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The Making of Maa: Bimal Roy’s Debut in Bombay

July 11, 2024 | By Ratnottama Sengupta

Ratnottama Sengupta translates Nabendu Ghosh as he narrates the making of Maa — the Bombay Talkies film that brought Bimal Roy and his team to Bombay

Bimal Roy busy in work (Pic: Roy family collections)

The canteen boy has just got us tea. We are sitting in our allotted chairs on the first floor office of Bombay Talkies in Malad. I’m holding an English thriller in my hands. Even if it doesn’t qualify as ‘literature’ we read such novels to see if they yield a story worth filming. Many weak examples of literary writing occasionally become exceptional plots.

The film that has brought us to Bombay Talkies is titled Maa. For four months before setting out from Calcutta we’ve worked on the script. After arrival in Bombay too we’ve discussed it threadbare to fix all loopholes before narrating it to Ashok Kumar and Savak Vacha. That will be our litmus test.

Bombay Talkies’ Maa released in 1952 — the first film that brought Bimal Roy’s handpicked team to Bombay

The storyline unfolds like this.

A small family of mother and father, their two sons and the elder son’s wife. The father is a retired postmaster. The elder son, Rajan, is in the final year of Law. His wife, Padma, is a snooty girl from a wealthy family. She is never friendly with her brother-in-law Bhanu. This cheerful, good hearted young man, because of his involvement in the Swadeshi Movement, has been detained in the final year of BA. His father is, naturally, dejected. Bhanu is in love with Meena, the daughter of Ramnarain Babu, headmaster of the village school. And Meena reciprocates his love. Ramnarain is so impressed with the virtues he observes in Bhanu that he already thinks of him as his future son-in-law.

After retirement, the postmaster finds it difficult to make ends meet on his meagre pension. So he takes up a job under the zamindar of Chandrapur. When money comes in from the tax levied on the farmers, he stores it in the iron chest, the keys to which are kept in his custody.

The affectionate mother loves her sons equally, like a goddess. At this moment the entire family is looking up to Rajan who is poised on a career as a lawyer. They cannot depend on Bhanu whose future is still clouded.

Crisis arises when there’s no money to pay the fees for Rajan’s final examination. The father fails to raise it from anywhere. Rajan’s wife refuses to mortgage her jewelry to bail him out. The father spends a sleepless night trying to figure out a way – because the dawn would usher the last date for the payment of the fees.

Bhanu had gone with his friends to visit the mela at Kisanganj. As he nears home a thunderstorm splits the sky. All of a sudden he hears the cry of “Thief!” “Thief!” Some people are chasing a figure who is seeking the cover of darkness to flee. Bhanu stands aside and catches hold of the thief. At that very moment a lightning reveals the thief is none other than his father.

By now those chasing him are at hand. “The money from the zamindar’s sindook, for Rajan’s fees…” the father croaks.

“Hand me the money,” Bhanu tells his father, “and you stay here.” Snatching it from his father’s hand he starts running away. Those chasing the thief see his running figure, follow him and get hold of him.

Bhanu is produced before the judge and, because the money is recovered from him, he is sentenced to jail for a year. Meena and her father feel disgust. Meena is heartbroken but she can’t brush him out of her mind. What nuisance is love!

Eventually Padma sells her jewelry to raise the fees for her husband. Had she done this at the outset, the disaster would have been avoided. Alas! The mother sheds tears whenever she’s by herself. And the father, chased by a sense of guilt, falls sick. Rajan succeeds in his exams and starts practicing as a lawyer.

A year goes by. Bhanu comes out of incarceration and walks towards home. On the way he meets Meena and learns that, that very evening she is to be engaged to a prospective groom. The misunderstanding that was hurting her for a year now ends. Bhanu shares the truth with her but makes her promise that she won’t reveal it to anyone, not even her father.

Near his home he runs into Rajan. By now he has the same attitude as Padma. He tells Bhanu that their father will die if he sets his eyes on the younger son. Bhanu decides not to go home and retraces his steps.

