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Academy Theatre Archive, KOLKATA (2026)

08/08/2026

Rabindranath: Myriad Perspectives
Dr. Devajit Bandyopadhyay

With Rabindranath (1861-1941), we explored an extraordinary lifetime which stopped of achieving a century by only two decades. By ordinary standards it was no doubt a long life, but history would consider it a moderate one. When he passed away on Baishey Shravan, 1348 (7th August, 1941) people refused to believe that the poet could ever be gone from his mortal body and Calcutta burst into a frenzy. But more of that later. What is more important is that till today we continue to explore Tagore in the songs that never became muted, the dialogues that never became inane and his brushes which never became colourless. With him we felt the sounds of silence, echoes of life and reflections of images that never left us solitary for a moment. We of course may have been pensive, with the vivid progression of Tagore’s world constantly flashing in our inward eye…quite Wordsworthian, eh?

The deep-rooted influence of Rabindranath in enlightening the dawn of modern society, afforded qualities to his arts that cannot be adequately understood in terms of a merely personal or national style. His untiring broad vision of art reflects modern and essentially cosmopolitan aesthetic attitude. His whole life may be looked upon as embodying a progressive harmony of multiple perspectives of artistic means.

Today I have decided to pay homage to the bard in a different manner. Being a master of several languages, he was never short of expressing his thoughts in an adequate manner to his correspondents. I decided that on this day, it would be the best homage if I let him do the talking or rather the writing himself. But first a little about the man to whom he wrote the letter…C.F. Andrews.

C.F. Andrews was there at Santiniketan for quite some time as a close confidante of Tagore at the onset of Viswa Bharati. Andrews writes about his first meeting with Tagore in England:

After we had dined, we walked across to Rothenstein’s house which was on the edge of Hampstead Heath. There I saw Rabindranath for the first time. He had come to England this time when he was just over 50 years old for health reasons. Already he had been warned by the doctors that he will have to undergo a very serious operation.

I had never seen his wonderful and beautiful face before, and I remember how I was overcome with a kind of reverence and awe when Mrs. Rothenstein introduced me to him. He looked very frail indeed, on account of his recent illness. He was evidently at the time much embarrassed by the people who crowded around him for they were all strangers to him and his country. But when he knew who I was, he put me at ease at once. All his shyness left him as he talked to me about Santiniketan and he gave me a personal invitation to visit his Asrama as his guest.

Then Yeats began to read poems from the manuscript of Gitanjali: some of his own favourites among Tagore’s poems, one of them which is also published I believe is the The Crescent Moon, is my own favourite and I would like to present it for it seems to reveal most of all that mystery, that beauty of words, which I felt in Tagore.

After he had ended his recitation, Yeats told us how he had carried this manuscript of Tagore about with him day after day and had hardly been able to put it down because the music and the rhythm with perfect English had haunted him so much.

C.F. Andrews was a Christian missionary from England who became actively involved in the struggle for Indian independence. He became a close friend and confidante of Rabindranath Tagore and Mahatma Gandhi. In fact, it was Gandhi who named him ‘Deenabandhu’ for his compassionate nature, much to the delight of his students at St. Stephen’s Delhi, where Andrews taught Philosophy. Since 1918, after a slight disagreement with Gandhi, he used to spend a lot of time in Santiniketan, cooperating with Tagore in setting up a progressive educational institution in tune with the modernity into which the country was embarking at the turn of the twentieth century.

