(This piece is less a review of the film ‘Mahalaya’ and more a discourse on history. If you’re pressed for time or lack interest in historical matters, please feel free to skip this essay, I say with all humility. However, if you’d like to read something brief, you may start from the concluding section: ‘Mahalaya. If Bengali blood carries within it…’)
Kundan Lal Saigal, whom Kishore Kumar revered as his guru—the credit for having him sing the first Bengali song belongs to Pankaj Kumar Mallick. In the film ‘Jiban Maran’ by director Nitin Bose and music director Pankaj Mallick, Saigal sang a Rabindra sangeet: ‘Tomar binay gaan chhilo…’ To verify whether it had been sung correctly, Pankaj Mallick played this recorded song for Rabindranath. After hearing it once, the poet asked to hear the second stanza several more times. The first line of this section contains: ‘Gaan tabu to gelo bheshe, phul phuralo diner sheshe’ (The song still floated away, flowers ended at day’s close). Upon hearing this, the poet asked, “Phul phuralo diner sheshe—how is this possible?” A bewildered Pankaj Mallick immediately opened the songbook and showed the poet that ‘phul phuralo diner sheshe’ was indeed what was printed there. The next line reads: ‘Phagunbelar madhur khelay kon khane hay bhul chhilo go’ (In spring’s sweet play, where was the error, alas). What happened next should be read in Pankaj Mallick’s own words: “The poet then gazed into the distance with a somewhat absent, melancholy expression and said in a wistful, sorrowful tone—I don’t know how this happened, but it should have been ‘sur phuralo diner sheshe’ (the melody ended at day’s close).” By then the filming and recording work had been completed; there was no way to change anything. Reluctantly, Rabindranath gave his approval. “Yet his melancholy about that word remained.” In the film ‘Jiban Maran,’ Saigal sang ‘Gaan tabu to gelo bheshe, phul phuralo diner sheshe.’ Those interested can listen to the song on YouTube; it appears the same way in Gitabitan-Swarabitan as well. It’s true that after ‘Gaan tabu to gelo bheshe,’ ‘sur phuralo diner sheshe’ would indeed be more appropriate. Even though Rabindranath himself raised questions about this, regarding why it remained unchanged, Pankaj Mallick writes in his book ‘Amar Jug Amar Gaan’: “A question still lingers in my mind. Even today, that phrase ‘phul phuralo’ remains unchanged in Gitabitan. Did the poet then not alter it even after expressing his surprise? Later, I recorded this song in my own voice as well, singing it exactly as it was printed in Gitabitan. I have never been able to fully comprehend the significance of the poet’s surprise and sorrow that day.”
Let’s go back further. After passing matriculation, Pankaj had entered Bangabasi College. Alongside his studies, his musical practice continued. At Durgadas Bandyopadhyay’s music school. One Sunday afternoon, he went to Durgababu’s house and sat alone on the wooden platform. The master was not home. His eyes fell upon Rabindranath’s poetry collection ‘Choyanika’ lying on the bed. As he turned the pages, his eyes stopped at the poem ‘Chir Ami’—’When my footprints will no longer mark this path…’
In that magnificent procession of words, he seemed to lose himself. After sitting motionless with his numb body for quite some time, he began humming, setting the poem to a tune. Suddenly he discovered—it sounded wonderful! In his excitement, he rushed out of Durgababu’s house on Madan Boral Lane. Right next to it was Ganesh Park. The quiet afternoon. Sitting on a bench under the tree’s shade, he composed the tune for the remaining portion as well. After that, he could wait no longer. He had to set this melody to an instrument and see its form. And right now. Not far away, on Fakir De Lane, was the room of the amateur theatre group ‘Ananda Parishad.’ Its head was Lakshminarayan Mitra. Pankaj’s Lakshmi-da. Lakshmi-da had an organ. He rushed there. A few people were sitting around. Cutting past them, he went straight to the organ. As he moved his hands over the reed, building the melody, somehow a raging wildfire seemed to ignite within his soul! Suddenly, a voice from behind! Startled, he turned to see Lakshmi-da.
“The tune was coming along fairly well, except for a place or two.”
