Stolen glances at him during pensive moments, in taxis and economy-class airplane seats, would reveal a solitary figure weighed down by the fatigue of anxiety-filled days, but with the regal bearing of one accepting it with equanimity. I saw him alternately as the ‘boy standing on the burning deck’ of the decaying ship that was Bengal and as a heroic Prometheus holding on to a flaming torch.
Bengal was once the glory of the Indian enlightenment. It gave India reformers such as Raja Ram Mohan Roy, Ishwar Chandra Vidyasagar, the Tagores; maharishis such as Ramakrishna Paramhansa, Swami Vivekananda and Sri Aurobindo; and militant patriots like Subhas Chandra Bose. Bengal was the political and financial capital of British India and the heart of its economic wealth. It was the luminosity of the ‘jewel of the crown’, now gone to seed, the burden of keeping alive its erstwhile greatness falling upon the shoulders of its one remaining giant, Satyajit Ray, through tales that would live on in moving form, documenting the places and the people he loved.
But it wasn’t just Bengal Ray wanted to capture and portray. In fact, he was quite keen to explore and record every part of the country. He enjoyed filming in Varanasi and Rajasthan. In his childhood, he spent his summer holidays with his uncle in Lucknow, and carried happy memories of those days. I could see that he loved being there for the research on our film. He enjoyed it when people from the cinema world, national and international writers, and intellectuals would come to meet him and their worlds would collide. It seemed to delight him to find out what was happening in other parts of the world, especially in cinema. He would ask me if I had seen films by Adoor Gopalakrishnan, Govind Nihalani or Ketan Mehta, as though he were asking about the weather or a local deli. I was forever spinning on my heels trying to keep up with his wealth of knowledge about film and film-makers.
Due to his non-participation in social and political events, his inherent shyness, and need for time alone to create so prolifically, he was often seen as arrogant and aloof, as well as apolitical, and therefore not committed to social change. He was different from the average public or political figure in India, since he did not spout ‘progressive’ slogans as mere lip service in public. For him, the pursuit of excellence and creativity demanded solitude. It was a mystery to him how his attendance at a ministerial dinner was more beneficial for creativity or humanity than working intently in his study or filming somewhere.
There were many aspirants for Satyajit Ray’s crown. Pygmies and their guerrillas hounded and harassed him, accusing him of everything under the sun, hoping to gain fame by dragging him down. He kept a stoic silence against their diatribes and continued with his work.
I was in awe of the man and the admiration has only grown stronger since his passing. He was, and remains, the most important of my many great teachers in this lifetime. I realized that being with Satyajit Ray was the same as being in a gurukul, where only complete surrender by the shishya is the path to attain the teacher’s affection and wisdom. Even when we had our disagreements, and our one serious falling out, Manik-da never withdrew his love and I refused to revoke my faith and devotion.
Satyajit Ray led a modest life. Between his family, a dozen or so close friends, his team of superb technicians and his prodigious creativity, he neither needed nor wanted any other life than the simple but highly creative one he chose to live.
Most people were overawed by the sheer magnificence of his personality and achievements; thus, the enormous dignity that was a natural part of him was often construed to be vanity and snobbishness, which was far from the truth. One often heard him on the phone trying to dissuade someone from coming to visit him, but if the caller persisted, he never refused to see them, with the rider, ‘OK, but just for fifteen minutes.’ Once they were there, he would never ask visitors to leave or make them feel unwelcome.
Manik-da had serious heart and blood pressure problems for years, and like me, he was a chain smoker, which didn’t help his condition. One of the reasons he gave me for continuing to smoke was: ‘Baba, this pressure from people is so difficult. It is always “Please, Manik-da, just for fifteen minutes”, or “So and so will be upset if you don’t come, Manik-da”. Now that the doctors have told me I absolutely must be firm in stopping this, I feel enormous relief.’ But despite his natural reticence and need for privacy, his door was never closed to struggling film-makers, novelists, scholars, or anybody else who wanted to benefit humanity in some way.
It always embarrassed him to be seen as getting any sort of special treatment. Throughout his career, he often had to fly, and because he was tall he needed a lot of legroom. Getting the right seat was important, so he was always the first person to arrive at an airport. This used to upset me terribly. ‘But, Manik-da, the airline should understand that you are an exceptionally tall person and provide you a decent seat in advance … besides, you’re not just anybody. You are Satyajit Ray! I am going to call the airline.’
‘No, Baba. I don’t mind getting to the airport early. We can always chat and read there.’
Usually the first one in line at the check-in counter, he would come back enormously pleased that he had got the seat of his choice, almost like a child who stood first in his class. That is the picture of him that stays with me and brings a smile even now.
Like all unaware and egoistic students, I never realized until much later how deeply his behaviour, words and ideas had embedded themselves into my psyche. He was always surprised that others could not achieve what he had or didn’t have the sensitivity and genius that he had.
‘Manik-da, how can one learn to operate the camera?’ I asked one day, amazed by his proficiency in handling it.
‘Suresh, cameramen just mystify the whole thing. You only have to know what image you want to capture. You are an engineer, surely you can figure out the optic details of light and image?’