Tagore corresponded regularly with Andrews, many of which remained unpublished for decades. During my decades of archival research, I happened to come across such unpublished gems. At least one of them would be pretty interesting to an ordinary reader:

60 Kensington Palace Mansions

August 1, 1920

Dear Friend

We live on the topmost floor of this house far away from the surging life of the town. Only the crest of the swell of London street noise reaches me gently undulating like those clustering tree tops of the Kensington Garden that I watch from my window. The long and persistent spell of bad weather seems to have exhausted its spite and the mellowed light of the morning sun from behind the fleecy clouds is greeting me like the smile of a child whose eyes are still heavy with sleep. It is nearly seven and everyone of our party, including Pearson, is fast asleep within shut doors and behind drawn blinds. Today is our last day in London and I am not sorry to leave it. I wish it were a day for me for sailing home, but that day looks hazily indistinct in a distance and my heart aches. I have determined to raise funds in America for my school, for I have found out after repeated efforts that there is no hope from my own countrymen. To be troubled by eternal worries of small needs, to be haunted by ghosts of projects starved to death in their infancy is disconcerting. I must have peace, in another word, money. When I feel tired or homesick I repeat to myself, “Five million dollars, and not a cent less” and it at once revises my drooping spirit. I know the amount would sound pitifully small for Nepal Babu, but for my capacity of imagination the figure is sufficiently stimulating. … I ask you to accept this mantra from me for daily repetition: “Five million dollars,”- and one morning you will see seried [sic] lines of money bags hopping along the road towards our Ashram.

…I am a bad historian, I cannot remember facts, even the most recent, and most important. For this reason, as a letter writer I am a failure as in many other vocations of life. Fortunately I can talk upon nothing when I wish, and this saves me, in my correspondence from utter disaster. …Accounts of your bad health are troubling me – I hope you are feeling better. How is Mira.
Do not forget my mantra –
“Five million dollars.”
With love

Ever yours

Rabindranath Tagore

[Source:
Rabindranath Among the arts: Multiple Perspectives
Compiled by: Devajit Bandyopadhyay]

30/07/2026

In remembrance...once again...

10/07/2026

Miss Light: The Spotlight on Tarakbala
Dr. Devajit Bandyopadhyay

Its been quite long since I’ve written about the women who led the Bengali stage into glory during its initial days of existence…all those women who did not come from socially recognized backgrounds and whose unfortunate circumstances often dictated their existence on the stage. It is needless to mention that not all of them were able to establish themselves or even survive till the last. Not all of them became a Binodini or Kanan Bala, but quite a few of them are remembered till today for their prowess which nevertheless were able to captivate the audience for a long time. Tarakbala was one such actress who is remembered for quite a few memorable roles she performed and also the interest generated by her unusual pseudonym, ‘Miss Light’.

Ahindra Chowdhury reminisced in his memoir ‘Nijere Haraye Khunji’:

I do not remember which play as it was a long time ago, during Aparesh Babu’s tenure in Star Theatre, when Patal Babu (Paresh Basu) was trying out a trick-scene. In it, a small girl was made to stand at a certain time in a particular position and light emanated from her body. There was a wire fitted on the stage and Patal Babu created such a mechanism that when the girl stood there electric light used to light up. Patal Babu had to conduct multiple rehearsals for the scene. The mischievous little girl used to run hither and thither and Patal Babu used to call out, “Where did the Light-Meye (girl) go? Search for her!”

Everyone started calling her ‘Light-Meye’ and Tarakbala gradually became ‘Light’. The girl was quite beautiful-very fair with large eyes, her speech sweet and childlike and later she became quite a famous actress.

Tarakbala and Renubala used to stay together in a house near the Rupabani Cinema. They were often approached for their knowledge of the Bangla theatre by insistent people. One among them was Gouranga Prasad Ghosh. He has written many intimate details of Tarakbala’s life.

Tarakbala’s original name was Rama. She was born in Krishna Ram Basu Street of Shyambazar in Kolkata. Her father Charu Chandra Bose passed away when she was only one year old and her mother followed soon after when she was about five years old. It is probable that her parents were not legally married. So she went to stay with her maternal grandmother, who wished to make her a doctor. Therefore she was admitted to Duff School in Balaram Ghosh Street. But the absence of her parents had depleted the earnings and livelihood became extremely difficult. Her grandmother could not continue Tarak’s schooling and she became extremely worried for her granddaughter’s future. Actress Tara Sundari’s sister used to reside nearby in Balaram Ghosh Street and grandmother approached her.