Pankaj was amazed to hear this. What did he mean? This tune was his own creation—how could Lakshmi-da judge its rights and wrongs? Right after this, from Lakshmi-da’s words he understood that the tune he was referring to was Rabindranath’s own composition. This melody had matched almost exactly with that one! This extraordinary coincidence had sent tremors through Pankaj from his very core that day! Imagine!
While in college, he found another Rabindra poem: ‘Shesh Kheya’—’At day’s end, in the land of sleep, that veiled shadow…’ He set this to music as well. He began singing this song here and there. Not once did he think that he needed at least the poet’s permission for this. That’s where the trouble began. A stern letter came from Jorasanko, from the poet’s son. Giving date and time, he wrote that Rabindranath wished to meet with Pankaj personally. On one hand, excitement—he would have darshan of his god! On the other, apprehension! Who knows what might happen! He consoled his mind: “Even if he strikes me, I shall make that my body’s ornament and return. But before leaving, I shall only wet his lotus feet with the tears of my two eyes and confess all my transgressions.”
(Those whose faith and consciousness hold such devotion toward great souls—they are destined to become great themselves in time to come. This is how it has always been. To become great, one must have this blind and humble attitude toward greatness.)
Jorasanko. The poet’s room.
Rathindranath sat with a grave expression. On one side of the room stood a low, elegant wooden platform. The poet sat upon it, writing. From time to time he would murmur something to himself! Before him lay books and papers. Ink, pens, pencils of various colors. On the other side, a massive Hamilton organ. Rathindranath gestured toward the organ with his eyes and asked him to sing. Fear coursed through Pankaj’s body, drenching him in sweat. With trembling hands placed on the organ, he began to sing in a dry voice:
“…On that distant golden shore, in the shadow’s root, what enchantment / Sang that work-shattering song… At day’s end…”
When the song ended, he saw that almost everyone in the room was tiptoeing out. Only Rabindranath remained, sitting like a stone statue. Eyes half-closed. Lost in contemplation! Pankaj could stay no longer. Somehow taking Rathindranath’s permission, he hurried out of the Tagore house. For the 1937 film ‘Mukti’, Pankajkumar Mallick had sung this song with Rabindranath’s permission. Since it was not set to music by Rabindranath himself, the Visva-Bharati Music Society did not classify it as ‘Rabindra Sangeet’, nor was this song included in Rabindranath’s song collection Gitabitan. Later, Hemanta Mukherjee and Kishore Kumar recorded this song. Many of us heard it in Hemanta’s voice in the 1972 movie ‘Anindita’.
Artists were leaving Bengal in droves. B.N. Sarkar of New Theatres Limited said, “Everyone’s leaving. You should go too. I don’t have the means to pay such money! Why lose the opportunity?”
Pankaj’s reply: “You stood by me in my difficult times; today, in these hard times, shall I abandon you and leave?”
What more could Sarkar saheb do then, but let his eyes overflow with tears!
Calls kept coming from Bombay. He simply would not go. Once, Raj Kapoor himself came and said, “Uncle, I’m leaving a blank check on your table. Fill in whatever comes to mind. But I need you in my film.”
Still he did not go.
During his time at New Theatres, Pankaj composed music for countless Hindi, Urdu, and Tamil films as well. After the National Awards were instituted, he was considered the best music director for the films ‘Jatrik’, ‘Mahaprasthaner Pathe’, and ‘Raikamal’, and in 1972 became the first music director to receive the Dadasaheb Phalke Award. He was the first to sing and record India’s national anthem ‘Jana Gana Mana’. Rabindranath had told him that for those songs he would not be able to set to music in his lifetime, Pankajkumar Mallick should take responsibility for the musical composition. Until his last day, he considered this blessing from the poet-guru above all awards and honors. And then there was radio. All India Radio.
In his fifty-year career at radio, Pankaj Mallick left countless contributions, among which two were extraordinary: the Sunday morning program ‘Sangit Shikshaar Asar’ and the famous Mahalaya dawn broadcast ‘Mahishasurmardini’. Pankaj Mallick was the first person to popularize Rabindranath’s songs across all levels of society, and ‘Sangit Shikshaar Asar’ was his primary medium. ‘Mahishasurmardini’ began broadcasting in 1931 and remains as indispensable today as it was on its first day. This composition created by Banikumar was adorned with Birendra Krishna Bhadra’s recitation and embellished with Pankaj Mallick’s music. Birendra Krishna Bhadra’s entire text was set to his tune, and in the early years, he even sang all the songs himself! He never imagined that in the very heart of that beloved creation, he would one day face ultimate humiliation. Yet that is exactly what happened. And that too at the very end of his life.
