A summer afternoon in a Kolkata cul-de-sac in the early 70s. Two little girls waiting in a black Ambassador to pick up an aunt on their way back from school. That spot, that hour, that wait is quite routine.
It turns out to be different though. First, they see the shadow. Then, they see the man. Pacing up and down, lost in thought. The girls are beaming, their eyes shining with excitement. They know who this tall man is. He's the 'Bhooter Raja' (King of Ghosts).
Their father has explained how 'this man has used his big voice, distorting it through a machine to sound like the Ghost King' in Goopy Gyne, Bagha Byne, their favourite film. Later in the evening, he tells them that they indeed did see Satyajit Ray - that he uses an edit suite ('where he cuts the film rolls, puts them together to turn them into a story you'd watch in the cinema') at his friend, the documentary filmmaker Shanti Chowdhury's house down that lane.
Ray was never a remote figure in Bengal. Without Page 3, 24x7 TV, Google, YouTube, Facebook reels, Insta threads, Ray was somehow ever-present through his prolific creativity across media. His dialogues and music, movie posters he designed himself, actors he launched, and stories he told were indistinguishable from the Bengali way of life. His annual Professor Shonku (mad sci-fi protagonist) and Feluda (suave, cerebral detective) stories were as much a part of Durga Pujo as were new clothes.
Ray was Vamana, the avatar straddling many spheres: Rajasthani tappa to Mozart concertos; Jean Renoir to the Bengal Renaissance; nonsense literature to Henrik Ibsen. He took Indian cinema to the world, won at Bafta, Cannes, the Oscars, and Venice, was interviewed by the international media in his much photographed, atmospheric study. Many of his films ran to packed houses in New York and London.
The Russians thought Jalsaghar (The Music Room) was too decadent. But it showed in Paris for nearly a year. He collaborated with Ismail Merchant and James Ivory twice - writing the music for Shakespeare Wallah, and re-editing The Householder.
A very glamorous photograph featuring Indian stars Soumitra Chatterjee, Shashi Kapoor, and Madhur Jaffrey from the Berlin Film Festival 1965 surfaces on social media around this time of the year, his birthday on May 2. Ray is not in it, yet this B&W image signifies what he brought to Berlin that year - Charulata, a film steeped in all things Bengal, but universal in its humanism and relatability.
While the world celebrated Satyajit Ray, in India he remained a Bengali. Because Bengal held him, like Tagore before him, in too close an embrace. In their possessive exploration of his oeuvre, they created the 'Manikda syndrome'. Manik, his 'daak naam' (nickname) became code for an intimate exclusivity, turning Ray into a one-of-our-own, defies-translation, near-divine source of illumination.
His last film, Aguntuk (The Stranger) is a statement against this narrowing of definitions, a pushing back against the conventional framing of what civilisation is, and who is its flag-bearer. The film's protagonist (Utpal Dutt), given up for dead, turns up after decades and disrupts established values, scripted roles, and cultural constructs.
Ray's influence has been undeniable in shaping Indian cinema. Yet, he has not often been seen in cinemas outside Bengal - except during festivals or retrospectives. However, the tide is turning. Recently, Ray's 1966 film Nayak (The Hero), played in multiplexes across India. There is an emerging viewer base now.
Seven years ago, I rewatched some of my Ray favourites on YouTube. Today, several of his films are available on streaming platforms. Many Ray classics are being restored. Hopefully, cosmopolitan Indian audiences will watch more of Ray and get a sense of their own roots and wings.
During a recent visit to London's Museum of Moving Image, I wandered into the day's screening - Ray's Apur Sansar (The World of Apu). As the auditorium air filled with the fragrant chemistry between Apu and his bride, I went back to that summer afternoon with my sister in the car and felt ever so glad that there was no escaping Ray's very tall shadow.