But someone who’d seen Bhanu informs the father. When his mother hears this she runs on the street calling out his name. By then Bhanu had thinned into the crowd. The contrite father suffers a heart attack and dies.

Padma now starts ruling over the household with an iron hand. Even in her old age the mother has to slave. Eventually she is forced to leave her home. But the wheels of fortune are not static. When they turn, Bhanu is well settled in life. One day, when the blot on his name is cleared, he returns home. But his mother is not there. Soon he learns that Maa earns her livelihood by crushing stones. He goes looking for her and finds her in a slum. Now he confronts Rajan and drags him to seek redemption at his mother’s feet.

—xxx—

Bimal Roy signing autographs. With him is Savak Vacha (wearing the white cap). On the wall behind is a giant poster of Maa (Pic: Roy family collections)

Many new actors are auditioning but Bimalda is not happy.

One morning Savak Vacha entered the room and said, “Bimalda why don’t you consider Bharat Bhushan? He is a good actor and also has the looks.”

Bimalda instructed his team in the Direction department. The very next day Bharat Bhushan came, eager to meet Bimalda, and greeted him, “Namaste!” He had seen Humrahi, the Hindi version of Udayer Pathey, and was well aware of this director’s aesthetics.

The conversation that followed impressed Bimalda. The persona of Bhanu called for a neat and tidy appearance along with a mix of intelligence and idealism. Bharat Bhushan had that. He had also gained popularity.

Who will play the father? Unanimously we identified Nazir Hussain. He was the writer of Pehla Aadmi and had also essayed the father very convincingly. Pehla Aadmi, involving a chapter in the life of Netaji’s INA, was produced by New Theatres. Nazir Hussain himself had been a soldier in the INA. “Certainly,” Bimalda had no hesitation in casting him.

Next Rajan, the elder son. “Won’t our Paul do justice to this role?” Bimalda asked looking towards me and Hrishikesh.

“Yes, he can play Rajan,” Hrishikesh instantly replied, “and he will do a good job of it.”

Paul Mahendra jumped up and touched Bimalda’s feet. “If I have your blessings I will certainly succeed Bimalda!”

“You have my blessings!” Bimalda responded.

Paul touched his feet again.

Bimalda laughed out at his eagerness. “Too much devotion! You do know what that signifies?”

“No Bimalda, I’m not the thief here!” – Paul vehemently shook his head. “But in future I could perhaps play a dacoit…”

We all broke into laughter.

Now, who could play his wife? Many an actress has come forward, keen to portray Padma. But they lacked the sharpness in features that would bespeak both beauty and haughtiness of a rich man’s only daughter. That’s what would make the audience like her yet not trust her and eventually detest her.

One day a new face came to meet us. Her name was Kumud Shankar. She was the wife of Sachin Shankar, a distant cousin of the internationally applauded dancer Uday Shankar, and a partner in his ballet troupe.

Bimalda conversed with her for a few minutes, then told us with a drag on his cigarette, “I’m very happy with this girl. What do you feel?”

This was an endearing characteristic of Bimalda. He was clear in his mind about what he wished to do – and that’s what he would finally do. But he would be deeply satisfied if we concurred with him. He wanted to take us along with him and when we were of the same opinion, he would give a long puff on his cigarette.

What we expressed severally fitted into two words: “Perfect fit.”

Finally we wanted the eponymous Maa. Mother. Affectionate. Kindly. Affable. Loving. One who would sacrifice every happiness with a smile on her lips. One who would endure it all and forgive it all too. A figure of Mother Earth.

—xxx—

Maa – starring Shyama and Bharat Bhushan (Pic: Bollywoodhungama)

Ashok Kumar held out a tin of State Express. “Please…” he offered.

Bimalda picked up one and said, “Very sweet – like you.”

“Thank you Mr Humrahi,” Ashok Kumar laughed. “As an eminent film director who has to keep a tab on everything you need the American tobacco, Chesterfield. But I am an actor and to be popular I need the sweetness of 555.” We were tickled by this exchange between the two icons.

