places through which the plot has shifted. This is a style you often find in a detective book and you need to go back through pages to recapitulate them. But recapitulating in a motion picture is not possible. I would suggest viewers to be extra attentive in some shots where dialogues flow randomly (in the court scene and the last scene where Sudhangshu's brother- in- law comes in). Actor Kamal Mitra is one very man who will steal your attention once more while playing a lawyer's role and remind you of Edward.G.Robinson in 'Double Indemnity' as an insurance claim officer. Good actors are everywhere on this earth, you just need a pair of trained eyes to locate him.

The cinema holds the quality of a good detective novel where the latter grows complex to more complex as it reaches the finishing line. This movie is not a melodrama but it reaches a melodramatic suspense with the arrival of Debesh Sen but too loud back ground music at this juncture inhibits the film reaching Hitchcockian quality. The soundtrack of a train will remind a serious viewer of the importance of a background music in cinema. But the message "CRIME DOES NOT PAY" at the end of the film reflects the director's childish effort.

Credit goes to Haridas Bhattacharya, the director in visualising Raj Kumar Maitra's novel that the latter can be turned into a good cinema. Editor Santosh Ganguly will be remembered for his repeated jump cuts. Pavitra Chattrjee's music is mind blowing when taken into account the scond grade movies in those days. It is important in a thriller, how it unfolds. Based on this criteria 'Sesh Anka' deserves ten upon ten. But the irony lies somewhere else. If Kalpana (name of Sudhangshu's dead wife) is the soul character around whom the movie revolves, is it a sheer coincidence that the movie was produced by "Kalpana Movies"?

FACTS NEWS VIEWS

Rejuvenating Bengal School of Art
It is time for the premier institution 'Asiatic Society' at Calcutta to express their humility they inhabit, towards the invaluable, rapidly destroying, paintings and sculptures of Bengal school of art. The society has recently acquired valuable objects of art from private collectors who were eager to giveaway to save the priceless ones from desuetude and damage. The objects will be restored and displayed for public viewing shortly. The list includes timeless pieces from Abanindranath Tagore, Nandalal Bose, Jamini Roy, Ramkinkar Baij and others.

FACTS NEWS VIEWS

Alms and the man
Walking along the turbulent crowd of 'Police Bazaar' in Shillong one may easily miss him but not his music. Somkanta Roy is a blind who literally thrives on mere begging after his superannuation from 'Assam Rifles', a paramilitary organisation serving north-east India. It was a fiercely emotional experience to find the blind man singing Rabindrasangeet (Songs of Tagore), one after the other. Even at seventy-five he easily recalls the pages of Swarabitan (A series of volumes on musical notes pertaining to Tagore's songs), which he rigidly follows. There was a sense of relief to know that a hotel owner provides him and his physically challenged wife a free space to sleep. Joy does reside along with sadness. Otherwise good Samaritans from the State Bank of India wouldn't have bothered to raise funds to buy Roy a harmonium he had lost. You can never make him sing a Hindi film song, he utters with a sigh of satisfaction. His one time acquaintance with 'Calcutta Blind School' wayback in 1947 brings him to tears. How many such individuals do you find on the streets of Calcutta? Is it not enough to put to shame those who think are the only ones who uphold the rapidly declining culture of Bengal.

FORGOTTEN AND UNCARED FOR

A learned man's house

Imagine yourself, back in early sixties in Calcutta. Mind the city's name , it was Calcutta then and not Kolkata. Never would you find a slang word around while walking down the streets. Taken the left turn, beside the presently shutterd "Sutripti Mistanna Bhandar" (the sweet meat shop) on the Gariahata main road, you still will find that nostalgic look. Old buildings are there, though many of them half broken, crumbling or their electricity turned off. Some changed into modern establishments called flats. Even now I recall stopping by a well lit portico on the right. A rich man's house where large ball shaped lampshades hung. A durwan manned the huge gates, carefully closed. My father would stop there, expecting me to look carefully, more carefully than I would as a child. A house so clean, cinematic, out of the world, yet so solemn and eternally untarnished. I wondered why didn't my father allow me a glimpse of the dweller of that mesmerising building. Now I do. People had so much respect for the man sitting inside, that they preferred a world of silence around. You were not supposed to bother a respected, educated man in those days without a genuine cause. It was the seat of learning and the pinnacle of human culture and taste, I was told. You were only to walk past and pay your respect. The dhoti clad man sitting inside was Prof. Suniti Kumar Chattopadhyay, a man so learned yet so humble. The present generation will never know that he was the true 'last man standing' in linguistics. The lights are still shining but its not the light that would dwell upon a sense of humility in you. I am not sure whether any of the Chattopadhayas stay there or not. The two floors have turned into a a garment shop 'Fabindia'. It is likely the least thing the learned man was interested in.

FORGOTTEN AND UNCARED FOR

202
There is nothing in this number which can decant you from a world of electronic nonsense into a poetic slumber but a nostalgic walk on a sunday morning from Deshapriya Park to Gariahata in Calcutta will put you in tears. I believe you to be a literary by heart reading this blog. It's 202 Rashbehari Avenue, a house defaced worst than those by hypocrit political graffitis. It is hard to walk along this southern pavement on a weekday. You can't even notice the house obnoxiously cramped behind innumerable makeshift shops many of them proudly displaying cheap undergarments for sale. In true sense this house is in a dilapidated state. The best way is to locate the shops (see photograph) and the narrow interface leading to this hallmark establishment. Buddhadev Bosu the poet, who lived in this house affectionately named it "Kabita Bhavan" (eng. House of poetry). It was a long acquaintance from 1937 to 1966. You won't have to be a believer of supernaturals to be enthralled by 202. Just close your eyes, hold your breath and lean on the walls, pressing hard your ears on them. You can still hear vibrant emotions of Samar Sen, Jibanananda Das, Bishnu Dey, Samaresh Basu and galaxies of literatis, flowing. (also read BOOKS and BOOKS)(also read FACTS NEWS VIEWS)