Tara Sundari was instrumental in Light gaining a place in Star Theatre. At that time Aparesh Chandra was in Star after having left Minerva. He started directing ‘Kinnori’ (of Kshirode Prasad Vidyavinode) which was previously staged at Minerva. Within a few days the owner of Minerva, Upendra Kumar Mitra, lodged a case against Star. An injunction was placed, forbidding Aparesh Chandra from acting in the play. Therefore, Aparesh Chandra was forced to stage a new play. On 17th May, 1919, was staged for the first time ‘Urvashi’ written by Aparesh Chandra himself, based on Kalidas’ ‘Vikramorvashiyam’. In it the child Rama acted in the character of Madan and she was named Tarakbala. But that name was lost during the making of the first play itself. Everyone began referring to her as ‘Light-Meye’ or simply ‘Light’. She was received well by the audience and cast in the next play ‘Rakhi Bandhan’ as well in the role of the child Amar Singha. On the placards her name was referred to as ‘Light’.

Gouranga Prasad Ghosh writes:

‘Miss Light’ captured the audience with her role as the child Amar Singha in ‘Rakhi Bandhan’. She was beautiful. Gradually she appeared as a child artist in other plays like Basabdutta, Harish Chandra, Ajodhyar Begum, Mir Kasem etc.

Tarakbala stayed for a long time with Star Theatre, from 1923 till 1929. But she did not get the lead roles. One of the reasons for it was that she was just a child. Aparesh Chandra kept her at Star because Tara Sundari had brought her. She was kept ready to play any role as and when required. Tarak Bala had always acknowledged Aparesh Chandra as her guru and credited her training to her long stay at Star under his tutelage. Once she got to play the lead role in ‘Phullora’ despite her young age because Nihar Bala had left Star. In fact Nihar Bala herself was surprised at Tarak’s performance when she once came to watch it.

1929 was a major turning point in Tarak Bala’s life.

Naresh Mitra was mesmerized by her performance in ‘Phullora’ and offered her roles in his films ‘Chandranath’ and ‘Devdas’. Thus Light became the first Parbati of ‘Devdas’ in Indian films. Within a mere span of two years Miss Light became a celluloid phenomenon. Then she received a call from the radio. At the age of sixteen Miss Light began to rule the stage, films and radio. Then one day, while singing for the radio, she met Krishna Chandra Dey.

Light later reminisced:

At that time the fame of Krishna Chandra was at its peak. I used to act in the radio while I was working at Star. I also had to sing often. Soon HMV brought out two records of Palakirtan and I had to sing in them. While training for it, one day, I met the blind singing phenomenon Krishna Chandra at the radio station. Though he never ever saw me and had only heard my songs, it was with maybe his surprising intuitive emotional depth that he was able to recognise a soulmate in me.

The proximity with Krishna Chandra opened a new world of artistic fulfilment for Light. Soon it came to her knowledge that Krishna Chandra was planning to open a new theatre on Cornwallis Street, along with Rabi Ray and Kartikeya Chandra Dey. Krishna Chandra had worked in various theatres for a long time—Minerva, Manmohan and Sisir Bhaduri’s Natyamandir. But the construction of the building for the theatre would take quite some time and meanwhile the team had to be got around to start immediate production after that. Finances also had to be taken care of. So was started the ‘Dipali Natya Sangha’. Tarakbala began touring with Krishna Chandra and the team to far off places not only in undivided Bengal but also in Assam. Their companionship grew deeper and Krishna Chandra married her, giving her the respectable position of his wife. This was no doubt a revolutionary step in the first half of the twentieth century.

