Harmonium — A Symbol of Interconnected Lives

Tapan Sinha with Arundhati Devi (L) and Anil Chatterjee (R) during music rehearsals for Harmonium. Arati Mukherjee is playing the harmonium (Source – Anindya Sinha)

Harmonium – the title clarifies that the story will be about this musical instrument and music, of course. But Tapan Sinha takes it further – he builds a riveting narrative around the central character – an exquisite, rare, custom-built harmonium. All other characters revolve around the instrument and the music it creates.

The harmonium is no ordinary one. As the camera zooms into the harmonium, we notice the brand – Dwarkin*. This instantly places the film in context, clarifying its historical period and significance. A Dwarkin harmonium was a sign of aristocracy and throughout the film, we get to look closely at the beautiful instrument from different angles, with its trademark metal brand plate.

The Royalty

Antique relics, furniture, chandelier and harmonium are being auctioned off

The film opens with an auction in a zamindari household – antique relics, furniture and décor items are being auctioned off. Among the items, which include a chandelier and a king-sized bed, is a harmonium that the auctioneer claims is a rare piece. It is picked up for Rs 200 by Harendra Kumar Chatterjee (Kali Banerjee), a government employee, who buys it for his daughter. In the distance, a lady watches silently, her sadness and resignation evident as her possessions are auctioned off. She is Bimala (Arundhati Devi) – the daughter of the erstwhile zamindar, Bhupendra Kishore (Asit Baran).

Bimala remembers how her father had brought home the harmonium, carried in a huge wooden box by their servant Birju (Kumar Roy), and had proudly said, “I had placed an order with Dwarkin; they sent it after so many days.” This indicates that each piece is custom-made. As Bhupendra Kishore walks down the long, marble-floored corridor, and little Bimala runs up the steps of the palace adorned with beautiful statues and gigantic chandeliers, we witness the last signs of the decadent feudal society of Bengal.

Bimala watches the instrument become her father’s inseparable companion

Bimala learns the harmonium even as she watches the instrument become an inseparable companion of her father. A widower, Bhupendra Kishore’s life is devoted to drinks (the array of empty VAT 69 bottles emphasizes his addiction to alcohol) and music. He loves to play the harmonium and sing, while a nautch girl performs kathak, all under the bright lights of the chandelier.

Not surprisingly, Bhupendra Kishore is well aware that his corrupt manager is swindling his wealth. Still, he doesn’t care, just as he has quietly accepted the impending end of the zamindari system.

On a boat trip to Rupnarayanpur to meet his subjects who aren’t paying taxes, Bhupendra Kishore and Bimala see a nartaki couple, Kali Master and his wife Radhika, walking down the distant river shore, singing a song — Mon bole aami moner kotha jani na.  Bhupendra Kishore gives them sangat on the harmonium. It’s an interesting jugalbandi of singers on the shore and the harmonium on the boat, creating musical harmony. He finally calls them over to the boat. The song, the village skyline, the gentle sailing boat, the notes of the harmonium and the expansive river create beautiful imagery that stays in Bimala’s memory.

Bimala watches the unusual jugalbandi as the singers sing on the shore and her father plays the harmonium on the boat

Bhupendra Kishore dies, leaving behind a debt-ridden, hollow estate and an orphaned seven or eight-year-old daughter. When we next see Bimala, she is a widow walking out of her erstwhile home — the long corridors lined with doric pillars and the expansive thakurdalan standing mute testimony to the glorious days gone by.

The slimy manager (now the owner of the house where he was once employed) tagging behind her, dares to make an indecent proposal. Bimala is humiliated but her sense of dignity and restraint in the face of the insulting comments shows her stoicism – something her aristocratic roots have ingrained in her. She puts the manager firmly in his place by saying that buying the property of a zamindar does not make one an aristocrat. Aristocracy is in the blood, and the colour of that blood is blue. Her loyal servant Birju, now aged but still devoted, gives her shelter in his small, simple house tucked away behind a middle-class locality, which Bhupendra Kishore had bestowed upon him.