The writer is former global creative advisor, BBC Media Action
(Disclaimer: The opinions expressed in this column are that of the writer. The facts and opinions expressed here do not reflect the views of www.economictimes.com)
It turns out to be different though. First, they see the shadow. Then, they see the man. Pacing up and down, lost in thought. The girls are beaming, their eyes shining with excitement. They know who this tall man is. He's the 'Bhooter Raja' (King of Ghosts).
Their father has explained how 'this man has used his big voice, distorting it through a machine to sound like the Ghost King' in Goopy Gyne, Bagha Byne, their favourite film. Later in the evening, he tells them that they indeed did see Satyajit Ray - that he uses an edit suite ('where he cuts the film rolls, puts them together to turn them into a story you'd watch in the cinema') at his friend, the documentary filmmaker Shanti Chowdhury's house down that lane.
Ray was never a remote figure in Bengal. Without Page 3, 24x7 TV, Google, YouTube, Facebook reels, Insta threads, Ray was somehow ever-present through his prolific creativity across media. His dialogues and music, movie posters he designed himself, actors he launched, and stories he told were indistinguishable from the Bengali way of life. His annual Professor Shonku (mad sci-fi protagonist) and Feluda (suave, cerebral detective) stories were as much a part of Durga Pujo as were new clothes.
Ray was Vamana, the avatar straddling many spheres: Rajasthani tappa to Mozart concertos; Jean Renoir to the Bengal Renaissance; nonsense literature to Henrik Ibsen. He took Indian cinema to the world, won at Bafta, Cannes, the Oscars, and Venice, was interviewed by the international media in his much photographed, atmospheric study. Many of his films ran to packed houses in New York and London.
The Russians thought Jalsaghar (The Music Room) was too decadent. But it showed in Paris for nearly a year. He collaborated with Ismail Merchant and James Ivory twice - writing the music for Shakespeare Wallah, and re-editing The Householder.
A very glamorous photograph featuring Indian stars Soumitra Chatterjee, Shashi Kapoor, and Madhur Jaffrey from the Berlin Film Festival 1965 surfaces on social media around this time of the year, his birthday on May 2. Ray is not in it, yet this B&W image signifies what he brought to Berlin that year - Charulata, a film steeped in all things Bengal, but universal in its humanism and relatability.
While the world celebrated Satyajit Ray, in India he remained a Bengali. Because Bengal held him, like Tagore before him, in too close an embrace. In their possessive exploration of his oeuvre, they created the 'Manikda syndrome'. Manik, his 'daak naam' (nickname) became code for an intimate exclusivity, turning Ray into a one-of-our-own, defies-translation, near-divine source of illumination.
His last film, Aguntuk (The Stranger) is a statement against this narrowing of definitions, a pushing back against the conventional framing of what civilisation is, and who is its flag-bearer. The film's protagonist (Utpal Dutt), given up for dead, turns up after decades and disrupts established values, scripted roles, and cultural constructs.
Ray's influence has been undeniable in shaping Indian cinema. Yet, he has not often been seen in cinemas outside Bengal - except during festivals or retrospectives. However, the tide is turning. Recently, Ray's 1966 film Nayak (The Hero), played in multiplexes across India. There is an emerging viewer base now.
Seven years ago, I rewatched some of my Ray favourites on YouTube. Today, several of his films are available on streaming platforms. Many Ray classics are being restored. Hopefully, cosmopolitan Indian audiences will watch more of Ray and get a sense of their own roots and wings.
During a recent visit to London's Museum of Moving Image, I wandered into the day's screening - Ray's Apur Sansar (The World of Apu). As the auditorium air filled with the fragrant chemistry between Apu and his bride, I went back to that summer afternoon with my sister in the car and felt ever so glad that there was no escaping Ray's very tall shadow.
The writer is former global creative advisor, BBC Media Action
(Disclaimer: The opinions expressed in this column are that of the writer. The facts and opinions expressed here do not reflect the views of www.economictimes.com)
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