Two incidents occurred in succession.
His long-cherished dream of ‘Mahishasurmardini’ was suddenly discontinued and replaced with a new format. He had no inkling that this would happen. September 23rd, 1976, the day of Mahalaya. That dawn, what emerged from All India Radio Kolkata was not the time-honored ‘Mahishasurmardini’, but ‘Durge Durgatihaarinim’.
Birendra Krishna Bhadra’s ‘Mahishasurmardini’ was cancelled on that very Mahalaya. In came this new program, with Uttam Kumar as the principal narrator. But what was this ‘Durge Durgatihaarinim’? The script was written by Dr. Gobinda Gopal Mukhopadhyay, Madhuri Mukhopadhyay, and Hemanta Mukhopadhyay. Revised by Pandit Dr. Dhyaneshnarayan Chakraborty. Songs were penned by Pandit V. Balsara and Shyamal Gupta. Under the direction of Shailendra Mukhopadhyay and Hemanta Mukhopadhyay, the singers included Hemanta Mukhopadhyay, Lata Mangeshkar, Asha Bhosle, Manna Dey, Sandhya Mukhopadhyay, Arati Mukhopadhyay, Manabendra Mukhopadhyay, Dwijen Mukhopadhyay, Utpala Sen, Pratima Bandyopadhyay, Nirmala Mishra, Asima Mukhopadhyay, Anup Ghoshal, Tarun Bandyopadhyay, Shailendra Mukhopadhyay, Shipra Basu, Banashri Sengupta, Haimanti Shukla, Pintu Bhattacharya, Aparna Sengupta, Samaresh Roy, Arun Krishna Ghosh, Prabhas Prasun, and Shakti Thakur. The Bengali and Sanskrit narration was performed by Uttam Kumar, Basanta Chaudhuri, Partha Ghosh, Chhanda Sen, Madhuri Mukhopadhyay, Rabindranath Bhattacharya, Hemanta Mukhopadhyay, and others. The recitation of hymns was done by Gobinda Gopal Babu and Madhuri Chattopadhyay.
A constellation of the brightest stars had gathered for this grand endeavor! And then? Under intense public demand, ‘Mahishasurmardini’ returned. Some things simply are—they cannot be changed; to alter them would spell disaster.
‘Mahishasurmardini’ was not originally called ‘Mahishasurmardini’. Many participants in ‘Mahishasurmardini’ would arrive early at the radio station for rehearsals. During breaks from practice, there would be tea, refreshments, and jovial banter. Once it happened that someone had sprawled out lazily, while others wandered about here and there. Banikumar was seated at the recording. Until that day, the narrative portions were read in a natural conversational tone—not melodiously. Birendra Krishna was reciting the Chandi in his distinctive melodic voice. Suddenly, in idle jest, he began delivering the Bengali commentary in imitation of the hymnal tune. This sparked gentle laughter all around. Birendra Krishna stopped… Then Banikumar quickly emerged from the recording room and said, “Hey, hey, why did you stop? That was wonderful! Go on! Continue just like that…” Birendra Krishna laughed and said, “Oh no, no, I was just having some fun!” But Banikumar, with deep interest, said, “Not at all! It was marvelous! Do it that way again.” Birendra Krishna began anew: “The Goddess was pleased…”
That day, a new dimension was added to Bengal’s history. A different tradition of Mahalaya recitation. The curtain-raiser for Durga Puja! Like magic in golden autumn sunlight! Autumn arrives to grace the festival sky. For many households, the radio once came as herald of Mahalaya itself.
Dressed in a crisp dhuti and punjabi, fair-complexioned, gleaming black pumps on his feet, betel leaf in his mouth, gold-rimmed spectacles over his eyes. Though the front of his head was somewhat bare, the hair at the back and around his ears was beautifully kept. His gaze was sharp. His body carried the sweet fragrance of attar. A grave countenance. In everything, an artist’s bearing. His mouth held paan mixed with zarda. He would also apply attar—jasmine attar was his favorite. Who would say that such a person could be so unforgiving?