“Aristocracy is in the blood, and the colour of that blood is blue.”

The Middle Class

In the meantime, the harmonium reaches Chatterjee’s house – a microcosm of the Bengali middle class of the turbulent seventies in Calcutta. Chatterjee is a government employee with questionable honesty – his son wonders how his father, with a meagre income, can afford luxuries like the refrigerator. His wife, a homemaker, spends more time yelling accusations at the servant than anything else, but one learns that she could once play the harmonium and sing.

Basanti is an aspirational, college-going girl who prefers an electric guitar to an antique harmonium

Chatterjee believes the harmonium will help his daughter Basanti (Sonali Gupta) learn music which is necessary to improve her marriage prospects. But Basanti has other ideas. She is an aspirational, college-going girl who prefers an electric guitar to an antique harmonium. She is in love with her neighbour’s son Ashok (Bhisma Guhathakurta). Ashok is an unemployed young man who loves music but cannot practice at home as his father does not approve.

Ashok’s home portrays another section of the middle class – a household ruled by an orthodox, rigid, authoritarian male (Santosh Dutta) who makes all decisions in the house. He fixes his daughter Gayatri’s marriage in distant Rajasthan as the horoscopes match. He doesn’t deem it necessary to meet the groom, let alone ask his daughter’s opinion. Basanti is livid and would like Gayatri to protest against the injustice, go on a hunger strike, etc., but Gayatri meekly accepts her destiny to get married to a burly, muscular, physical instructor from Rajasthan whom she has never seen. Sinha holds up two diametrically opposite faces of Bengal’s middle class – one the wannabe liberal, the other a prejudice-driven conservative.

Sanjib calls himself a rebel against the ‘system’ and against ‘mastaanocracy’

The wedding ceremony is another slice of a ritual-driven society where to marry off the daughter, the father is forced to borrow money at high interest, empty his savings in the provident fund and go into debt. Even when entertaining the guests with a lavish feast, Gayatri’s father does not, for a moment, stop cribbing about how daughters leave their fathers penniless. Meanwhile, Chatterjee’s bearded, kurta-pajama-clad son Sanjib (Santu Mukherjee) who calls himself a rebel against the ‘system’ and against ‘mastaanocracy’ (a term he coins when the police look him up as someone who is involved in a racket of ‘mastaans’, a slang for ruffians or political goons), gets his gang of so-called rebels to mess up the wedding feast by demanding that the poor be fed first. This is more of a ruse to create a nuisance than to actually feed the hungry. Sinha’s portrayal of the rebellious Sanjib and the bomb-throwing, abusive young men who create havoc at the wedding in the name of an egalitarian society is a comment on the rudderless youth of that time.

The bonhomie between the two families is replaced by enmity as the two desperate lovebirds elope with dreams in their eyes, a song on their lips, and a cloth bag on their shoulders. But of course, it is an impractical step and the runaway couple is brought home by the comic but well-meaning police officer (Bhanu Bandyopadhyay), who deposits the duo back with an affectionate pat on the head for Basanti and a tight slap for Ashok. Meanwhile, a livid Chatterjee has vented his anger on the harmonium, blaming it for being the cause of elopement.

In Sanjib, Ashok, Basanti and Gayatri, we thus get a snapshot of youth in the seventies – unemployed, rhetorical rebels apparently without a cause; aspirational, romantic, impulsive youth with a taste for the arts; as well as the resigned, obedient ones who do what their parents want them to do.

(L to R) Ashok, Sanjib, Basanti and Gayatri — a snapshot of youth in the seventies

Running parallel to the harmonium’s sojourn in Chatterjee’s home is the story of the growing affection between Bimala and Shyamali, a little girl whose father (Anil Chatterjee, referred to henceforth as Anil) has employed Birju to look after her. When Birju falls ill and Bimala takes over his chores, Anil, a widower and a senior IAS officer in the Land and Revenue Department, is grateful to Bimala for the love she showers on the motherless child. Although Bimala wants to leave her past behind, Anil is well aware of Bimala’s rich family legacy and his appreciation of her father Bhupendra Kishore touches a chord. The mutual respect and admiration Bimala and Anil develop for each other is a pleasant and positive sidelight in the narrative and Sinha leaves the relationship open-ended.