The construction of Rangmahal was completed in 1931. It was inaugurated by Aparesh Chandra. But initially Light was forced to stay out of this orbit because of the birth of her son. On 8th August, 1931, was staged Sisir Kumar Bhaduri’s ‘Sri Sri Bishnupriya’. But Bhaduri left Rangmahal in 1932. On 17th January, 1932, was staged Sourindra Mohan Mukherjee’s ‘Bijoyini’, in which Light was able to act. The name of ‘Bijoyini’ was later changed to ‘Rumela’. On 25th March, on Dol Jatra was staged ‘Ronger Khela’ with Light in a prominent role. She later acted in ‘Sindhu Gaurab’ and ‘Osoborno’ too, which were moderately successful. But despite back to back theatrical productions, Rangmahal began to fail. Light had to join Minerva as Rangmahal changed proprietorship. The failure of Rangmahal was one of the most unsuccessful phases of Tarakbala’s life as a theatre actress. Yet, films were beckoning her then and she was also there in every theatrical production of Minerva—Andhare Alo (1933), Marhata-Moghul (1934), Siva Shakti, Beeryyasulka, Sivarjun (1935), Dasyua (1936), Gayatirtha (1937). In between she also worked in Natyaniketan in ‘Khana’ (1936). But except ‘Siva Shakti’, no production of Minerva was quite successful. As a theatre could not be run on losses, Upendra Kumar Mitra left Minerva and joined Star at the beginning of 1938. Light too returned to Star with him.

Kaliprasad Ghosh was the Director of Star from 3rd June, 1938 to 28th September, 1940 and Tarakbala played some very important roles in plays like Chakradhari, Basudeb, Sonar Bangla, Uttara, Ranjit Singh, Janhavi, Janani Janmabhoomi, Ranadaprasad. After this the Director was changed, Mahendra Gupta came in and Light remained his favourite heroine too. Gupta mainly specialized in mythological plays—Gangavataran, Usha Haran, Kamale Kamini, Madanmohan, Mahalakshmi, Rani Bhabani and others.

Tarakbala’s journey received an abrupt jolt in 1943. She left theatre and films. Her only child, the son she had with Krishna Chandra passed away at the age of fourteen. Many years later she said:

Happiness was not in my destiny. Our only ‘khoka’ (son) passed away suddenly a few days after his fourteenth birthday. After ‘khoka’ died, my husband became very concerned about me. He used to say always, “How will you survive after me?”

Light as if went out of Tarakbala’s life, though Krishna Chandra had to carry on with his professional career for practical purposes. Some years later, Salil Kumar Mitra requested Krishna Chandra to try and send Tarakbala to the theatre again. After much persuasion she returned to the stage on 25th June, 1948, in Tarasankar Bandyopadhyay’s ‘Kalindi’. The audience greeted her with warmth and all the praise in the world. But the mother in her was inconsolable and she left theatre again, this time permanently, after a few days. She limited herself to caring for her husband and tending to the memory of her son.

Krishna Chandra was very worried about the future of his beloved ‘Memsaheb’. He was afraid that after his death she wouldn’t be allowed to live in his ancestral home in Simla Street in North Calcutta, though even while on his deathbed he requested his relatives repeatedly to look after her. So, before his death, he bought a house for her in the lane beside Rupabani Cinema. His premonition proved to be true. She was indeed forced out of her husband’s home after his demise on 28th November, 1962. She spent the rest of her life in the house her husband bought for her. But she never complained, she lived a reclusive and peaceful life and often said:

These people have given me so much. I can never say that the Bangali jati is selfish. They know how to respect talent. They even respect the neglected. They search for the old and pay them their due respect. Even if your own avoids keeping any relation with you, there are always others who are there to take care of you. I have no one except you to take care of me, all of you who count me as your own.

23/06/2026

Puratani or Chirantani: The debate continues…

Dr. Devajit Bandyopadhyay

On World Music Day, it seemed a pertinent topic for discussion to me about the debate regarding labelling certain songs as ‘Puratani’ (the oldies), whereas they could safely be referred to as ‘Chirantani’(the perpetuals).

From childhood I was always getting into trouble with my parents for going to watch cinema, theatre, jatra or musical soirees without their permission. The next phase involved receiving training in different forms of music. My hobby remained researching about various genres of world music, while my profession remained performing Bangla theatre songs across the globe. Theatre songs from Bengal are about two hundred and twenty-five years old. Are they ‘Puratani’ or ‘Chirantani’?

