

Ratnottama Sengupta re-views Tapan Sinha through the lens of Bimal Roy. Or is it vice versa…?
Young Tapan Sinha
The year was 1946 when Tapan Sinha joined New Theatres as an assistant to sound recordist Bani Dutta. But even at the young age of 21 he was clear in his mind that the future would see him as a director. So he decided to spend whatever time he could manage outside the recording studio, observing Bimal Roy. The director who had captivated Sinha with his very first film, Udayer Pathey (1944) was then working on its Hindi avatar, Humrahi. The Bengali youth with romanticism in his heart and love for Rabindranath, found his passion matched Bimalda’s. Before long the 37-year-director was claiming his unstinted respect and admiration.
Watching him at close quarters only shored up his deep regard. Without realizing it Sinha started imbibing qualities of the man he would closely associate with during the making of Anjangarh. This was before he went to London, contacted the manager of Pinewood Studios and got to work in director Charles Crayton’s unit as a sound engineer.
Tapan Sinha noticed that while on the floor, Bimalda seldom sat in a chair. He always stood next to his camera thinking about lighting the scene. Often he was the first to reach the floor where he would spend hours walking on the sets and talking to the electricians about the lighting scheme. “This is what makes his camerawork so fetching!” – young Sinha decided. And? He learnt that, to enrich his scenes aesthetically, a director must be technically oriented. He must visualize the situations, and characters, through the frame of the camera. He must nurture the scenes in his mind but always see them in his mind’s eye.
Bimal Roy with his camera (Pic: Roy family collections)
Sinha had returned from Europe when Bimalda had come to shoot Do Bigha Zamin (1953) in Calcutta. The cinematographer turned director had brought with him an Arriflex. One afternoon the two legends took it apart — just as they would a Fred Zimmerman, John Houston, Frank Capra or William Wyler film — and then put it together, part by part. And he watched Bimalda as he put his hand before his eyes to form the ‘aperture’ of a camera and practice a running shot, then place a camera on a rickshaw or a taxi and take a running shot.
Commemorative stamps on Tapan Sinha and Bimal Roy
Bimal Roy himself had been cinematographer for Pramathesh Barua, who had a remarkable sense of framing. He had also trained under Nitin Bose, from whom he imbibed the concept of ‘source of light’ and mastered the composition of night scenes. But Sinha found his Bimalda ‘superior’ to them in framing, and lighting. His close ups, and his ability to exact emotions from his actors, were ‘exemplary’. He mentions a less mentioned film, Avignan, directed by Madhu Bose and featuring his wife Sadhana Bose: “Bimalda was behind the camera and his close ups were outstanding!” he enthuses in his autobiography. “We admire Bergman when it comes to close ups but Bimalda did it in 1930.” Those days the speed of films was slow and to get the contrast factor in B&W photography was an achievement, he pointed out to conclude: we must always think of the time and place of making a film when evaluating it.
Not only the details of photography: Sinha was struck by the innovative faculty that expressed itself when Bimalda invented artificial fog to depict winter in the studio. “While shooting Udayer Pathey he had bought a bottle of Nuzol, a low density oil, and sprayed it through a blower to create mist.” Lesson learnt? When you have little to go by save a camera and a few lights, INNOVATE, for that’s what makes a pioneer, he internalized. In due course of time Sinha himself mentored directors who would gift generations of artistes to Tollygunge — Raja Sen for one.
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Tapan Sinha behind the camera
The bubbling Physics graduate was learning every time he went to Metro or Lighthouse, Globe or Minerva, Elite or Tiger — the theatres that brought new movies to Calcutta, be they Continental or Hollywood. The titles changed every week, so Bimalda would ask him, “Seen anything worth watching?” If the answer was Yes, the next question would be, “Like to see it again?” And if something excited the duo, the master would ask, “Do you know how this shot was taken?” Sometimes, the young learner would stretch his understanding of the medium; often, the cinematographer-director would detail through a break-up of the scenes. Of course, they would also discuss the social leanings of the content, not just the stylistic features.
Bimalda, an avid reader, always picked up his content from stories and novels by contemporary Bengali writers. The names ranged from Subodh Ghosh to Banaphool, Jyotirmoy Roy to Jarasandha. Kabuliwala is not the only common factor: a passion for Tagore’s songs knit him to Sinha, who imbibed the mentor’s inclination to spine his narratives with a strong conscience. The range of his subjects, and the span of their social commitment? The roots lay in that early exposure to his ‘mentor’, he once pointed out to this writer.
So, if Bimalda did a Madhumati, Sinha did a Kshudhita Pashan. If the former protested untouchability with a Sujata, the latter decried communalism with Aadmi Aur Aurat. Parakh was a social satire, so was Banchharamer Bagan. Bandini was a shout out for jail reforms; Adalat O Ekti Meye screamed out for legal reforms to mete out justice to rape victims. Naukri underscored the plight of the unemployed youths of 1950s; Aponjan highlighted their woes in 1960s – and Atanka in 1980s. Plight of women? Think Biraj Bahu, Maa, or Parineeta – and then think Nirjan Saikatey, Jatugriha, or Antardhan. As for Kabuliwala, penned by their icon Rabindranath – Bimalda produced in 1961 the story that Sinha had directed in 1957!