In one conversation, Anil describes the unique beauty of a 200-year-old Shiva temple in Kidderpore, built by Zamindar Joynarayan Ghoshal. Its 18-feet-tall Shivalinga is believed to be the tallest of its kind in Asia. Here, the famous Kali devotee Ram Prasad sang his timeless songs and Michael Madhusudhan studied in its library. In short, the temple was a space that patronised literature and the creative arts.

Here, Sinha presents the audience with two sides of Bengal’s feudal landlords – their opulent, excessive lifestyles (which Bimala is critical of) and their magnificent contribution towards art and architecture.

Anil describes the unique beauty of a 200-year-old Shiva temple to Bimala

The Fringes

The harmonium now reaches its third destination – Sonagachi, the infamous redlight area of Calcutta when Ratan (Samit Bhanja), a vagabond friendly with the prostitutes of Subaash’s (Chhaya Devi) brothel, buys the instrument for Shyama (Arati Bhattacharya), one of the nautch girls. Shyama is the daughter of the nartaki couple we meet in the first part of the film (when Bimala was a little girl). Instantly, Sinha establishes a connection between the three stories, with the harmonium as the common factor.

The ageing Subaash’s childlike excitement at the arrival of the harmonium makes her break into a thumri

This part of the film is replete with songs, as the harmonium brings a welcome dose of cheer to the dark and depressing environment of the brothel. Although Ratan brings the instrument primarily for Shyama for whom he has a soft corner, it is the ageing Subaash’s childlike excitement that conveys what a beautiful musical instrument means to one who thrives on music.

Bipin Saheb visits the brothel every evening only for Subaash

“The good old traditions are coming back,” remarks a journalist who frequents the brothel when he hears the notes of the harmonium. Indeed, Sinha’s picturisation of the mujra brings back the bygone days of the nautch girls. So does the character of Bipin Saheb (Kamal Mitra), a well-to-do dignified gentleman who visits the brothel every evening only for Subaash. You may find some similarities between him and Nishipadma / Amar Prem’s Anand Babu, who visits the red-light area only for Pushpa.

The arrival of the harmonium brings music back into the brothel. Ratan sings Moynamotir pather dhaare dekha hoyechhilo, which instantly takes Shyama back to her childhood memories of her parents, Radhika and Kali Master, singing the song. Just like the harmonium, these songs are the connecting dots between the stories.

The atmosphere livens up in the brothel with Ratan and Shyama singing Kal khushir toofan uriye, with Sinha using varied close-ups of Ratan’s fingers racing on the harmonium. Sung by Pintu Bhattacharya and Arati Mukherjee, this song bears a touch of Raga Pilu, evoking a sense of yearning and contemplation. The lyrics perfectly capture this mood, with an introspective tone that questions the reason for sadness. Gentle and soothing imagery reinforces the sense of calm in the lyrics, interspersed with the sargam. Yet, the song’s setting – a vibrant mujra surrounded by intoxicated revellers adds a layer of irony and contrasts with Shyama’s emotional state. This tension highlights the complexity of emotions, where longing and melancholy can coexist with joy and celebration.

Kaal khushir toofan uriye (Harmonium, 1976) Tapan Sinha / Tapan Sinha / Arati Mukherji and Pintu Bhattacharya

However, these brief moments of fun and music end with the arrival of the gangster Haran Ghosh (Swarup Dutta), an abusive control freak on the run from the police, who makes life hell for Shyama. Subaash and Ratan are unable to protect Shyama from Haran’s violence. Haran stabs Ratan and is shot down by the police.

Ratan’s death brings the curtains down on the harmonium’s stay in Sonagachi, and the instrument returns once more to the shop to await a new owner.

