Lineage

জন্মশতবর্ষে বিকাশ রায় স্মরণে

অবসর (বিশেষ) সংখ্যা, সেপ্টেম্বর ৩০, ২০১৫

Lineage

Shomik Roy

What do you write about a man you hardly knew? I must admit that when I was first approached to write an essay on Bikash Roy, I panicked a bit. However, after much industrious wheel spinning, I realized that this would be a wonderful opportunity to honor a man whom, although I hardly knew, was and remains an integral part of my life. This essay became a labor of love with more than just a few random bon mots. It is an attempt to quantify the influence of a man I know best through the cinema.

Although, I do not have a lot to go on with Bikash Babu, what I do have is full of his essence. From old movie photos; autographed “Amar Chitra Katha” comics which remains, to this day, the first of two autographs for which I have ever asked (the second being Ali Akbar Khan); stories told to me by family members; photographs my father took of myself and my Dadu when he came to visit to the US; even some movies that my westernized grasp of Bengali could understand. Despite all that, it is those few memories made long ago of my grandfather, in Jodhpur Park, that I hold on to the most.

I was offered the suggestion of asking other people their experiences, thoughts, and insights on Bikash Babu, but then I thought, perhaps, that would be cheating. It wouldn’t be my own story. It would just be other people’s words written in my hand. And, even though my experiences with Bikash Roy were few and far between, his impact continues to shape my life and those of my children today.

On my 1976 trip to India, I was brought to my Dadu & Thakurma’s home in Jodhpur Park. The first thing I recall about entering his home was his parrot. Such a loud bird, with a hefty Bengali vocabulary. I was mesmerized by that bird. It seemed a colorfully incongruous element in an otherwise normal Kolkatan environment. It spoke and chirped and did things birds did in cages. And it was a part of the family. The memory of that bird maintains a connection to my grandparents that I can’t quite explain.
My second memory was him in prayer in his small puja ghar. He was a man who took his daily puja seriously. It helped ground him, I think. As well as offering some comfort and peace. After he finished, my sister and I offered pranam to both him and my grandmother. They were both slightly embarrassed and, I think, proud that their American grandchildren would choose to do something so Indian. They were both exceedingly patient with these two foreign grandchildren who spoke broken Bangla and had little knowledge of Kolkata.

Watching my father and Dadu interact that second visit to Kolkata made me realize that this exactly was the relationship I wanted with my father one day. It was a conversation over cigarettes and chai on the veranda. They spoke of Shakespeare and American films. They discussed crimes and misadventures. And of course they spoke of the Bengali arts, which to my 6-year-old mind consisted of Rabindra Sangeet, Bengali movies, and Indian Classical music (all of which flowed constantly in my home in America).

Twenty years later my father and I shared similar experiences as he and his father did so many years earlier. Living in New York City, my father would often come and visit. We would, with much frequency, patronize a café on 3rd Ave & 30th Street called Maria’s. Maria, a kind and patient woman, took my father and me under her wing and made sure we were always fueled with enough caffeine so that we could discuss the universe until the early morning hours. Like he and his father, my father and I talked science, music, culture, family, Bikash Babu’s movies and, possibly, a parrot. These were some of my best days just as my father said the same about his father. I feel that perhaps my grandfather would have approved.

I recollect my grandfather as a simple man. But he was also someone proud of his family, fond of his career and hopelessly in love with his wife. He seemed, to me at least, very humble. He was content with the fame he received but not jaded by it. It was an art for him and he took it very seriously. So much so that he took me to a film set in Tollywood way back in 1977. There, I watched him film and direct a scene from either Bholo Moira or Sabyasachi. My memories are fuzzy on which movie but he was dressed in a black suit and tie. He walked around the set and pointed out the camera, the props, his co-stars, and those he employed. When he introduced me to the stage hands he treated them as equals. In a society defined by its socio-economic class system, it was nearly revolutionary. It showed in the reverence and respect with which they reciprocated. It was such a powerful event for me in my youth that it has shaped much of how I have treated and do treat people to this day. I don’t know if I have the tenacity of spirit to be as humble and unassuming as my grandfather, but I do hope that some of that genetic code passed on to me.