In the seventies of the twentieth century, certain songs began to be tagged with the term ‘Puratani’. Songs sung by legendary artists of yore began to be sung in a particular nasal tone, a trend which still continues in modern times with an aim to attract audiences. The question is, if songs are to be labelled as ‘Puratani’, what happens to the musical instruments whose histories often stretch back several centuries? It would do well to remember that any form of music passes the test of time and becomes immortal only when it is of good quality and not because it is ‘Puratani’ or old. What beats me is that if songs from the nineteenth century and early twentieth century are to be labelled as ‘Puratani’, then why are Rabindranath, Dwijendralal, Atul Prasad, Rajanikanta, Nazrul and even Dilip Kumar Roy’s songs not labelled as such and are often considered ‘Modern’?

Rabindranath writes:
Whoever thinks that conserving grandmother’s worn out quilts will preserve the truth, he may shout to the rooftops but eventually he would have to make way for others. …no amount of preaching from ancient scriptures would do the job, it is the people’s quest for truth which would manifest itself.

Bengali music is replete with Tappa-Panchali-Kathakata-Kirtan-Rag Pradhan-Geet-Ghazal-Islami-Comic-Jatra-Theatre Songs. Besides, there are Kavi Gaan-Baul-Bhatiyali—Palli Geeti. There are also Agamani-Bhakti Geeti-Shyama Sangeet.

Rabindranath is of the opinion that the first creator of Bengali Kavya Gaan was Ramnidhi Gupta, who is popularly known as Nidhu Babu. He imported the Tappa to Bengal in a lucid language easily understood by common men:

নানান দেশের নানান ভাষা
বিনে স্বদেশীয় ভাষা পুরে কি আশা!

(Nanan desher nanan bhasha
Biney swadeshiyo bhasha purey ki asha)

Which roughly translated would mean:

Various languages of various countries
But it is only the mother-tongue which brings solace to the mind

Tappa was the song of the camel drivers of Punjab. To relieve the stress of long journeys they used to raise their voices to soul stirring melodies. These songs were given a form and popularised by Sarir Miyan or Sari Miya, whose original name was Ghulam Nabi, from Lucknow. Through Nidhu Babu, an ardent follower of this lineage, the Tappa gradually arrived in Bengal and gained a local flavour. So, is not the flow of Tappa ‘Chirantani’? Why is it necessary to be referred to as ‘Puratani’?

Dasu Ray, a critic of Nidhu Babu, created a new form of songs, the Panchali. He was greatly helped in this new endeavour by Aka Bai or Akshaya Baiji and her team.

Durga Das Lahiri writes:
There was not a place in Bengal in those times, where the songs of Dasharathi Ray was not sung. At first people used to pay him three rupees to sing but as time went by, even a hundred rupees could not ensure his presence. He had become a faraway star, who was hard to reach out.

Dasu Ray’s Panchali presented ‘Krishna Tattwa Katha’ in Raag Sindhu Bhairavi:

কৃষ্ণ প্রেমে সবে মত্ত, ভুলে গেছে সকল তত্ত্ব,
বল কৃষ্ণের তত্ত্বকথা বল ভাই।

(Krishna premey sobey motto, bhuley gechhe sokol tottwo,
Bolo Krishner tottwo kotha bolo bhai)

Roughly translated it would mean:

Everyone is euphoric in the love of Krishna, they have forgotten all logic,
Every devotee please only sing about the logic of love for Krishna

Both Nidhu Babu’s Tappa and Dasu Ray’s Panchali gradually transformed and attained an urban flavour. Their songs became a genuine reflection of urban society.