The past could tell.
In 1932, under Banikumar’s production, the autumn-welcoming musical narrative ‘Mahishasuramardini’ was broadcast. At that time, fierce objections arose around it from the conservatives who forever sought to confine religion within various rituals and ceremonies. The main cause of protest was — why should the chanting of Chandi be heard in the voice of a non-Brahmin? Banikumar stood firm in resistance. He remained steadfast in his decision that Birendrakrishna Bhadra would indeed perform both the composition and the Chandi recitation. And Muslim artists would also participate in this worship of the Mother. That too would not be stopped under any circumstances. The Mother is not only the Hindu’s Mother. This combative spirit seemed written in his very marrow. There was another objection too — why should the Chandi recitation happen before the morning oblations to the ancestors on Mahalaya? For this reason, the program was broadcast at dawn on Shashthi for a few years. But ultimately, accepting Banikumar’s decision, ‘Mahishasuramardini’ has been broadcast at the dawn of Mahalaya itself.
‘Mahishasuramardini’ was first broadcast on Shashthi in 1932. However, the year before, in 1931, Banikumar (real name Baidyanath Bhattacharya) had composed a work called ‘Basanteshwari’ based on the theme of ‘Shrishri Chandi’. That very year, during the spring worship in the month of Chaitra, ‘Basanteshwari’ was broadcast. Pandit Harishchandra Bali had set it to music. It featured both Birendrakrishna and Banikumar. And Raichand Boral was the music director. It was during such a time that everyone together decided — how would it be if we created such a program on the morning of Shashthi during Durga Puja? That was the beginning. In 1932, ‘Mahishasuramardini’ was first broadcast. Banikumar received assistance in this composition from Pandit Ashokanath Shastri. A few songs were set to music by Pandit Harishchandra Bali and Raichand Boral. However, most songs were composed by Pankajkumar Mallick.
It is heard that Birendrakrishna Bhadra would stay in the studio the night before the program. Other artists would be brought to the studio around two in the morning. Birendrakrishna would bathe in the studio itself and wear a bordered dhoti and chadar. At the beginning of the program, conch shells would sound. The live program would begin. In the early years, for a few years, Raichand Boral and Pankajkumar Mallick were joint music directors. However, later this program underwent several changes. The list of artists also changed. Only the artist for composition and verse-recitation remained unchanged. From the mid-seventies, television began to find its place in various homes, and radio’s grandeur is now much diminished. However, the sole exception to this is ‘Mahishasuramardini’ at the dawn of Mahalaya. This program on All India Radio is still much more beloved to people than television. The program begins like this: Mahishasuramardini. Composition and Introduction — Banikumar. Musical Creation — Pankajkumar Mallick. Arrangement and Hymn Recitation — Birendrakrishna Bhadra.
“Today, in the pre-dawn of Devi-paksha, the arrival-message of the luminous World-Mother, the Great Power, is proclaimed in sky and air. May the divine hymns of the Great Goddess awaken in the human world the wondrous inspiration of earthly bliss. Today, in the autumn skies, Goddess Dawn is announcing the auspicious moment of the Great Power’s manifestation.”
After this, following three conch calls, the program begins. With that song sung in Supriti Ghosh’s refined voice — “Your flute of light has sounded.”
While Pankaj Kumar and Birendrakrishna are intimately associated with this ‘Mahishasurmardini’ in the public consciousness, Banikumar has perhaps remained somewhat in the shadows by comparison. Yet the original conception and composition of the program belongs entirely to Banikumar. He is also the lyricist of the aforementioned song. The names of Pankaj Kumar Mallick and Birendrakrishna Bhadra alongside Banikumar are certainly memorable for making the program successful and captivating—without them, the very existence of this beloved program of Bengali hearts would be unimaginable. Banikumar himself has noted in his own writing: “It goes without saying that through the sincere efforts of several of us, this magnificent Chandi-gatha has become cherished by people of all classes… ‘Mahishasurmardini’ has established a monument for Calcutta Radio and for Bengal.” The lyrical narrative ‘Mahishasurmardini’ was later published in book form. In this context, Banikumar himself wrote in an essay: “‘Mahishasurmardini’ is a work from my early youth. But though the essential form has not undergone major changes, the present form of this book is enriched with much more factual content, profound themes, and verses drawn from the Vedas and Puranas. In truth, it would not be an exaggeration to call this book a condensed essence of the Markandeya Saptashati Chandi; moreover, it contains expressions of Vedic and Tantric philosophy regarding the Great Power, and embedded within it lies the eternal essence of Bengal.”