Sinha creates a pattern that becomes an identifiable link connecting the episodes. A recurring musical piece on the harmonium plays as a motif each time it moves to a new home. The cycle-rickshaw — the common man’s vehicle in Calcutta carries the harmonium to its new home, whether it is Chatterjee carrying it on his lap or Subaash and Shyama resting it on the rickshaw’s pedestal. Ratan carries it on his shoulders, walking down the lanes of the redlight area – he cannot afford a cycle rickshaw. Closeups of the passengers, the harmonium and the rickshaw, long shots of the roads and the lanes – all are sequenced beautifully to create a rhythmic connection between the three stories in the film.

The connecting interludes of the harmonium changing its home

Anil overhears Bimala singing Kaino bonchito hobo chorone to Shyamali and offers to open a music school in his living room for Bimala. It would help her keep busy with children and bring in some much-needed money as well.

And thus, the Dwarkin harmonium finds its way back to its original owner. Mon bole aami moner katha jani na signals the denouement of the film — this time sung by Arundhati Devi as her memories of childhood flood in. This frame of a tearful Bimala and the song stays with you long after the film ends.

Mon bole aami moner katha jani na (Harmonium, 1976) Tapan Sinha / Tapan Sinha / Arundhati Devi

Harmonium is an episodic film where an object is a character that is really the protagonist of the film. This is especially emphasized by the fact that when Chatterjee sells the harmonium to ‘The Melody: Home of Melody Harmonium’ shop, the shop attendant, who is charmed by the notes of this ancient instrument, formally names the harmonium ‘Darbari Kanada’ – an ancient Indian classical raga, as a mark of respect for its pristine beauty and music. This endearing personification of the harmonium by the smiling shop attendant infuses life into the inanimate instruments.

He introduces ‘Darbari Kanada’ to its fellow harmoniums – each named after a raga based on its appearance and music: Bhairavi (for its saffron colour), Khamaj, Behag (for its pathos-laden notes that cry in the night), Megh Malhar, Rageshri, Bageshri, and finally, Adhunik (modern) – a harmonium that plays only one note. Was this Sinha cocking a snook at modern music?

The Music

Tapan Sinha with the Dwarkin Harmonium (Pic: Filmmaker’s Filmmaking – A Documentary by Raja Sen)

One cannot talk of the film without mentioning its music. Sinha uses the harmonium as a symbol of interconnected stories, lives, and tragedies. His use of music in Harmonium is an impressive array of a variety of genres – from the thumri and ghazal by Chhaya Devi to the Vaishnavi kirtan by the street singers, from the dramatic Moynamotir pather dhaare to the romantic Emni korei jodi cholte paari (sung by Tarun Banerjee and Haimanti Shukla).

Moynamotir pother dhaare dekha hoyechhilo — a captivating, dramatic song presented in a conversational format, is an endearing dialogue between Kali Master and Radhika. They belong to the Jhumur Dal — a group that performs Jhumur songs, which explore various dimensions of love and are typically accompanied by flute, maadol (traditional drum), and other traditional instruments. However, in Moynamotir pother dhaare, Sinha uses the harmonium as the dominant instrument, giving the song a more contemporary touch that fits better in the context of the film. Within this charming duet, sung by Manna Dey and Banashree Sengupta, the couple lovingly recounts the story of their romance, entertaining the assembled village audience with their music and dance.

Moynamotir pather dhaare (Harmonium, 1976) Tapan Sinha / Tapan Sinha / Manna Dey and Banashree Sengupta

Arundhati Devi’s evocative rendition of Kaino bonchito hobo chorone penned and composed by Rajanikanta Sen is also worth mentioning. It may be remembered here that Arundhati Devi was a trained singer, very dear to Rabindranath Tagore, and one of the early graduates in Music from Tagore’s University at Santiniketan. Although her career as a singer was short-lived, Arundhati was a regular singer on the radio and a recording artist long before she began acting in films.