The lyricists of nineteenth century could not forego the influence of Nidhu Babu. It was particularly prominent in the songs of Sridhar Bhattacharya:

ভালবাসিবে বলে ভালবাসিলে।
আমার স্বভাব এই, তোমা বিনে আর জানি নে।

(Bhalobashibe boley bhalobashile
Amar swobhab ei, toma biney aar jani ne)

Roughly translated it would mean:

Though you loved me just for the sake of love
My habit is that I know nothing except you.

Sridhar’s main contribution was that he made the songs much more easier in forms and language. His Kathakata became so popular that he began to be known as Sridhar Kathak. He was even mentioned in ‘Hutom Pyanchar Naksha’ by Kaliprasanna Singha:

শ্রীধর অল্প বয়সেই বিলক্ষণ খ্যাত হন

(Sridhar became popular at a very young age)

The common people of Bengal in the nineteenth century were mesmerised by the Krishna-Jatra. Gobinda Adhikari, the disciple of Kirtaniya Golok Chandra Das Adhikari, used to stage the full ‘Kaliya Daman’, along with the tales of Krishna-Radha-Dooti.

Amiya Nath Sanyal reminisces:
People used to walk twenty or thirty miles, just to listen to songs sung by Gobinda Adhikari or see him performing as Dooti. They often became so emotional that they wept and gifted their expensive clothes or ornaments to the artist.

Returning to Rabindranath:
These songs are very Bengali to the core. The emotional Bengali craved for such songs and therefore created them, songs which are so close to their understanding of an easy ordinary life.

To return to the beginning…

These songs were never ‘Puratani’…they were always ‘Chirantani’…they have flowed through the ages and have been relevant to each life and time that they have crossed…Tappa-Panchali-Kathakata-Krishna Jatra-Kavi Gaan. Tradition flows into convention and then attains individuality with the cloak of modernism thrown over it. They are perennial like the river and can never be boxed into the category of oldies, like some forgotten dusty gramophone record languishing in the corner of a shelf, not heard for generations.

[Thoughts penned on World Music Day, 21st June]

23/05/2026

Unfolding the Immortal Tale: Glorious One Hundred and Fifty Years
Amarendranath Dutta (1876-1916)

This man lived for only forty years…yet he survives to this day…

There are few instances in human history where a man or a woman has had a short lifespan on this earth, yet who continues to wield the same degree of adoration or adulation across the span of several centuries. They make a highly fascinating study as to how they could have reached the position they ultimately did, without the benefit of having many years in their dispensation. This brings me to the tale of the fascinating life of Amarendranath Dutta.

Amarendranath, who was fondly referred to as Amar by one and all, had a hilarious nickname. He was called ‘Kalu’ by family and friends, probably referring to his comparatively dark complexion among all in the family. In the large joint families of the times, such names were quite common and nobody thought anything about body shaming then. So, as it happened, Kalu was born into the famous Dutta family of Chorbagan in Calcutta, a prominent Brahmo family, having close friendly ties with the Tagores of Jorasanko. When he was born in his maternal grandparents house on 1st April, 1876, at that very moment was being staged ‘Sadhabar Ekadashi’ in his paternal home. He was always very vocal about the moment, “I was born in Theatre-Lagna…so, is it so unusual that I would be involved with theatre?” In the very year that Amar was born, the British passed ‘The Dramatic Performances Control Act 1876’, to curb the exhibition of ‘Swadeshi’ sentiments on the theatre stage.

As Kalu was growing up, his life was being inadvertently drawn to the tumult of the burgeoning theatre culture in Bengal. In front of his home was being constructed Star Theatre, Binodini’s dream was gradually taking shape. He later reminisced about those times:

After school got over and I returned home, I changed my clothes and secretly used to stand near the new building being constructed and watch it with great curiosity. While standing there, I used to become so engrossed that I began to believe that I had a soul connection with this building, spanning across several past lives. I used to run to this building whenever I could manage.

He was not yet twenty-one when Amar threw himself into theatre, ignoring the disagreement with his family and putting an end to his formal educational pursuits. He faced tremendous financial constraints as a result of this, yet did not give up.