Only once was the broadcast of ‘Mahishasurmardini’ suspended. The ‘Mahishasurmardini’ that had been aired on All India Radio for forty years, for each broadcast of which Birendrakrishna himself would be present at the radio station, was replaced by orders from Delhi to air a new program instead. During the Emergency in the country, on the dawn of Mahalaya, September 23, 1976, ‘Mahishasurmardini’ was removed and an alternative program called ‘Durge Durgatiharinim’ was broadcast. It featured the legendary actor Uttam Kumar, immortal artist Lata Mangeshkar, and other distinguished personalities. But the displacement of ‘Mahishasurmardini’ triggered public outrage. A storm of criticism swept through newspapers and magazines. Strong objections poured in—countless letters and phone calls. Honoring public demand, ‘Mahishasurmardini’ was broadcast on Shashthi that year. And from 1977 onwards, ‘Mahishasurmardini’ returned in all its glory to the dawn of Mahalaya. Birendrakrishna Bhadra would always arrive at the radio station before dawn at night and remain present from the beginning to the end of ‘Mahishasurmardini’ before leaving. Even when the program was played from tape recorders, he continued this practice. But after 1976, he never again went there at night. Regarding the extraordinary work that Banikumar accomplished in composing and shaping the ‘Mahishasurmardini’ program, the then Station Director Dilip Kumar Sengupta remarked: “Even if Banikumar had done nothing else, people would remember him for ‘Mahishasurmardini’ alone… Just as Shah Jahan built the Taj Mahal, which remains one of the eight wonders of the world, our Banida built a Taj Mahal in the air, which will remain eternally memorable to people.”
What happened that year? 1976. The authorities at All India Radio decided to replace the traditional ‘Mahishasurmardini’ with Birendrakrishna with Uttam Kumar. Birendrakrishna Bhadra was excluded from their secret meetings. Birendrakrishna had no inkling of this new initiative. Pankaj Kumar Mallick was also kept completely in the dark. On the appointed day, the radio aired the new program ‘Durge Durgatiharinim.’ And it was an utter flop! A storm of criticism erupted. The radio office was vandalized. People gathered in front of the office hurling abuses. Many even felt that the sacred dawn of Mahalaya had been defiled! Surely some misfortune would befall them!
Uttam Kumar, however, was reluctant to take on this responsibility. He had gone to Birendra Krishna and spoken of his discomfort and inadequacy. Birendra Krishna had naturally reassured him and encouraged him. He was deeply hurt that the radio authorities had planned this new program entirely in secret, without informing him at all. He had said, “They didn’t tell me even once. Have I ever stood in the way of anything new?” Regarding the non-broadcast of Mahishasuramardini, Birendra Krishna Bhadra’s view was, “I am not immortal; sooner or later others will have to step forward in this work.” But this has proved false. Every year on Mahalaya, Bengal’s dawn breaks with Mahishasuramardini. And that program remains Bengal’s eternal prayer room. After the endless suffering of ‘Durge Durgatiharinim,’ when explaining the cause of such suffering, Uttam Kumar himself had said, “This is what happens when you renovate a prayer room and turn it into a drawing room.”
Due to popular demand, Birendra Krishna’s ‘Mahishasuramardini’ was broadcast again on Shashthi that very year. What was remarkable was that upon hearing this broadcast would take place, Birendra Krishna forgot all his resentment and anger and threw himself back into the work. Pankaj Kumar Mallick was with him. Did any conflict arise between the two because Hemanta Mukherjee had worked in Pankaj Kumar Mallick’s place? Pankaj Kumar Mallick’s grandson, Rajib Gupta, in a recent interview with the media, reveals: “Both Pankaj Kumar and Hemanta were very gentle-spoken people. My grandfather, that is Pankaj Kumar, was extremely modest—whether he ever spoke harshly to anyone in his entire life is unknown.” He also mentioned that at the time, no one had informed Pankaj Kumar about the entire matter, and this was what hurt him the most.
