Jaatishwar: an unforgettable tribute to Bengal's Kabiyals

An impromptu visit to the theater. After-effect: I wasn’t expecting to change. But possibly, I will never be the same post Jaatishwar. And post my discussion with Kabir Suman, who so very kindly gave me insights to the long-lost Banga Kabiyal tradition.

There have been biopics on lives of poets/authors/musicians before. There have been period dramas merged with the present as a backdrop before. There has been the goateed Uttam Kumar serenading Tanuja as Anthony Phiringee, looking every bit the part with his broken bangla and Manna Dey lending his lilting melody to the hero lip-syncing “tumi jaaminee, ami shoshee hey”. There have been flicks on past life regression too, in the past. And musicals galore. But nothing compares to the experience the new Bangla movie Jaatishwar, a Musical of Memories evokes in the audience – or in me.

The Kabiyal tradition and Kabir Suman 

The film is sub-titled "A Musical of Memories". And is about a Kabiyal, the legendary Portuguese minstrel of the 19th century Bengal, Anthony Heynsman. And his present day rebirth as Kushal Hazra. Anthony, the son of a businessman, had fallen in love with the folk music tradition of Bengal and had settled down in Chandannagore, the then Pharashdanga (French settlement in colonized Bengal) emerging as one of the reputed troubadours/minstrels of Bengal himself.

Many perhaps do not know that Srijit Mukherji's film owes its origin to a song by Kabir Suman - Jaatishwar!

Kabir Suman’s music is possibly the all-encompassing magic that defines the musical. While he has used Anthony’s Durga bandana played to show how a foreigner under trying circumstances could have mastered the Bangla Kirtan traditions, he has also used “Jaat gelo, jaat gelo bole, eki ajob karkhana” to show the influence Lalon Phokir's music had on him. The movie starts with a camera eye roving on the locales of rural Bengal with “Khodar kasam jaan, ami bhalobeshechi tomae” playing in Suman’s mellifluous voice as the journey culminates into the shanty of Anthony. You can barely see the hand grabbing the jholi with a lute-like instrument popping out. The transformation of Kushal into Anthony and vice versa is magical too – it happens so effortlessly that never for a moment the transition comes across as sudden. It is the music that connects the switch of the plots.

I am deeply indebted to Sir Kabir Suman for opening the door to our rich Kabiyal heritage through this film's music. No one has ever done through a single film's music what Suman has achieved in this film. Our standard Kabiyal repertoire consisted of Mathur, Shokhishongbad, Lohor, Jigir, chapan utor. In the early 19th century the decadent "babudom" and the culture of the plebeians helped set in khisti-kheur, which is mentioned in the film by way of an inferior genre in musical duel. Poets/Kabiyals would only take recourse to kheur to attack the opponent personally, when all other measures to defeat had failed.

What is interesting in the film is to watch great Kabiyals like Raam Boshu, Bhola, Gorokkhonath, Joggeshwori and Anthony use genres that didn't consist of merely attacks and counter-attacks, and was far away from Kheur. What Bhola and Joggeshwori played in this movie was closer to Kirtan. They are rich with lyricism and imagery and they deal with the Radha-Krishna theme, with emphasis on Radha's longing and then her union with Radhanath.

Kabir Suman, who has directed the music of this 'musical of memories' used Kirtan, ancient Shyamashongeet, Palaa-gaan, Tappa, Baul, Stage song melodies, Padaboli Kirtan, Dhop Kirtan, Folk melodies, Raga melodies for all the 13 Kabi-gaan. Never before have so many Kabiyal songs been so comprehensively presented in any Indian movie before. I am tempted to see what remains of the film if you take away these 13 Kabiyal songs. So the Kabiyals Srijit has portrayed in his film were not kheur-wallahs, but poets and musicians in their own rights. The Kabiyals songs you hear in this movie were not only melodious resonating with Padaboli Kirtan, Dhop Kirtan, Folk melodies, Raga melodies, Palagaan, and Tappa, but also had mythical and classical allusions made easy in popular lingo, without which the rural audience in those days wouldn't have accepted and enjoyed such heavy texts.The Kabiyals had to undergo rigorous training in Hindu and Muslim scriptures, in the Shastras and in mythologies. There are word plays that presuppose a sound knowledge of Bangla, Sanskrit and Persian. There is no notation or recording available to have brought these ancient Kabi-gaan to life and Kabir Suman had to recreate the melodies and music for all 13 Kabiyal  texts that Srijit had hand-picked for his film. No one in India has ever undertaken such a musical feat.

While the film owes its birth to Suman's song Jaatishwar itself, without these 13 songs, and "prothom aloy phera" and "e tumi kemon tumi" the film would possibly not be as credible to watch and believe in. It is Kabir Suman who successfully creates a deserving salute to our great Kabiyal heritage.