Girish Chandra was ruling the Bengali stage then. Ramakrishna Paramahansa’s disciple was then middle-aged and was a Writer-Producer-Director, all rolled into one. In his mind Amar welcomed him as his guru, “Nearly all the actors and actresses have been tutored by Girish Chandra. I am just one of them.”

The devotion stayed intact even after his guru was no more. On 23rd March, 1915, was arranged a special performance of ‘The Sign of the Cross’ by Star Theatre. This play was initially staged by Amarendranath Dutta’s Classic Theatre, adapted by Bhupendranath Banerjee from an English play by Wilson Barrett, famous for its strikingly colourful production. This time round it was staged to aid the construction of ‘Girish Smriti Bhawan’ at Belur Math. Amrita Bazar Patrika advertisement on 23rd March, 1915, announces:

Special Performance! To aid the completion of the building—already under construction within the holy compounds of ‘Baloor Maut’ to commemorate the memory of the great Apostle and Dramatist Late Babu Girish Chandra Ghosh! The naturally beautiful hands of our kind religious magnanimous and liberal countrymen will, we think be lavish in an occasion like this!

This brings us to the element of controversy regarding the dispute between Girish and Amar, during the former’s lifetime. Sudhindranath Dutta, the famous Bengali poet at the beginning of the twentieth century and the nephew of Amarendranath writes:

…he had proved once and for all that Giris Chandra Ghose, the acknowledged father of the modern Bengali stage held no monopoly of the theatre, even writing his own pieces when, in a desperate attempt to halt his successful competition, he had been denied permission to perform the latter’s works…uncle Amar lacked even the elementary decency of pretending to respect Giris Ghose who after all was his Guru, though he only learnt from the Master how to keep in step with the worst streetwalkers.

Bankim Chandra’s ‘Sitaram’ was staged simultaneously at the Minerva and Classic Theatre, where the hero Sitaram was played by Girish and Amar respectively. Amar publicised his play in a novel manner:

অশ্বপৃষ্ঠে সীতারাম কি অপুর্ব শোভা !
ছুটে যেন রুধিবারে গিরিশ-প্রতিভা !
নটগুরু সনে রণ
দম্ভে করে আস্ফালন
ক্লাসিকের সীতারাম বলদৃপ্ত যুবাI

Roughly translated it would read thus:

Sitaram on horseback is such a magnificent sight!
The horse is as if in a gallop to stop the talented Girish
It is as if a war with the Guru of Theatre
He is full of pride
The Sitaram of Classic is full of the strength of youth.

It is as if an echo of W.B. Yeats—Let us learn construction from the masters, and dialogue from ourselves.

Long after, dramatist Aparesh Chandra Mukhopadhyay was to remark:

Whatever Amarendranath may have done to attract attention, whatever he actually did for the development of the theatre, is unparalleled. He increased the salary of the actors and actresses, appreciated talent, increased viewership, advertised with aplomb. Amarendranath transformed the theatre into a pan-Indian recreational hub. He as if demolished the reign of bureaucracy in theatre and brought in democracy.

Amar conducted various experiments in his plays. One such novel experiment was the introduction of the play within play. In his satire ‘Theatre’ he inducted a scene from Michael Madhusudan Dutt’s ‘Meghnad Vadh Kavya’. That was the first time it was done. Seven decades later, in 1971, Utpal Dutt paid homage to him by introducing a scene from his play in ‘Tiner Talowar’, along with songs used in his plays, one of which goes thus:

ছেড়ে কলকেতা বন হব পগারপার।
পুঁজিপাটা চুলোয় গেল পেট চালান ভার।।…

Translated it would mean:

I would like to flee from Kolkata which has become like a wild forest
I do not have finances and it has become rather difficult to survive.

As time progressed, Amar also tried his hand in making bioscopes, which had newly arrived then. His companion in this endeavour was Hiralal Sen. Whether in ‘Alibaba’ or ‘Bhromor’ or ‘Sitaram’, his creative urge lit up the silver screen of the silent era. An advertisement in ‘The Bengalee’ on 8th December, 1900, states:

The Classic Theatre…through the modern invention of the Bioscope which, as could be easily imagined, has added to the attractions of this popular house of amusement.