But the wound remained in his heart! On this matter, Pankaj Kumar Mallick’s grandson Rajib Gupta states: “All India Radio should have informed him. At that time, my grandfather had two programs on All India Radio. The first was ‘Mahishasuramardini’ and the second was ‘Sangeetshikhar Ashar’ (Music Learning Sessions). Fifteen days before stopping ‘Mahishasuramardini,’ the program ‘Sangeetshikhar Ashar’ was also discontinued. My grandfather was shocked when the music learning sessions ended. The song he had started teaching at that time—he wasn’t even allowed to complete it. Within fifteen days of that, the ‘Mahishasuramardini’ incident occurred. Until the very last moment, my grandfather didn’t know that another program was going to replace Mahishasuramardini. Yet he met and spoke with everyone regularly. These two consecutive events caused my grandfather to have a heart attack. But the relationship between Pankaj Kumar Mallick and Hemanta-babu was not such that they could quarrel. Hemanta-babu was like a son to him. So my grandfather might have felt some resentment that Hemanta-babu knew everything but didn’t tell him anything. But there was no quarrel or argument. Hemanta-babu never showed any disrespect toward my grandfather. Actually, this matter is so complex that it’s impossible to answer in one word.”
At life’s twilight, this grief—like losing a child—shattered the aged music-saint. Such neglect and wounds are perhaps the eternal lot of Bengali sages! We cannot tolerate talent. It is the Bengali’s duty to torment those who possess it.
Banikumar began writing seated in Pandit Ashokenath Shastri’s prayer room. He would write a portion, then read it aloud to his friend Ashokenath. Ashokenath listened, discussed, offered assistance with facts and sources. Banikumar wrote on. And in his writing, he joined company with another tireless wayfarer. The one whose music carried royal grandeur was Pankajkumar Mallick. Sessions went on endlessly. The entire room was touched by melody. Line by line the chorus took shape, with a thousand ragas hidden behind the veil. Pilu, Khambaj, Ahir Bhairav, Malkauns… Pankajkumar was so absorbed in this atmosphere that he used Malkauns, an evening raga, in that dawn moment. The Carnatic style raga merged effortlessly with other traditions. And Banikumar, entrusting this new creation to his friend Pankaj, dove once more into that trance. The same trance from which Banikumar constantly emerged with pearls, diamonds, rubies, emeralds. At four in the morning, ‘Mahishasuramardini’ began floating on the airwaves. Three conch calls to start, followed immediately by Biren Bhadra’s voice that would become immortal.
Banikumar would carry this conch from home to the radio station. Mrityunjay Bandyopadhyay would blow into it. That was the cue to begin. Later, Gaur Goswami would take up the tune on flute, or sometimes Shaileshwar Mukhopadhyay on clarinet. This was the age of live broadcasting, after all. Twenty to twenty-two days of relentless rehearsals continued under Pankaj Mallick’s leadership. Everyone’s presence was required. On one side, Munshi held the sarangi, his brother Ali played cello, Khushi Mohammed the harmonium, Taraknath De the violin, Suren Pal the mandolin, Sujit Nath the guitar, Dakshinamohan Thakur the esraj, Raichand Boral the piano. Ah, what a constellation of stars! And on the other side of all this, Banikumar alone with the singers. He monitored whether everyone’s Sanskrit pronunciation was correct, even Birendrakrishna Bhadra’s. Initially, Biren pronounced quite a few Sanskrit words somewhat like Bengali, but through perseverance, it settled so perfectly in his voice that an entirely distinct style emerged. Banikumar’s principle was: first understand the meaning of each word, whether you’re singing in the chorus or not, comprehend its essence, then find your release. Right there in Pankajbabu’s presence, a vast sacred ceremony unfolded.