He never made anyone feel as though they were in the presence of a creative and intellectual genius. He encouraged me and everyone else to do everything he did by making it seem so simple.
As far as his professional behaviour was concerned, Ray was honest and respectful. Whether it was a decision regarding salary, arrangements for locations, hotels or matters relating to film distribution, he never interfered in my work as a producer. He always wanted, through his films, to return the producers’ money, although he was acutely aware that his films had a limited audience. I have never met a more practical film-maker than him, nor have I seen or heard of a director more considerate towards his producers in my twenty-five years in cinema. He was hurt more than anyone at the waste of our money. Long after our films were done, if we ever needed his help in solving problems, he was always available and willing. Those of us who were fortunate enough to be his producers are still enjoying the benefits of his creations. Riding on his coattails, we get to be at least a footnote in the history of cinema.
On a personal level, his Bengali roots were deep. He was in love with Calcutta: where he was born and where he took his last breath.
More than once he told me, ‘Suresh, I have to make one film a year to give work to my unit. A lot of them have been with me from the beginning.’ He also used to say that to make a good film it is very important to be understanding and to have patience with other people’s faults. If someone working on his film did not fulfil his or her responsibility, instead of getting angry he would simply do the task himself. Given my sudden angry outbursts at what I perceived to be incompetence or irresponsibility, these were important lessons.
I was also amazed by Ray’s extraordinary creative energy which resulted in the continuous stream of films, screenplays, novels, short stories, music, paintings, graphics, set design and even the music and posters for his films. Apart from this, he would undertake endless research for each film, after which he would visit local houses, shops, temples, museums and places of interest. He always answered all his correspondence personally, either by hand or on a portable typewriter balanced precariously on his gangly knees. He also answered his own phone, opened the door for his guests, read voraciously and watched sports avidly on television, hardly ever missing an important football, cricket or tennis match. I often wondered how he found the time for all this! Throughout the time I knew him, he was always working intensely on something and his self-discipline was unparalleled. Manik-da seemed to view relaxation as an avoidable foe.
He lived a complete life in samsara and relished life immensely, although seemingly aware of its impermanence. My friend Neelam Mukherji surprised me when she gave me his copy of the Bhagavad Gita, which he had presented her with after she had suffered a heart attack. I hadn’t realized the depth of his spirituality since film had always been our main connection.
After his heart attack and bypass surgery in Houston, it was a long time before the doctors allowed him to make films again. When he was finally given the go-ahead, he was as happy as a child. ‘Suresh, at last the doctors have agreed with me that I actually do stay calm while directing a film, so there’s no reason not to let me do it!’
‘Dada, how did you learn film-making?’ I inquired one day. ‘By watching films,’ he answered instantaneously. ‘And, Suresh, you must see all the bad films of the good film directors. That is how you will learn from their mistakes.’
While working on my first film I heard a legend about Ray from our director Basu Chatterjee. When Ray was sent for training to the London head office of the advertising firm of which he was the creative director in Calcutta, he watched almost hundred films in his three months there. And before he went to see a film based on a literary classic, he would write his own screenplay and compare it to what he later saw. There was nothing in the world of cinema that he didn’t seem to know. He was a veritable encyclopaedia on the topic. He never refused to see films by struggling film-makers. At film festivals, he and Sandip usually saw three to four films a day!
Ray was not only a brilliant creator of films, he was a symbol of the aspirations and the possibilities of every Indian of his era seeking to make it on the international stage. Now, in an era when Indian beauty queens, film-makers, authors who write in English, doctors and scientists have made it big globally; when Slumdog Millionaire won the Oscar for best film of the year in 2009; and lakhs of Indian tech wizards advise the world every day on its technical glitches; it is hard to understand how impossible it was for a ‘Third World’ artist to make it in the racist, white-dominated film world of the 1950s and 1960s, when most of the world was still under the shackles of colonialism. Back then, to be asked if we had seen a telephone was a normal and polite query, and entering an upscale establishment without the company of a white friend was daunting. And it was not just in South Africa or Rhodesia that a brown person couldn’t go to the same restroom as his white friends, but even in the southern states of the so-called ‘democratic’ United States. Even in liberal Los Angeles, landladies would hurriedly tell you that the apartment had just been rented, even though the for rent sign belied their words. Reservation agents at airlines would make you wait until they had attended to every white customer, even though you were ahead in the queue. Young Cockney-accented immigration officials would barrage you with the most humiliating and inane questions when you were ferried from Dover (UK) to Calais (France), even though you were an American green card holder. It was an era when the only blacks to be found on Hollywood and British screens were the ones playing drug addicts and prostitutes, murderers and rapists, soul singers and jazz musicians, domestic staff and plantation workers mumbling, ‘Yes, bwana’, ‘Yes, massa’.
Even Ray had run-ins of this sort early on in his international career. When he was invited to be on the jury of the Cannes Film Festival, only one invite was sent to him. Never one to ask for anything, he inquired if he could bring his wife along, since he knew this was a matter of policy for those invited. The festival coordinator reluctantly agreed and sent him two economy-class tickets. Since economy seats were extremely uncomfortable for him, he made further enquiries and found out that the festival always sent first-class tickets along with five-star hotel accommodation, as is the norm even now. Rather than raise a fuss, he declined the invitation and didn’t attend the festival.