We had gathered to read out the screenplay to Ashok Kumar. Savak Vacha joined us and took his seat next to his Dadamoni. Need I add that I was to read it out.

Silently the producer duo listened to the narration. Two and half hours later I fell silent too.

Savak Vacha’s eyes were glistening with unshed tears.

“Tea for us please!” Ashok Kumar commanded.

“That’s right Dadamoni!” Savak Vacha jumped to his feet, “Chai mangaao! Where’s the tea?”

“The tea is on its way.” Asit Sen’s cheerful voice assured us.

“Good family affair,” Ashok Kumar voiced his opinion. “I had an inkling it would shape up so from the moment you narrated the story idea last year.”

“That’s our goal at this moment,” Savak Vacha articulated. “To reach the families.”

“So who will play Maa, Bimal Babu?” – Ashok Kumar queried. “Any thoughts?”

“Yes,” Bimalda replied. “Leela Chitnis.”

“Great!” Savak Vacha slapped the table enthusiastically. “Isn’t it, Dadamoni?”

“Very good choice,” Ashok Kumar opined. “She’s calm and collected, her face has affection written over it, her body language is confident and her voice is charming. She will be perfect.”

“Now please decide on the last bit of casting,” Bimalda spoke. “Who will be Meena?”

Ashok Kumar looked at Savak Vacha.

“How would Shyama be…?” – Savak Vacha haltingly replied.

“She is very vivacious,” Ashok Kumar raised his index finger to indicate his approval. “She will do well Bimal Babu.”

“Yes Bimalda,” Asit concurred. “She has a pampered air about her.”

Casting complete.

“Excellent,” Bina Boudi commented when she heard this in Devika Ranichi Bungalow. “I’ll arrange sweets to celebrate this news.”

“Boudi,” Hrishikesh spoke in a serious voice, “you can lessen the number of sweets for Asit and Paul.”

“But why?” Boudi was surprised.

Hrishikesh was as serious as before. “They have both bagged good roles. Paul is the elder brother and Asit is a good friend of the hero. But Nabenduda and I are left out…”

“Why,” Bimalda matched the seriousness in Hrishi’s tone, “we still need neighbours, passersby, court clerks, police constable… You can fill in these roles.”

The laughter that followed was infectious. And Hrishi did not repeat his claim for extra sweets when Boudi feasted us on luchi, payesh and paati sapta*.

Ashok Kumar and Bimal Roy — On 6th February, 1951, in response to Ashok Kumar’s call to direct Maa for Bombay Talkies, Bimal Roy had boarded a train for Bombay. With him was his team that included screenplay writer Nabendu Ghosh, editor Hrishikesh Mukherjee, assistant director Asit Sen, actor Paul Mahendra.

—xxx—

The music director chosen for Maa was S K Pal. Soorya Kumar was his full name, and he too was a Bengali but had grown up outside Bengal. He had scored the music for a Filmistan movie – Man Ki Jit – and some other films. Aged about 40-42 years. Tiptop, friendly personality, he was.

Bimalda explained a sequence to him and asked him to compose the music. S K Pal willingly agreed. This was the scenario: Bhanu is the main player of a football club which wins a match. The members bring the trophy to the club singing his glory since he has booked the victory with three goals.

But a tune can become a song only with the lyrics. The most famed lyricist then was Bharat Vyas. The very next day he read out the song. The club members surround Bhanu and sing Jiyo jiyo mere laal… May you live long dear!

The next day S K Pal played out the song. Joyous, engaging, very pleasurable. That very day Bombay Talkies signed him on as the music director of Maa.

The recordist was the permanent employee of Bombay Talkies, Mr Barot. A good looking Gujarati speaking gentleman with a forever smiling face.

And who would wield the camera? Josef Wirsching, the German who has left his mark as a pioneer in the scientific art of cinematography through Achhyut Kanya and Mahal among others. He had started with Franz Osten in Light of Asia and had made India his home. Tall, broad built, he looked like a pehalwan but had the innocence of a child all over his face despite the pipe hanging from his lips. His bass voice resonated as if it were coming out of a tall earthen pitcher. That is why it took us a while to get used to his German-accented English. Soon we – Hrishikesh in particular – struck a warm friendship with him.