Mahalaya. If any melody has ever merged with Bengali blood, it is the melody of Mahalaya. Even for those who have no connection to radio at other times, the familiar tune of Mahishasuramardini still floats from Bengali homes on that one special morning each year. The ‘Mahishasuramardini’ created by these three artists—Pankajkumar Mallick, Birendrakrishna Bhadra, Banikumar—has remained synonymous with Mahalaya and thus with Pujo in Bengali homes for generations. Without this melody, these songs, this recitation of hymns, Pujo does not arrive in Bengali households. Birendrakrishna Bhadra awakens the spirit of Agamani in our souls with the magic of his voice, the fragrance of Pujo. How a radio program became an inseparable part of Bengali religious practice, culture, emotion, faith, feeling, celebration, and above all, daily life—this is truly a matter of supreme wonder! Saumik Sen brought the entire story of Mahalaya to celluloid in 2019 with a film called ‘Mahalaya.’ There are some additions and omissions in the name of filmmaking, certainly, but watching the movie does give us the essence of the story.
I liked some dialogues from the film. Sharing them:
One. (Conversation between Kishore Kumar and a radio executive)
– We have a 45-minute slot reserved for you.
– Seventy thousand.
– What?
– If you pay cash, even 65 will do. You can contact my secretary. Thank you.
(This was Kishore Kumar’s way. Many times, sensing he wouldn’t receive his due payment, he walked out of the studio after singing only half a song!
I support him! An artist must receive fair compensation for their art. Only the artist knows what laborious devotion is required to master any art form. If you want to drink tiger’s milk, you need a tiger’s heart — with a goat’s heart you’ll only get goat’s milk, not tiger’s. Good things come at a good price. The sweeter the jaggery, the higher the cost.)
Two. Impertinence is not necessarily a bad thing. A genius will be somewhat impertinent — it’s quite normal.
(Ah, how true this statement is!
This world only tolerates the rudeness of geniuses. Why?
Very simple. Because they are indispensable! One genius can give the world more than a hundred thousand talented people.)
Three.
– Very well, sir, I’ll try.
– Try!
What a stupid word this is, Mr. Banerjee!
(The moment you say “I’ll try” — the preparation for work drops by half!)
Four. Even if Rabindranath didn’t want Pankaj-babu’s tune changed, modern Bengalis want it. This is modernism, after all. (Bengalis have no brains?
Who says this nonsense? If they had no brains, would anyone stay so busy with such pointless activities?
Which other nation has such endless leisure for futile pursuits?)
Five. Notoriety is an important tool for brand-building.
(In regions where people speak Bengali, negative marketing works very well. When it became mandatory to write “Smoking is injurious to health” on cigarette packets, cigarette sales increased dramatically — we all know this story more or less.)
Six. The lack of patience in talent is eternal, Pankaj-babu. (Very true!
Geniuses tend to be quite impatient by nature. And sharp-tongued too!
What others produce by working day after day on a task, a talented person can deliver better output in an instant. What need for so much patience?)
Seven. “Beneath the dark girl’s feet, see how the light dances…” This song you were singing — do you know whose it is? No, it’s not a Brahmin’s, nor a Kayastha’s… It’s by the Mollah’s boy, the tiger’s cub, Kazi Nazrul Islam. If ten more people like him had been born, the country’s condition would have transformed entirely. (It’s amusing when someone tags Nazrul as a Muslim. Such a person cannot be confined to any religious identity. A Nazrul belongs to humanity, not to any community. His Shyama sangeet and other Hindu devotional songs have been bringing peaceful breezes to Bengali hearts for ages. My favorite Shyama sangeet, “You worship clay idols, but you don’t worship the Mother,” is his creation. Who else in Islamic music equals Nazrul? No, that’s wrong! ‘Equal’ is too distant a word — who even comes close to him? He was born into a Muslim family, that’s all! His mind, beliefs, nurturing, knowledge, understanding — all were inspired by the religion of humanity. I know of no writer more secular than him.)
Eight. Sir,
you know what,
Bengalis are such bandwagon-jumpers—once a Bengali decides someone is an icon, there’s no saving that person. (This business of venerating icons is like an incurable disease. Once a Bengali accepts someone as an icon, they completely devastate that person’s life. When others go to the toilet, there’s no ‘fault’ in it, but when their icon goes to the toilet, everyone together will howl like jackals:
Amazing! Why does even a person like him have to defecate?)