Anthony Heynsman and Kushal Hazra

Prasenjit Chattopadhyay – who plays dual roles of Anthony Heynsman and Kushal Hazra – has proved again that he is indeed the boss of Tollywood. The man who had once frolicked with forgettable heroines under rains and around trees, had arrived long ago at the pinnacle of versatility and maturity with films like Baaishe Srabon and Aparajita Tumi. Here he is different material altogether. He is Kushal Hazra, the nondescript librarian of the Chandannagore central library. And our protagonist the Jaatishwar, hurting under the burden of haunting memories of a past life - as Anthony Heynsman. His makeup, with a receding hairline and a blotch of bald, makes it difficult for us to recognize the ultra-glamorous matinee idol that he in reality is. The slight limp in the walk, that hesitance in his gait, his left hand going to the left side of his chest - are proofs of the two cerebral strokes that he speaks to have undergone as a result of his mnemonic trauma. Kushal Hazra is a fugitive – trying to escape the torment of his memories of a previous birth - as Anthony. One day destiny brings Rohit Mehta (Jishhu Sengupta), a student of Portuguese studies, to him, in search of books on Anthony Heynsman. And Kushal finally can hope of a possible release from his agony in the eager listener.

Narration and the narrator

Jaatishwar is narrated via various techniques. And there is meta-narration or narration within/about narration. Like there are typed in names and descriptions of the characters in comic sans font designating stereotypes for “optimally nyaka" Sudeshna (played by the frail Ria Sen) and the “chintita stree" (as the perennially concerned mother played by Chaitali Dasgupta), there is also Rohit, who helps to tie in the two love stories – of Anthony and himself – his, with a happy ending and Anthony’s that ends in tragedy and loss.

There is another narration, and the most important one. Prasenjit’s narration of Anthony’s life – the visions that have been haunting him, threatening to dislocate his sense of self completely. Only reading yesterday that Wikipedia is losing readership, I chuckled aloud today when Kushal (Anthony re-incarnate) tells Rohit (who is writing a dissertation and hence looking for information on Anthony) that not everything, which Google says is true or right. The point where Kushal and Rohit merge as credibly of the same breed is where both being of non-Bong origin, display sheer love for Bangla music – Anthony for the sake of his love for Bengali folk music, Rohit for the sake of his love for a Bengali lass, Maya (assayed by Swastika).

The film is well-researched, bringing forth kabi’r lorai (poets' duels) of Bhola moyra, Heeru Thakur, into life. There is very little documented history available on Anthony for researchers. The film depicts a film within, when Rohit goes on a quest with a handycam to capture trivia on Anthony’s life in Chandennagore and finally draws a blank. Using unconventional camera techniques, the past and the present are juxtaposed within one single frame, where Kushal sits on the 19th century stage opposite Anthony, bringing in the time dilution into brilliant play. You are transported to the thakur-dalaan of Shobhabajaar Rajbaari in a flash, where the Kabiyal repertoire is unfurled in front of your eyes.

Reincarnation more believable now

The best part of the story is - although re-incarnation is a debatable issue, with not many believers in the concept; the film makes you feel the whole story is plausible, so real. Anthony’s life is well documented, interspersed with shots of Rohit’s life – parallels in a connected love story. Even the final fight for poetic supremacy in Anthony’s life with veteran poets in a public duel runs with a parallel of Rohit’s final battle in Banemonium, a band competition organized by Radio Mirchi. Such is the delight when you watch movies by intelligent directors, who are well-read themselves and are willing to go that extra mile to give you that additional touch of brilliance through their hard work and thoughtful craft.One complaint though – I would have loved it if the song sung by Rohit at the band contest was a song gifted by Kushal. Though “E tumi kemon tumi, chokher tarae aayna dhoro” is about births and rebirths, somewhere I was left feeling asking for a more direct connect between Kushal and Rohit as far as the song was concerned. But then again, wouldn’t that make the film too predictable and average? Well, yes.

We are not told if Rohit won the contest. We know he won his lady love. Ironically, as a foil, Anthony had won the public duel against Bhola Moyra, but had lost his wife Soudamini to a team of vengeful Hindu villagers setting their house on fire. The story comes full circle in Soudamini reincarnated as Maya – having ended Kushal/Anthony’s search for his lost Mini. Kushal is cured of his demons of the past, but chooses to play the fop till the end, so that he is allowed his final peace from intrusive gaze. It is amazing story-telling, stylish camera work, superb witticism in the script and awesome characterization all culminating into a movie that is must-watch. Maybe more than once. And since “collective unconscious” is mentioned by way of diagnosis of past life regression, we may live in hope that movie makers of future will keep Srijit’s endeavor in mind, when they make biopics on little-known historical characters.