Dadu was primarily a movie-man but in the seventies he joined the professional stage in Kolkata. In 1976, he was starring in the play Nahabat. This was also staged as a call -show. I have been told that Dadu would go out to the countryside and have 20,000-25,000 from many villages come and watch his productions. I understand these were very popular with the village folk which made him somewhat of a folk hero to the working classes. He considered it an honor and a privilege to bring his craft to those that might not have the means to see live productions otherwise.

My father took me to this production (regular stage, not call-show) and I was extremely excited. It was a rare opportunity to see my grandfather in his element. We sat down in the front row and Dadu started his performance from the rear of the theater. He came sweeping down the center aisle with his loud voice booming uttering the first words of the play and then he stopped. In front of me. He then proceeded to break character and exclaim to the audience that his grandson from America was in the theater and he asked me to come up on stage and get introduced to Kolkata. I was told that I grabbed my father’s arm and held on for dear life. And cried, a lot.

He wanted the world to know about his grandson from America. I was, you see, the only son of an only son of an only son and that mattered to him. It mattered tremendously. He was always an old-fashioned man, and held on to India’s old-world culture passionately. Therefore it was important to him that the line continued. Being the third in this line, I held, I think, a small special place in him somewhere. But, like he did to my father, he pushed me away from following in his footsteps. Although he was proud of the art he created, he didn’t want his family to join. My six-year-old mind remained confused for a long time until I finally understood his words many, many years later.
Bikash Babu’s passions were his family and his career. With that, he protected his family from his career. As I grew older I endeavored to learn why he was so adamant about not having his family follow in his footsteps. I eventually learned that, despite the popularity of cinema, it was not considered a well-respected vocation. It was not a career that provided wealth or stature. A lot of fame, yes; but, none of the perks. Therefore, he pushed for his children’s’ education, and kept his wife away from the limelight.

Long after Dadu passed away he remains a strong force in my life. Every time I return to Kolkata his name and reputation forges a path for me almost anywhere I go. One such moment occurred a few years ago when departing Kolkata after a 6-month vacation. Apparently, I had not declared a device that should have been upon my entry. As such, the Customs officials at Netaji Subhas Chandra Bose International Airport decided to be quite ornery with me. After asking me all the unnecessary questions they needed to make my life difficult, I replied that I had come to pay respect to my grandmother, Kamala Roy; wife of Sri Bikash Roy. The change was immediate and, for a brief moment, I was the star. I received an armed escort to the gate and no troubles after I had uttered those words. The Rs. 100 bribe probably helped too.

I touched upon how he has influenced my life and those of my children. It is truly difficult to quantify so much emotion into a short essay. Yet, as I watch my daughters grow, I see him in them. They are humble, soft spoken and artistic. They are good with people. My elder daughter is gentle with children, while my younger daughter is always smiling and, as second born children are want to do, emoting for attention. I find they both have peace in their hearts, very much like how I remember Dadu. Mayhap one day they may find themselves in front of the lens.

I often go to video channels online to search for his movies. I watch them now, with a little melancholy and a lot of pride. There are kind people out there who have uploaded many of his movies and made them easily accessible. I pass these on to people I know in hopes of keeping his work alive. I have his movie stills about which I wish I knew the stories; of each captured moment of cinema; of the characters into which he was immersed. Those moments were before my time, but I had the joy and pleasure of experiencing being a grandson to a grand man. I miss him, but I will always rest easy knowing that his work will outlive us all and his legacy will live on in my children and my children’s children.

লেখক পরিচিতিঃ A grandson of Bikash Roy. Born and raised in the USA. Graduated, majoring in anthropology, now heads his own business. Lives in Pennsylvania with wife and two young girls.

(আপনার মন্তব্য জানানোর জন্যে ক্লিক করুন)

অবসর-এর লেখাগুলোর ওপর পাঠকদের মন্তব্য অবসর নেট ব্লগ-এ প্রকাশিত হয়।