In her soul-stirring rendition of Kaino bonchito hobo chorone accompanied by the subdued emotions in her expressive eyes, Arundhati Devi captures the devotional depth of the timeless classic, which can be looked upon as a prayer as well as a song of love and longing. Not only do her aristocratic looks, elegance and refined manner of speaking aptly personify the character of Bimala (the lady who was once a princess), but her musical prowess also brings depth and nuance to the song, perfectly capturing Bimala’s inner turmoil.

Kaino bonchito hobo chorone (Harmonium, 1976) Rajanikanta Sen / Rajanikanta Sen / Arundhati Devi

Mon bole aami moner kotha jani na was originally sung by Gopal Bairagi, a skilled sculptor who crafted the idol of Goddess Durga for Durga Puja celebrations at Tapan Sinha’s ancestral home in Hilora. As he worked, Gopal Bairagi would sing this haunting melody. Years later, Sinha drew inspiration from this childhood memory and featured this song as a recurring musical motif that connects the various episodic stories in the film.

Beautifully rendered by Arundhati Devi and Hemant Kumar, Mon bole ami moner kotha janina is a masterpiece that weaves a profound exploration of the human experience through its poetic lyrics and soaring melody. The song’s central theme of the mind disconnecting from its thoughts is expertly woven throughout the verses, which are rich in metaphor, allegory, and philosophical musing. Natural imagery and symbolism add depth and universality to the song, while the poetic language creates a sense of emotional authenticity. The song’s beauty and resonance lie in its ability to invite introspection and contemplation. Conspicuous in the song’s orchestration is the music of the harmonium.

Mon bole aami moner kotha janina (Harmonium, 1976) Tapan Sinha / Tapan Sinha / Hemanta Mukherjee

Despite having retired from acting, Chhaya Devi had made an exception for Tapan Sinha, whom she deeply respected. In her mid-fifties when the film was made, Chhaya Devi sings with ease, her voice effortlessly navigating the complex nuances of the thumri-based song. Her immaculate murkis, in tune with the music, are pure class in the thumri, Armaan kuchh to dil mein tadapte hi rahega and the ghazal, Aha chhal kore jal ante ami Jamuna te jai.

She had once said, “Tapan Babu is the only director I’ve seen who doesn’t let his ego get in the way. Yet, he could bring out the best in actors like no one else.”

Aha chhal kore jal ante ami Jamuna te jai (Harmonium, 1976) Tapan Sinha / Tapan Sinha / Chhaya Devi

Armaan kuchh to dil mein (Harmonium, 1976) Traditional / Chhaya Devi

Montu Banerjee, the harmonium wizard, played harmonium pieces in the film, ably accompanied by V. Balsara. Any appreciation of the film Harmonium would be incomplete without mentioning the contribution of these two giants behind the screen. Without their classic performance, the film might not have lived up to its title.

Tapan Sinha’s Harmonium masterfully blends music, memories, and human experiences. Through the journey of a much-loved harmonium, Sinha explores the complexities of social structures and the gap between the classes and the masses, portraying the sweeping changes between a bygone era and contemporary society. With its poignant storytelling, vivid characters, and unforgettable performances, Harmonium remains a timeless classic of Bengali cinema. As the haunting melodies from the film linger, the harmonium emerges as a symbol of connection, transcending time and circumstance to evoke the deepest human emotions.

Harmonium Record Label

The Musical Legacy

Dwarkin Harmonium

Dwarakanath Ghosh, a pioneering musician and entrepreneur, revolutionized Indian classical music with his innovative adaptation of the European harmonium. Ghosh introduced his version of the harmonium in 1875, specifically designed to cater to the unique requirements of Indian music. His friend, Upendrakishore Ray Chowdhury (Satyajit Ray’s grandfather), a renowned literary figure and musician, played a significant role in the popularisation of the harmonium. He suggested the name ‘Dwarkin’ (from Dwarakanath Ghosh’s first name) for Ghosh’s shop and provided relevant advice. ‘Dwarkin & Sons’ soon became one of the leading manufacturers of Indian musical instruments, serving innumerable music maestros of the Indian subcontinent – a glorious legacy that continued for over a century.

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