One day he sat down with us in the office. As we started conversing I tried to muffle the cough that was bothering me since morning. I even tried to wipe my nose clean with my handkerchief. “Bad cold,” Mr Wirsching noticed this.

“Yes,” I said, “I will shortly consult Dr Mehta.” Bombay Talkies had engaged a doctor for the welfare of its employees – every morning and evening he would attend to their complaints and a compounder would measure out mixtures as per his prescription.

Mr Wirsching pulled a face. “Why must you run to an allopath at once? Why do you feel so helpless? Try Toosi first.”

“Toosi? What’s that sir?”

“Toosi! Toosi leaves.”

Crikey! Mr Wirsching is talking about the benefits of Tulsi leaves! An impact of his stay in India since 1935.

“Come with me Ghosh. I have Tulsi plants in my flat. I’ll give you some. Add honey to the extract and take it – it’s the best cure for cold.”

This was Josef Wirsching who had spent four years as an internee in a British Camp during World War II. And after the War he had returned to Bombay Talkies.

—xxx—

Asit Sen, Nabendu Ghosh and Nazir Hussain (Pic: Ratnottama Sengupta)

Asit Sen has been assisting Bimalda since his New Theatres days. He sits in the office, prepares detailed list, set break down, artiste selection, which artiste would be on the sets on which day, their costume and accessories. He was getting copies made of the script, dialogue sheets for each artiste and so on.

Hrishikesh would occasionally sit in the Editor’s room.

Three months have passed since we arrived in Bombay. But we haven’t received our salaries. So we have not started the kitchen at Van Vihar. We still have breakfast at Devika Ranichi Bungalow, then go to the Bombay Talkies office. Lunch again was under the umbrella of our Bina Boudi – Bimalda’s wife Manobina. Back in the office we discuss over tea with Bimalda various details of Maa so that there’s no hitch once we start shooting. Dinner again saw us at Boudi’s dining table, before we retired to Van Vihar at 9.30 pm.

Some more months passed by. Meanwhile I make the acquaintance of filmmakers like Gyan Mukherjee, Phani Majumdar, S Mukherjee, and literary personalities like Saradindu Bandopadhyay and playwright Niranjan Pal, one of the founders of Bombay Talkies who had scripted Light of Asia, Shiraz, Achhut Kanya and Jeevan Naiyya.

Bimal Roy in film editing room (Pic: Roy family collections)

Then all of a sudden life got hectic. The shooting for Maa was finalized. Asit was suddenly extremely busy. And Nazir Hussain arrived with his trunk and hold-all to play the father in Maa. Tall and squat, he was in mid-thirties but his weathered face seemed to age him beyond forties. (Read Nazir Hussain, the INA and the Long March of Kadam Kadam)

There was history in that face. Born in Dildarnagar of UP, he’d joined the British Indian army, was taken a prisoner of war, then under Mohan Singh he joined INA. After the Red Fort trial he’d gone to Calcutta and found himself acting as the father of Pehla Aadmi which came out of his story.

We struck a special bonding because of Nazir’s endearing effort to speak Bengali. Let me give an example.

Because Maa was taking time to go on the sets, we were facing economic hardship. Meanwhile Bimalda’s brother-in-law Arabind Sen introduced me to S H Munshi, the producer of his film Kafila. He had secured Bimalda’s permission and so I would write the screenplay. On hearing this Nazir Hussain said, “Badhai ho! Abinand..”

“Did you follow what he said in Bengali?” Hrishikesh winked at me. “That half word is his Bengali for Congratulations – Abhinandan.”

“Tik tik tik,” Nazir nodded vigorously. It was his pronunciation of ‘theek theek’ (not realizing it was an approximation of the lizard’s sound which according to a Bengali proverb, implies ‘true, may it come true.’)