Amar was also a pioneer in the use of the newly arrived gramophone records, the ‘rotating disc’ which fascinated the entire mass. The tune of ‘Alibaba’ from Classic Theatre began to be played in homes across Calcutta. Amarendra’s voice rang out from the gramophone, either playing parts from his plays or singing songs from them. Accompanying in the tabla was a young Prasanna Kumar Biswas, hiding behind this pseudonym was the famous Sarod player of the future, Ustad Alauddin Khan. But, that is a different tale altogether…

Amar played a great role in popularising Rabindranath’s early works too. In order to attract the educated elite class to his theatre, he began to gift various collections of books. He bought many copies of Rabindranath’s ‘Golpo’ (published in 1900) and for the convenience of distribution, the publisher Majumder Agency or Majumder Library created several volumes out of the nine hundred pages book, along with different covers. The volumes were titled ‘Rabindranather Golpo Guchcha’ (A Collection of Short Stories by Rabindranath). Another novel feature was that on the covers were printed the title of the short stories included in that particular volume, instead of the traditional way of numbering the volumes or creating a page of ‘Contents’ inside.

He did not stop here…

To popularise theatre and raise consciousness about it, Amar began to publish magazines. In 1895, was published ‘Sourav’, edited by Girish Chandra Ghosh. The writers were mostly people associated with theatre. But, they tried to traverse every genre of literature—stories, poems, articles, novels. Several years later, on 1st March, 1901, he started publishing the weekly ‘Rangalay’. In August 1910, he brought out ‘Natya Mandir’, for which Girish Chandra again wrote an article. In July 1914, he brought out the illustrated magazine ‘Theatre’. Needless to say, though his endeavours of publishing magazines were each shortlived, yet he managed to create a permanent impression on his targeted readers or audience for that matter. ‘Theatre’ especially was printed in thousands and copies distributed free of cost in Calcutta and outskirts, with many people even arriving at the theatre itself to procure a copy. It became a huge success, but publication had to be stopped due to the beginning of the First World War.

Sudhindranath Dutta writes about his uncle:

…uncle Amar’s unconcern with conscious experiment and pure expression did not prevent him from writing critically about his profession; and, in the journal he founded and edited for the purpose, he published an autobiographical novel…His intellectual accomplishments presuppose wide reading in his own as well as in general subjects; and I cannot imagine how he found time for all this.

Amar lived for only forty years— he passed away on 6th January, 1916. Most of his life was surrounded by the magical web of the theatre world. He lived a simple, straightforward, yet a very rebellious life which was hard to digest for many. As Utpal Dutt had remarked:

All those people who refused to conform to the rules of the leprosy-ridden belief of the society, were rewarded by insults. …they were uncontrollable…they were addicted to creative pursuits…it is through their talents that was created the Bengali theatre, which became the mirror of the society, the spokesman of rebellion. They are our titanic precursors.

His nephew Sudhindranath presents a similar picture of his very unconventional life:

No wonder that he would already have consumed a considerable quantity of neat brandy to keep himself going; and at five would begin his evening duties on and off the stage…remained a misguided conformist whose bad habits turned into vice through subconscious self-condemnation. Thus, having lost all his capital in one incompetent attempt to run a theatre, he made his financial distress hopelessly acute by indiscriminate borrowing; he refused to legalize his life-long liaison with the woman he loved, because she happened to be the unacknowledged daughter of a circus proprietor; and, as the consequence of such frustrations, he passed from his juvenile pleasure in intoxicants to become a slave to o***m.

Source:
• Bangalir Gaan Thekey Theatre er Jhanjh: Devajit Bandyopadhyay; Dhrubapada Prakashani, 2024
• Rangaloye Amarendranath: Ramapati Dutta, ed. Devajit Bandyopadhyay; Deys Publication

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