Those Days (Reminiscences of Sunil Gangopadhyay and other Bengali writers)

 

By Shevlin Sebastian

When I read in an online post that famed Bengali writer Sunil Gangopadhyay’s ninth death anniversary took place on October 23, my mind went back to the past: to the second floor of the Ananda Bazar office at 6 Prafulla Sarkar Street in Calcutta.

I worked in Sportsworld magazine. When we stepped through the door to go to the art or photo departments, or the library, the first thing we saw was, through a glass-paned wall, the table where Sunil Gangopadhyay worked. For years he had been an Assistant Editor of ‘Desh’ literary magazine. Ahead of Gangopadhyay but sitting sideways were three sub-editors. Among them was the famed poet Joy Goswami.

Gangopadhyay had a round face with thick lips. But what always caught the eye was his serene look.

What I remember was that when Gangopadhyay wrote, it was long-hand on yellowish writing pads. Now and then, he would pause, look up and stare into the distance. But unlike most writers, there was no struggle, no angst, no fears and anxieties. He had no writer’s block. The words came out in a never-ending flow, like water through the open shutters of a dam. You had to marvel at his gift, at his ability to write in public, without getting distracted at all.

It did not surprise me to know he had written over 200 books in his career.

At 3 p.m., there would be an informal adda around his desk. People dropped in, several of them were writers, poets and painters. Colleagues spread muri (puffed rice) over a newspaper. People would take a handful and put it in the mouth. Lots of beautiful women came. Some drew our breaths away. “Man, what do they see in him?” was one comment. Envy sped through our bloodstream, like a river in spate.

Gangopadhyay remained serene. He smiled, talked, and gestured with his hands. By then, he was a literary lion. The writing lay forgotten in front of him. I am sure when he went home, to the tenth-floor apartment at Parijat building in Mandeville Gardens, he would continue smoothly from where he had stopped. Incidentally, in late 2019, the Calcutta Corporation named the road in front of his house Sunil Gangopadhyay Road.

Many other notable writers also worked in Ananda Bazar. They included Shirshendu Mukhopadhyay, Moti Nandi, Shakti Chattopadhyay, and Ramapada Chowdhury. Sometimes, walking down the corridor, looking elegant and patrician in a white kurta and dhoti, over 6’ tall, was the celebrated poet Nirendranath Chakravarti. He was the editor of the children’s magazine, Ananda Mela. (His daughter has been equally successful. Sonali Chakravarti Banerjee is the current Vice-Chancellor of Calcutta University. She married Alapan Bandopadhyay, who is the chief advisor to Chief Minister Mamata Banerjee).

I did not realise it then, but these were all legends of Bengali literature. But they interacted with colleagues and people from other departments.

My senior colleague Subhash (Kaku) Sarcar never forgot this advice from the renowned sportswriter Moti Nandi. “When you come to the office, before you step in through the door, make sure you leave your ego outside,” said Nandi.

Even though I studied Bengali in school, I had not read their books. It would be much later that I would read Gangopadhyay and Moti Nandi in translation. Gangopadhyay developed an all-India profile when Oscar-winning director Satyajit Ray filmed two of his novels, ‘Pratidwandi’ and ‘Aranyer Din Ratri’.

Gangopadhyay had a readable style and could cast a spell on the reader.

It was a time when ideas, literature and reading were important, life-enhancing preoccupations.

All the writers mentioned have passed away, except for the 85-year-old Shirshendu Mukhopadhyay.

Are there outstanding writers now? Is there a cultural setup that is developing these talents?

Is there anybody who can write a book like ‘Those Days’ (Sei Somoy), which won Gangopadhyay the 1985 Sahitya Akademi Award?

There are many questions, but no answers since I live in Kochi now.

Eras end and remain as strands of memories in people’s minds. 

Then the people die.

Only the books remain, and, hopefully, they will resonate with today’s Twitter generation.

If not, no surprises.

As Osho said, “Nothing lasts forever.”