—xxx—

Sudesh Kumar, Mehmood and Asit Sen in Jiyo jiyo mere laal song in Maa

We are shooting Maa. I’m also on the sets. So is Hrishikesh. Asit is the Chief Assistant, so his presence is a MUST. Paul Mahendra is the hero’s elder brother, so he too is present. For the moment I’m in charge of the ‘Kontinity’ – I write detailed description of every shot. Which side of the frame the characters are looking at the end of each shot. Who’s wearing which costume and what are the accessories. How many feet of raw stock has been exposed. So on and so forth.

This particular set is the football club of the village. Bhanu, a valued member of the club, is also boisterously celebrating the victory. He holds aloft the silver cup and the others say ‘Bhanu zindabad.’ Then one of the member starts singing –
Jiyo jiyo mere laal, tuney kar diya kamaal,
Teri tedhi medhi chaal dushmanon ka bura haal
Kar diya…

Jiyo jiyo mere laal – this refrain was repeated in a chorus that included Asit Sen, Mehmood – son of Mumtaz Ali then going around seeking roles; and another ‘actor’ Tilakram who had lost his fortune in the hope of producing a film where he would play the hero.

Before going in for make-up Tilakram, who’d been visiting us for a ‘worthy’ role, sought out Asit. “Dada, I have a request.”

Asit turned towards him.

“Four of my friends are here. They have heard a lot about Roy Saheb and are very keen to watch the shooting. Will you kindly give them permission to be on the sets today?”

“See Nabenduda,” Asit addressed me, “give them an inch and they want a furlong.”

But he curbed his annoyance and replied to Tilakram, “Let your buddies stand behind us, at least 50 feet behind the camera. And they must not utter a word while the shot is on. If they break the silence they will be turned out.”

“Yes, certainly!” Tilakram was most grateful.

At that moment Bharat Bhushan was nearby. “One is filled with happiness at the thought that one’s friends are watching the performance,” he said after Tilakram left. “Although,” he added, “till date I’ve not entertained anyone on the sets.”

“Not even Bhabhiji?” – I asked out of curiosity.

“She’s not other than me!” Bharat Bhushan had an amused smile. I reached out to hold his hand and said, “That is beautifully put!”

I had met Bharat Bhushan quite a few times before this day. An educated person from a well-off family, he had charming looks and pleasing manners. Since our first meeting, he has started respecting me like a family elder—Dada. He even invited me to his house and introduced me to his wife, Sarala. Amiable, calm, and benign, she was the image of Grihalakshmi, the goddess.

—xxx—

Cameraman Wirsching finished lighting the set sharp at 11. After giving directions to Asit, Bharat Bhushan and the other players and club members Bimalda cleared two rehearsals, then said, “Ready for Take.”

“Artistes,” Asit called out, “take your positions.”

Bharat Bhushan went out and took position behind the Club Room door. The door was closed to give the impression that it was locked from outside when the boys had gone for the match.

Asit again called out, “Artistes, ready?”

“Yes sir,” Bharat Bhushan’s voice floated in.

“Ready Camera?”

“Ready,” came the robust voice of robust Wirsching.

“Lights on!” All the lights came to life.

“Start sound!”

“Sound rolling,” recordist Barot’s voice sounded.

“Action!” This was Bimalda’s mild voice.

“A-c-t-i-o-n!” Asit Sen immediately gave the action a hefty pitch.

Outside the closed door the players and club members immediately broke into the victorious cry of “Hip-hip-hurray!” “Hip-hip-hurray!”

The door opens from outside and the club members step into the room. Bhanu walks up to a table and puts down the trophy. Another round of ‘Hip-hip-hurray!’ rents the air.

“Bhanu’s the star of today’s match,” one player says. “Bhanu zindabad!” another player hails him. Others join in the chorus.

Bharat Bhushan and Sudesh Kumar (left)

All of a sudden Tilakram pushed the others aside to come forward and stand face to face with Bharat Bhushan. “Bhanu zindabad,” he yelled harshly.