His influence on young people in India cannot be measured. While we were on the promotional tour for Shatranj Ke Khilari and guests of Harvard University, I met a pretty, intelligent and bright-eyed girl at the showing of our film at the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston. She told me she was dying to meet Ray and asked if a meeting could be arranged for that evening. I apologized and said it would not be possible since we had been invited to dinner at a university don’s home and couldn’t bring an extra person along. Somehow, she managed an invitation which made me happy. But she didn’t even notice me. Post-dinner she spent all her time sitting on the floor at the master’s feet, gazing at him with adoration. Mira Nair later told me: ‘Suresh, it was that evening that I decided to risk becoming a film-maker … I realized that it was possible for us Indians to make it on the international scene.’ And Mira has done well in expanding the dream that Ray began. She went on to become an accomplished and recognized director, writer and producer, with her own film company, Mirabai Films, making international hits such as Salaam Bombay and Monsoon Wedding.
Having made thirty films of exceptional quality and despite his status as an icon of cinema and an international celebrity, Ray continued to live in a rented apartment. His widow, Bijoya Ray, lived in that apartment till her death in 2015. Sandip continues to live there. His films, though always deep and meaningful, never had huge audiences in India, where the trend has always been escapist Hindi musicals. Internationally, although highly regarded, his films played mainly to audiences that attended small art cinemas. Thus, he never earned enough to live the high life that other much-less-talented directors did.
He probably remains the most decorated Indian film-maker ever, when it comes to international awards. President Mitterrand of France personally honoured Ray with the Légion d’Honneur in Calcutta; a representative of the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences came to Belle Vue hospital in Calcutta to present him the Oscar for Lifetime Achievement while he was on his deathbed; he was given the Bharat Ratna, India’s highest civilian honour; Oxford University awarded him an honorary doctorate—not to mention the top accolades won at film festivals across the world.
But these honours will not be his lasting glory. It is his films, his kindness and his humanity for which he is remembered. This was a man who never refused anyone in pursuit of a dream. I personally saw many instances of this in his lifetime. During the Emergency in India, the sycophantic puppets of the government banned Shyam Benegal’s film Nishant from being sent to foreign film festivals. Ray and I were staying at the President Hotel in Bombay at the time. Shyam’s wife, Neera, tracked me down by phone, pleading that Ray write to Indira Gandhi (the then prime minister) to allow Shyam’s film to go abroad.
‘Suresh, his career will be ruined if the film doesn’t go. They have asked us to insert a card saying that the conditions shown in the film no longer exist in India. Shyam has even agreed to that and still they won’t let the film go. Will you please ask Manik-da to write a letter to Mrs Gandhi?’
‘But, Neera, we are just about to leave for the airport.’
‘Please, Suresh. I will have it picked up right away.’
‘Okay, let me talk to him. I’ll call you back.’
Manik-da had been listening to the conversation. ‘What is it, Baba? Any problem?’
I explained the situation to him, adding, ‘Neera’s sister, Anjali, is married to my best friend from school, Suresh Malhotra. As a Punjabi, I can’t refuse when she asks for my help. It’s like family asking…’
‘Suresh, is Shyam’s office on the way to the airport?’
‘Yes, sir.’
He immediately wrote the letter. On the way, we stopped at Shyam’s office at Jyoti Studios and dropped it off. Nishant could now go abroad.
I remember once a senior technician asked Ray to request Doordarshan to get his relative transferred from one centre to another. Serious clout with the government was needed to accomplish something like this. Manik-da did the needful. And when James Ivory shot The Householder—the first film of Merchant-Ivory Productions—he appealed to Ray to help edit it. Along with Dulal Dutta, his master editor from the Pather Panchali days, Manik-da cheerfully obliged despite his jam-packed schedule. He wrote many synopses and reviewed many books. Whatever he was asked, and whatever he could do, he always did, willingly.
After he suffered two heart attacks while making Ghare-Baire, his son Sandip had to complete the film, following Ray’s detailed instructions. Ray spent the mid-1980s in fragile health. He did not film at all for about four years. After that he made three more films, which were a departure from his earlier ones.
The last time I saw him, before his final hospitalization, his parting words, as he led me to the door, were: ‘And, Baba, one more thing—just keep working.’
I nodded my head in agreement because I knew that that was his elixir, and out of compassion he wanted me to have the same. I was racked with guilt—because despite my promise I knew I didn’t possess half his stamina—and deep sorrow, because he was sick and I couldn’t bear the thought of losing him. But when I looked into his eyes, all else faded away except for an overwhelming gratitude.
Satyajit Ray, my very dear Manik-da, died on 23 April 1992, and I can say, in all honesty, that some of my dreams, my film ideals and a part of my life died with him. But after a long period of desolation, I found that an eternal gratitude had replaced the pain his parting had caused. And this gratitude I will carry with me to future lifetimes, where I hope with all my heart we may meet and work together again.