Nine. (When a rising theater actor named Subimal expressed irritation at theater director Birendrakrishna Bhadra’s excessive attention to perfect pronunciation, this was the tolerant response) Don’t spoil your mood, Anil. Subimal is young, he’s given his opinion.
(Ah, what capacity a great person has to tolerate a worthless one! If only I had it!)
Ten.
– Sir,
actually the preliminary conversation with Uttam-babu has happened, now we need to request them as quickly as possible.
– Request?
A request can also be refused,
Mr. Banerjee. When has any celebrity in India ever honored a request?
– No,
I mean, who has what schedule…
– Oh wonderful! The government will provide malaria spray to drive away mosquitoes and you’ll say you have a picnic scheduled in your garden!
Wonderful!
(I’m reminded of dialogue from The Godfather: I’m gonna make him an offer he
can’t refuse.)
Eleven.
– If anyone refuses you,
you’ll take my name,
mine! You’ll say that
the consequences will be very bad!
– Should I threaten them, sir?
– Threat… why are you using criminal language, Bengali babu? Truth is not threat. And conveying truth is the job of God.
(The powerful don’t threaten, they merely inform of the truth. The harm they can inflict if you don’t follow their words is no speculation—past evidence bears witness that it’s as true as daylight.)
Twelve. (Uttam Kumar has gone to Birendrakrishna Bhadra’s house. When the household maid doesn’t recognize Uttam Kumar at the gate and keeps asking various questions about his identity, Uttam Kumar’s dialogue about this matter) In Bengali,
‘Who are you?’
hasn’t been heard for a long time.
(This small remark reveals quite clearly what a huge celebrity Uttam Kumar was. In my judgment, nothing could be more powerful than this dialogue to convey the level of stardom Uttam Kumar had achieved.)
Thirteen. (Uttam Kumar is saying) Biren-babu,
you’ve established the deity’s throne in the prayer room. I’m afraid I might lay a carpet in that prayer room, bring in a sofa, and turn it into a drawing room! (There are certain ancient essences that become faded when you apply color to them. Even if mother grows old, you can’t just grab some young woman and replace mother with her. Some things must be left as they are—exactly as they are.)
Fourteen. Of course people will love him, Borda;
but tell me, has the festival truly arrived? (Uttam himself was not satisfied with the task of changing the program. Listening to his own voice, he didn’t feel the essence of Pujo was there. That melody, that atmosphere, that mood that has been etched in the heart since childhood—once that feeling takes root, nothing else can take its place.)
Fifteen. Suppose, sir,
your little darling wakes up on Christmas morning to find Charlie Chaplin instead of Santa Claus—your child would be heartbroken,
and Charlie Chaplin would not be at fault in any way. (How easily the human heart’s condition was expressed through this dialogue! Though some of Bengal’s most talented minds were involved in what was created through Uttam Kumar’s commentary,
people rejected it,
threw it away in fierce protest. ‘Mahishasurmardini’ meant the beginning of Pujo—this was embedded in people’s hearts. They would not accept anything else in its place,
no matter how excellent it might be!)
Sixteen. (In an artist’s life)
There is no greater shelter than music. No affection,
no love,
no refuge.
(Such profound truth! Ultimately, creation itself shelters the creator, keeps them alive. When family,
friends, colleagues, loved ones,
everyone close might misunderstand the artist and drift away, art alone remains like a faithful friend. There comes a time in life when, having lost all hope of survival, a person clings only to their creation to find the will to live. There is no greater shelter than one’s own creation. In times of profound sorrow, to forget the pain… one who knows how to sing, sings; one who knows how to paint, paints;
one who knows how to write, writes… one who knows nothing,
only knows how to weep—there is no creature more helpless than that.)
Acknowledgments. Sources consulted in preparing this essay:
1. Pankaj Kumar Mullick’s autobiography ‘Amar Jug Amar Gaan’
2. Banikumar in His Centenary: In Memory and Honor
3. Calcutta Radio, edited by Bhabesh Das,
Prabhatkumar Das
4. Anandabazar Patrika’s
online edition