The expression on his face was something to behold. Eyes wide and grinning big he again shouted, “Bhanu zindabad.”

“Cut!” Bimalda’s voice was unnaturally high now. “Cut please!” he repeated.

The camera stopped whirring. The lights went out. Catastrophe!

Bimalda walked up to Tilakram and asked, “Who told you to scream this ‘Bhanu zindabad’?”

“No one, sir,” Tilakram replied in a hushed tone.

Bimalda sized him up with a steely gaze, then turned to Asit, “Please ask him to leave.”

“Let’s walk,” ashen-faced Asit asked Tilakram to follow him. Leading him to a corner, Asit spoke in a low yet stern voice, “Why did you decide to break rank and deliver the dialogue on your own?”

Tilakram lowered his head. “Sir I was so excited, I lost my good sense. Josh mein hosh kho baitha,” that was his honest reply.

“You’ve brought shame upon me,” Asit was bitter, “tumne mera naak katwa diya.”

“Please forgive me this once,” Tilakram pleaded with folded hands.

Asit shook his head. “Even if I forgive you, our head — Roy Saheb — will not forgive me. Please leave the set now. And collect your day’s wage from manager Patange.”

Asit returned to his post by the side of Bimalda.

“Once again, Mr Wirsching,” Bimalda directed.

“Right, Mr Roy.”

Hrishikesh sidled up to me and whispered, “Nabenduda, I have a feeling Asit will box us today for pleading his case…”

Before I could say anything I noticed Tilakram leaving with his friends.

Bimalda said, “Take now.”

“Lights on!” Asit was strident.

Once again Bharat Bhushan is Bhanu returning with the trophy.

“Cut! How does this sound?”

“Okay, Mr Roy.”

“Next shot, Mr Wirsching.”

Now team members start singing the song – Jiyo jiyo mere laal…

The chorus joins in – jiyo jiyo mere laal..

“Pack up.” End of the day.

This far Asit has not glanced at us. We are the culprits who have pleaded to give Tilakram a chance. Hrishikesh and I went up to Asit and begged forgiveness. “This once?”

“Okay, I forgive this once,” Asit spoke in a serious voice. Then he smiled his normal warm smile.

“Asit you are wonderful!” – we chimed together.

Jiyo jiyo mere laal (Maa, 1952) SK Pal / Bharat Vyas / Manna Dey, Kishore Kumar, Arun Kumar

—xxx—

Next day. Today’s artiste is Leela Chitnis, our Maa. And it is Nazir Hussain’s first day as the father. Bharat Bhushan is there of course, and Paul is present too.

I meet Leela Chitnis, a highly educated actress from a cultured Maharashtrian family.

Bombay Talkies is the first institution in this region to seek out educated persons from decent families and employ them in the different departments of filmmaking. Himanshu Rai believed that unless the entire unit was educated, one could not make aesthetically resolved films of good taste that could earn society’s approval and respect.

How arresting she is! What a fetching smile. And her eyes! They’re a blend of intelligence and tenderness. I could not resist telling her, “Pardon me, but I must say something in praise of you…”

“What, Bhai?” Leela Chitnis eagerly asked.

“Your eyes are bewitching.”

Leela Chitnis was not embarrassed or annoyed. Instead she smiled and said, “God is great. This is what people tell me. I thank you for the compliment.”

Leela Chitnis

Right then the CEO of Bombay Talkies Ashok Kumar arrived on the scene.

“Stopping by to see for myself what’s on,” he said to Bimalda with a smile.

“Welcome -” Bimalda replied.

Then he walked up to Leela Chitnis. Her eyes lit up at once.

“Hello Leelabai!” – he held out his hand.

“Hello Dadamoni!” She too reached out and shook his hand.

Ashok Kumar pointed at me and asked, “What were you discussing with the writer?”

“Guess what? Mr Ghosh was telling me exactly what you told me when we first met.”

“About your attractive eyes, right?”

“Exactly,” Leelaji nodded.

