That Little Drop of Dew: Remembering Satyajit Ray

Author / Source : Sagaree Sengupta Friday, 02 December 2011 00:26

The first round of a seminar on Tagore had just ended in Darmstadts vast hall when someone came up to me to announce: The German radio has just flashed the news that Satyajit Ray is no more. I had never called Satyajit Ray by his real name: to us Ashramites, he was always Manik da, although none of us knew then that one day he would shine as brightly as the ruby of that affectionate nickname. I turned my face towards the windows to hide my tears. Grey rain clouds rolled outside, almost as if someone was drawing black drapes before arranging a condolence meeting in heaven. As I watched the trembling leaves, shivering in the rain outside the windows, a deep sadness seeped over me. And yet, I wasnt alone in my grief -- the entire assembly lapsed into a hushed silence as the news spread. Here I was, miles away from my homeland, I thought, mourning my friend along with hundreds of people I did not even know by name. A host of memories crowded my mind and I shook my head to clear the pictures. We had all known for some time now, that Manik da was living on borrowed time. His enfeebled heart was battling valiantly to keep that splendid frame alive but we knew it was just a matter of time before Yama, the god of death, would swoop triumphantly and take him away from us. They say that Yama is totally without compassion when he swoops down to claim his prize. And yet, recently, when I heard Manik das familiar baritone accepting the Lifetime Award from the American Academy of Motion Pictures, I thought to myself that no one with a booming voice like that could be so seriously ill! Who knows, this time too, he might recover as he did when he returned from the US after Dr. Denton Cooley had dragged him back from the brink of death, I had thought. After all, he had come back then and completed an unfinished film. He was still recovering from that bout of illness when I last met him in Kolkata. Four years before that last meeting, when I had come to Kolkata, Manik da had come to meet me. My daughters father-in-law, BD Pande was then the West Bengal governor and he had thoughtfully arranged for all my Ashram friends to come to the Raj Bhavan one evening and we fell upon each others necks in joy. Manik da, Suchitra Mitra, my dearest school friend Anima Sen, the daughter-in-law of our respected teacher, Acharya Kshiti Mohan Sen, Arundhati Mukherji, Tara Sarkar. Ours must have surely been the Golden Age of Shantiniketan, I had declared loftily as I looked proudly at that assembly of famous personages that day. Dont ever forget, Manik da reminded us solemnly, that whatever we are today is because of what we learnt at the Ashram. He always spoke in very measured, reflective tones and I had suddenly felt as chastened as a schoolgirl rapped on her knuckle for overlooking a basic fact. The Kolkata I once knew had changed so irrevocably since I was a student that I had to ask one Dr Upadhyaya of the University to accompany me, unsure that I would be able to trace Satyajit Rays house. Dr Upadhyaya was ecstatic at the prospect of meeting Kolkata s living legend and kept thanking me for taking him along. We rang the bell outside that famous flat on Bishop Lefroy Road and Manik da opened the door himself. The veranda was full of potted plants he had probably been spraying

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That Little Drop of Dew: Remembering Satyajit Ray

Author / Source : Sagaree Sengupta Friday, 02 December 2011 00:26

with water when we arrived. I had planned this visit on a sudden impulse, without even a formal appointment, yet I found myself greeted warmly when I reached. What a pleasant surprise, Manik da smiled at me as he led us in. I could see several people (probably with appointments made long ago) waiting to meet him as Manik da took us into his den. A huge portrait of his father, Sukumar Ray, dominated one wall of an otherwise Spartan, cell-like room, strewn with papers. Manik da was a giant of a man and his tall frame remained ever erect and slim. His voice, like the deep boom of a temple bell, drew attention whenever he spoke. But that day, for the first time, I felt he had aged. His face had changed so much in the last four years that he now looked terribly gaunt and tired. And his voice no longer boomed, perhaps because he had a sore throat that day. Yet when he smiled at me, or threw back his head to laugh in a particular way, he became once more the Manik da I had always known and admired. Manik da was never a talker: in fact, he gave the impression of measuring every word he uttered and that is what probably gave his speech its air of a deep, reflective gravity. I jabbered on and he listened attentively as usual until I became aware that the crowd of admirers waiting outside kept growing. Embarrassed for having taken up so much of his time, I got up to leave. Sit, sit, he kept saying but I excused myself and got up to leave. I could kick myself today for leaving that room so soon but I had no idea then that this would be our last meeting. Sagaree Sengupta is a scholar, translator and poet living in Madison, Wisconsin

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