(L) Tapan Sinha’s Kabuliwala in Bengali (R) Bimal Roy’s Kabuliwala in Hindi
As for the writers, few were left out of the kitty. Narayan Ganguly (Ankush), Gour Kishore Ghosh (Sagina Mahato), Ramapada Chaudhuri (Ek Doctor Ki Maut), Saradindu Bandopadhyay (Jhinder Bandi), Tarashankar Bandopadhyay (Hansuli Baanker Upakatha), Banaphool (Hatey Bazarey), Shankar (Ek Je Chhilo Desh), Jarasandha (Louha Kapat), Prafulla Roy, Shirshendu Mukhopadhyay, Dibyendu Palit, Manoj Mitra… Sinha wanted to film Amrita Kumbher Sandhaney but the rights were with Bimalda. So Samaresh Bose suggested Nirjan Saikatey, and Sinha fulfilled his desire to make a film around a river or ocean.
When it came to adapting Rabindra Sangeet, Bimalda preempted all others by harnessing Jana gana mana in Udayer Pathey, four years before Independence. So, during the making of Anjangarh Sinha was happy to know that Bimalda would use two Tagore songs in the film, Nai nai bhoy and Sarba kharba taar hridaye taba krodh daho. But, both being replete with compound words, Sinha was doubtful if listeners would take to them. “Why not,” Bimalda had explained, “if they are rendered by an artiste who understands the nuances of the words?” When Sinha heard them rendered by Hemant Kumar, he could respond with just one word: “Exceptional!” On his part, Sinha himself breathed new life into Ei aakashey aamar mukti (Atithi) and Nadi aapan begey pagolpara (Hatey Bazarey), even as he roped in an Ali Akbar to invoke the soul of the Hungry Stones.
Bimal Roy in the editing room (Pic: Roy family collections)
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Many a person would ask Tapan Sinha about the Russian influence in the work of Bimal Roy, perhaps because of his debut with Udayer Pathey. Sinha’s Catholicity came from his belief that “Different classes have made different contributions to civilize the world we live in – we must try to know them all, ponder over the contributions, and choose what appeals to us.” Perhaps what he mastered most under Bimalda was the portrayal of middle class life, in a language that would eventually be identified as the ‘cinema of the middle path.’
This became the signature of the Bimal Roy gharana that reached pan-Indian audience through films made in Bombay by a Hrishikesh Mukherjee (who remade Galpo Holeo Sattyi as Bawarchi) or a Gulzar (who adapted Apanjan as Mere Apne) and extracted Ijaazat out of Jatugriha. But Sinha did not have to leave Kolkata to achieve this reach. Sagina Mahato, Ek Doctor Ki Maut, Aadmi Aur Aurat – they touched every single Indian, man or woman.
Mohua Roychowdhury in Aadmi Aur Aurat [Man and Woman]
Anjangarh poster
While on Anjangarh Tapan Sinha remembers Raja Ganguly, whom Bimalda had discovered after a lot of search. Six feet and more in his socks, owner of a handsome physique, his most attractive features were his eyes. “Apart from Ashok Kumar I can’t recall anyone else with such eloquent eyes,” he writes, “and his voice reminded me of K C Dey.” In the middle of the night he would call up and before Sinha could curse him he would sing lines from Tagore or a bhajan.
Raja trained in horse riding for a year for a scene where he – a scion of the royal state of Anjangarh – is shown playing polo. “We were to shoot the scene in Dhanbad. The day before we would board the train he fractured his arm in minor accident. But despite his arm being in a sling he pleaded with Bimalda, ‘Please don’t use a body double!’ And notwithstanding the plaster cast he gave a memorable shot.”
Raja Ganguly did not live to savour the glory, though, Sinha recounts in Chalacchitra Ajibon. “One day Raja came driving a secondhand car. ‘How can a hero go around the city in public transport?’ – he said, anticipating his success. But days before the film’s release the petrol can in his car caught fire and he was badly burnt. Had he lived on, he would have been another example of Bimalda’s eye for talent.”
“What I learned in the two years with Bimalda, particularly during the making of Anjangarh, helped me a great deal in my career which saw me make perhaps double the number of films he had made,” Sinha once told this writer. “I tried to follow him as far as the character of a director goes.” Disarming personality. Polite. Soft spoken. Never one to beat his own drum but amazingly resilient. And, unbeaten by the outdoor sun. Tapan Sinha with a white topi is one of the pictures I would see in Ultorath that was regular in our house in distant Bombay. “Yes, I learnt from Bimalda that unless you put in hard work, you can never make a good film.”
Words — qualities — you could use for either of the two legends of Indian cinema.
Sources: Conversations with the author; interview for Remembering Bimal Roy by Joy Bimal Roy; Chalacchitra Aajibon – autobiography of Tapan Sinha
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