Prasenjit Chatterjee, Sir, yes, you are indeed the Industry!

Srijit Mukherji, Sir, take a bow!

Kabir Suman, Sir, you have brought back the music of the lost Kabiyals of yore! Thank you!

Human Hanuman

Call it faith. Call it the opiate of the middle class. Call it misplaced care. Or undeserved service.

I choose to call this love. Simple.

Hanuman wrapped up in the warmth of human love.
And in a brightly colored blue striped shawl. It's cold for the gods too.

Ten degrees and dropping. I dressed my dolls in woolens during winters. Transferring my wish to care for a living creature to an imagined unnamed entity. Wait, I think I did name my dolls.

Yes, I was a child alright but where is the harm if a group of grown ups (mostly in their twilight age) decide to wrap this tiny figure up and give themselves a little credit for saving the bachelor guy from cold?

I pass this small temple several times during my morning rounds. This is where the kakus and kakimas, jethus and jethimas assemble for their evening adda and prayers. I am not going to judge them for not showing an equal amount of cocern to the poor and unprivileged. Or maybe they already do, who knows?

I am not going to resent them that one community corner they call their own. They have lived their lives well. So when they are left with empty nests, memories and weekly calls with grandkids, why can't they live a second lease of parenthood raising the naughty Hanuman?

The girl I met at College Street

Have been putting off a much needed visit to the College Street for quite sometime now.

I made it today. Am glad I did.

The  College Street Coffee House

I haunt posh book stores of the city, sniffing crisp new pages for print fragrance, for newness. Like all book lovers, I like the smell of books hot off the press. I like to feel the stiffness of hard-bounds. As much as I like to caress the smooth gloss of the paperbacks with my fingers.

Sometimes I don't buy any books at all. I stand staring at the titles longingly. Or I sit, leafing through the pages, reading the beginning, allowing myself the luxury of spending an impolite number of moments on the small wooden seats meant for serious readers. Someone would courteously clear his throat, making his long-standing presence felt. I would mumble a quick "Sorry, please take this seat, I was leaving anyways" and rush to the exit. Of course, sometimes I go overboard with a spending frenzy and pick out all those books that have been reviewed and recommended by critics and friends alike. And then there's Flipkart, of course.

So why College Street? You must be kidding right? Who would jostle with unkempt teenagers? How would you barely keep out of old-book sirens trying to clutch at you? Plus there was prior warning of an anti-rape protest march from College Square to the Esplanade. On top of that today was the day of the big fight - mission Derby - between East Bengal and Mohun Bagan. Truckloads of yellow-red and maroon-green jerseys were already yelling and waving their way through toward the YuvaBharatiya Krirangan. Another iconic match to launch a spate of hot debate between the bangals and the ghotis - both claiming athletic and then by natural progression, cultural superiority. Undaunted by all the obvious deterrents, I pushed myself to take the trip. And lo, I landed myself right into a students' union demonstrating against an apparent anomaly in the recruitment exam of teaching staff.

You may imagine the scene. Rather I urge you to.

Students in white and black uniforms emerging with patient looking mothers from the heritage Hare School, un-uniformed ones from the legendary Presidency College. Angry people's rally in protest against Government inaction in various social/political spheres. Book distributors sending out cartons of their ware, bamboo carts carrying exercise copies and books suddenly jutting out of serpentine by-lanes and alleys that comb out of the main road. Book sellers crying their lungs out, calling every didi and dada to try out the worn out but precious old copies. Book buyers haggling over second-hand titles, Kolkata police wielding their batons in mock fierceness, young lovers walking hand in hand in complete oblivion of their whereabouts, groups of youths laughing with the sun in their eyes. Tram-cars, buses, taxis all almost threatening to run pedestrians over. Traffic snarl orchestrated and punctuated with all sorts of high and low pitched honks. Fruit vendors cutting open natural freshness for regular patrons. A daab-walla in a lungi deftly beheading coconuts and handing thirsty customers one each, making a neat little mountain of the husks by the road side.

Standing there for a moment in the bustle, I felt I have been cheating on who I am. I was once of this bunch, this breed. Hounding Saha babu for rare copies of "xeroxed editions". I was once that girl who didn't mind squatting on the footpath and getting her hands all dusty with second-hand treasures. Or sniffing old yellow pages imagining the hands they have passed through, fingers that had lovingly held onto those books once, eyes that must have moistened at the time of parting, for a few bucks. Or that girl with a pony tail, scooping the flesh out of a green coconut, even after the water was all over. She was all eager to squeeze out every little joy of life in jeans.

