Sujoy Dhar

In 1992 I was a first year MA Journalism student in Calcutta University. After many nonplussed years of aimless studies to be a graduate in India – during which the unpalatable soup of mathematics was forced down my throat – I was breathing easy. I could for the first time see a way out of syllabus-oriented studies. I was really hoping to make it as a journalist some day. Only that I got some of my first lessons in journalism from the films of Satyajit Ray those days.

I stepped into adolescence in the 1980s. Those were years when the art v/s commercial cinema debate was at its peak. While on the one hand you had stimulating yet demoralising films starring the likes of Shabana Azmi, Smita Patil, Naseeruddin Shah and Om Puri highlighting the lawlessness in India on the other there were the fluffy potboilers selling 'three hours of dreams'.

It was during times such as these that I watched Ray's Nayak with deep interest for the first time. I was stunned as much by his craftsmanship as by his grasp over the medium, which he used in exploring human minds. Years later when I identified myself with the character of Arindam, I was wonder-struck. For those who have not seen Nayak here goes the storyline:

Bengali film matinee idol Arindam (played by real life matinee idol Uttam Kumar) is forced to travel by train (Rajdhani Express to be precise) to New Delhi to receive a national award. His admirers are countless but on the train he met young and somewhat toffee-nosed journalist Aditi (Sharmila Tagore) who wants to interview him but would let go no opportunity to show her disdain for unrealistic characters he plays on the screen. The interaction rips apart the person behind the star that is Arindam. His insecurities, pride of success and pains of loss came to the fore as Aditi probes the actor's mind and digs into his past – the journey of a megastar from non-entity to public adulation.

The mastery of Ray in portraying Arindam apart, some dialogues of the film were lessons for me to shape myself as a writer. Ray's films, especially Nayak and Kanchenjunga, taught economy of expression, something we still struggle to achieve in journalism. We go berserk with information, quotes, colour, drama and pathos. The habit dies hard, for some never. May be this write-up itself is not free of that penchant for plenty. Ray's movies are powerful and yet he conducts himself with dignity in each frame.

Ray brought out in Nayak the travails of Indian cinema to emerge out of its old fashioned style of acting, dominated by histrionics and high-decibel dialogues.

The character of an aging actor forcing Arindam (Uttam Kumar) to mouth his dialogues loud perhaps was the most defining moment in Indian cinema. The maker of path-breaking Pather Panchali said what he wanted to say in that one scene:

Arindam – playing the decorous son of a 19th century zamindar from a Bankim Chandra Chatterjee novel – gets browbeaten by veteran actor Mukunda Lahiri (playing his father) for low-key delivery of dialogues.

"Of what I know the sons of zamindar would not speak aloud before their fathers in those days," Arindam says as he researches with the character and tries to infuse freshness in the acting style. "He knew that his school of acting was obsolete," Arindam says.

Much later in the film Mukunda Lahiri, now a forgotten actor after a series of flops, comes to Arindam to beg for a small role.

I have often tempted to think that Mukunda Lahiri was inspired by Chabi Biswas, one of Ray's favourite actors with whom he ran into trouble while making Jalsaghar (The Music Room) over loud make-up.

Ray could not do without a powerhouse of an actor like Chabi Biswas but at the same time the towering personality that was Biswas belonged to the old school, perhaps not too comfortable with Ray's sensitivity and hunger for telling more out of less.

In the world of journalism or any discipline for that matter, there is no dearth of seniors forcing you to walk on the moth-eaten path of tradition. In any creative media – journalism or advertising to be precise – economy of expression is important and Ray's films are an embodiment of lessons in editing and measured expression.

"On the celluloid what you do is magnified manifold. You have to be measured," Arindam says in Nayak. In journalism – the clichéd literature in a hurry medium – this is no exception. We get lost in the maze of words and pedantry. We drown our readers with words, jargons, expressions and references to which they have no clue. Instead of enriching the audiences a journalist often forces himself upon them.

Ray's films taught me a few things. His mastery over the medium egged me on to strive for perfection and subdued communication. A crassly commercial journalist like me still struggles to reach a benchmark. He taught me to be measured.

Many later generation filmmakers I think learnt and unlearnt from him. Films by some of the contemporary directors from Kolkata continue to be verbose. These highly intelligent filmmakers end up churning out wonderfully enjoyable and thought-provoking movies. They touch a chord in us as we see a slice of our life in metro. But they fail to come up with any celluloid classics.

I remember 23rd April in 1992 (or was it the day after?) when Ray's body was kept at the Nandan film complex of Kolkata for his admirers to pay their last respects. There was a long queue. I was there in the queue too. Knowing myself I think I would never stand in a queue in such a disciplined manner to pay my last respects to any departed soul. The maestro was a muse for a young clueless journalism student.