Ashok Kumar laughed out loud. Then he narrated how Leela Chitnis had helped him grow as an actor by one single observation.

In the three years following his Achhut Kanya he had acted in Jeevan Naiyya, Bhoomi, Izzat, Savitri, Nirmala and Vachan – each of these featured Devika Rani and they were all directed by Franz Osten. Ashok Kumar had gained immense popularity – and yet everyone used to feel that something was amiss, lacking in the hero. “You are doing well, just put a bit more heart in your performance, dil kholkar kaam karo.”

Then in 1939 Bombay Talkies bought the rights to film a short story, Rajanigandha by the Bengali novelist Gajendra Kumar Mitra, for merely Rs 250. This time Devika Rani was not cast opposite Ashok Kumar. Newcomer Leela Chitnis was cast in the film which was titled Kangan. This was the last film directed by Franz Osten. The outbreak of WWII that very year forced the German director to go back to Germany, the ‘enemy country’.

On their first day Ashok Kumar said, “Since we will work together, I will try to ensure you like my performance.”

Leela Chitnis was embarrassed. “You are saying this to me, a newcomer! You, a nationally acclaimed actor!”

Ashok Kumar did not respond to this but he was bothered that people always said, “Dil kholkar kaam karo…” Clearly they feel he did not give his best.

On the sets every actor tries to do better than his or her co-star. In this game of outdoing the other, Leela Chitnis casually remarked, “You don’t use your eyes to advantage.”

That observation hit Ashok Kumar. “I realized that Leelabai expresses most of her emotions through her eyes. And I too learnt to perform wholeheartedly.” Since that day, I look upon her as one of my gurus.”

Leela Chitnis folded her hands and bent forward as she said, “Dadamoni, you are one of my gurus. Had I not debuted against you in Kangan, I would not have enjoyed such popularity.”

This hit pair had gone on to feature in a series of hits – Bandhan, Jhoola, Aazan, Kiran. And now she is our Maa.

——————–

* Bengali dishes: luchi (poori), payesh (kheer), paati sapta (Bengali traditional sweet)

Excerpted from Eka Naukar Jatri, the autobiography of Nabendu Ghosh

(Pictures used in the article are courtesy Ratnottama Sengupta and Silhouette Archives)

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Of Incomplete Tales: My Friendship with Guru Dutt (Parts 1 & 2)

Zindagi Bhar Nahin Bhoolegi: Bharat Bhushan’s Unforgettable Singer-Poet Musicals

Whether you are new or veteran, you are important. Please contribute with your articles on cinema, we are looking forward for an association. Send your writings to amitava@silhouette-magazine.com

About the Author

Ratnottama Sengupta (28 Posts)

A National Award winner for her Writings on Cinema, Ratnottama Sengupta is a natural writer with keen understanding of Cinema and Visual Art. A Journalist since 1978, she has been with The Times of India, The Telegraph, Screen and been the Editor of the online magazine CineBengal.com. Daughter of writer Nabendu Ghosh, she writes extensively on Cinema and on Art. She has contributed to Encyclopedia Britannica on Hindi Films, and has to her credit many titles including on Plastic Arts. Ratnottama has curated 'Little Languages Film Festival' in Delhi, Bangalore, Kolkata; 'Prosenjit: A Retrospective', Delhi; 'Bimal Roy Centenary', Goa, Kolkata; 'Bengali Cinema After Rituparno', Delhi; and initiated the 'Hyderabad Bengali Films Festival'. * She has been on IFFI Steering Committee; National and International Award juries; with CBFC; and on NFDC Script Committee. She scripted Mukul, a short film on Nabendu (2009). She debuts as director with And They Made Classics.
All Posts of Ratnottama Sengupta

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One thought on “The Making of Maa: Bimal Roy’s Debut in Bombay”

Reena Dasgupta July 12, 2024 at 12:31 am

A slice of history of the making of an iconic movie . So well translated by Ratnottoma Sengupta from her great father Nabendu Ghosh’s autobiography in Bengali .

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