I am not much different now, but the places I look for joys have changed. It is nice to have roots. Memories to go back to. Old paths to travel once more. Like I did today. Maybe I can never go back to where I was - once upon a time. But a visit now or then never hurts, what do you say?

A tramcar on the Mahatma Gandhi Road, where the College Street ends

Lending an ear to daybreak

Mornings and I have had a lasting love affair. Ever since I can remember, I have been a morning person, usually up by 5. And I mean literally up on my feet. Today was no exception. Only I lay awake earlier than usual, not caring to leave the bed or look at my bedside clock. I decided to give the slippers a slip this time. There was an invisible audience clapping their hands at my decision to stay put in bed as I fought a tremendous urge to switch on the lamp and turn to the unfinished book by my side.

I sleep with my windows slightly ajar in winter. Yes, I have strange taste in ventilation. Summers are when I am cooped up within, listening to the soiree of the air-conditioners blowing away to an artificial assurance of chill. Winters are different. While I keep the house sealed off from evening visits of thirsty mosquitoes, I throw my shutters open at bedtime. So that I don’t miss out on the natural cool, the drift of a wintry mist invading my rest. And by then the six-legged vampires have given up trying to break into human realm. There is another reason though. I like the winter morning sounds.

I like imagining a tiny woman in a white robe, with silver hair and silver stilettos running on my shutter ledge, picking up a sweet rhythm as she passes. And sometimes fancy her slipping indoors as I pretend to lie asleep. No Jack Frost for me. O boy, am I messed up? What I mean to say is that I like the resonance and noises that travel through the silent foggy mist during winter. No silly ambient acoustics from droning fans or air-coolers shutting away the natural clamor – of life. Life abuzz at the end of a dark restful night. And I think the dawn is a whole new world altogether. My kind of world, so to speak. With silence in enough measures to distill the sounds you choose to hear.

I crane my neck to trace the source of light that falls straight on my pillow. I discover faint jangle of utensils coming from my neighbor’s kitchen window upstairs. With that the accompanying tinkle of glass bangles. I imagine wet hands bedazzled with red, blue and green caressing stainless steel pots and pans with lather. Someone is up ahead of me, it seems. I close my eyes. I try to focus on the sounds that come afloat from afar. Bollywood numbers wafting from a late night function at a neighborhood cultural club, which obviously has spilled over into the wee hours. The morning call to prayer in the local mosque – there is a strange peace to the bid, though I can never make out what they say. As if they summon believers to the house of god, to share the morning light together – the break of a new day. The sound of cooing pigeons flapping their wings, haunting the cornice of our identical houses, sitting aligned on the overhead tank after their ritual bustle is over. They chatter away as they wait for glass shutters to open and unknown hands litter window sills with their daily ration of cereals.

I sink my head back into the pillow, roll over and look at the sky. It isn’t yet blue but an inky grey. No sign of cloud too, or maybe there is, the fog doesn’t let me see through. I hear the sound of me yawning. Listen to the steady breathing of my son sleeping next to me. I pull the duvet closer, tighter around us. A tap leaking in a washroom. Someone humming a love-song. There is a couple who live next-block, a flight of stairs below. I can see a square of their bed if I push aside my bedroom curtain and pry, which I assure you, I never do. There are exceptions, of course. Like when I want to see their toddler play with his teddy on the bed, his feet up in the air. When I want to listen to the young parents’ baby-talk, urging the little mite to walk on the bed.

- “We will catch your fall, baby, nothing to fear, sweetheart. Come try, walk right into my arms.”

I can listen to their entire morning routine from my bed. Of the child waking the parents up, the mother warming up water to make the formula, the father brushing teeth, talking illegibly through dental froth, flushing his pee down the toilet, and the whole family stirring back to business. I time-travel back to when I was a new mother and although, we had little money, we had time enough for everyone in the family. We had similar cheerful mornings to wake up to. I smile at the memory – not too long ago in years, but somehow it seems like ages now.

Then there is my next-door kaku, whose snores permeate the thick walls of my en suite toilet. The snores have a surge and a drop – a peculiar resemblance to the rise and fall of tides. And come with an assertion that despite his age and ailments, he continues to defy the end. I offer a silent prayer in thankfulness. The old graying pair are substitute parents to me; oftentimes, dropping in at odd hours to complain about aching joints and rising prices. Shortly afterwards, as the dawn breaks into day, there begins the dull upward-downward grind of the elevator. The domestic helps reporting to duty. The security guard turning off lights on corridors. The milkman arriving with his cart. Newspaper delivery boy pushing the fresh print-roll through each collapsible iron gate. The sun demanding that I face the day with my characteristic nonchalance and wait for another daybreak to soak in the daily echoes of living.

Morning, here I come!

                                                        *********************

Picture courtesy: The Internet