Baishey Shravan (1960)
Director: Mrinal Sen; Writer: Kanai Bose, Mrinal Sen; Producer: Bijoy Chatterjee, Ashoka Roy; Cinematographer: Sailaja Chatterjee; Editor: Subodh Roy; Cast: Gyanesh Mukherjee, Madhabi Mukherjee, Hemangini Devi, Umanath Bhattacharya, Sumita Dasgupta, Anup Kumar
Duration: 01:28:09; Aspect Ratio: 1.419:1; Hue: 48.807; Saturation: 0.017; Lightness: 0.277; Volume: 0.288; Cuts per Minute: 7.157; Words per Minute: 38.769
Summary: Set in a Bengal village just before and during the catastrophic famine of 1943 when some 5 million people died of starvation. A middle- aged hawker (G. Mukherjee) marries a beautiful 16-year-old girl (M. Mukherjee) who initially brightens his life. Then the man’s mother (H. Devi) dies, WW2 presses upon them and the famine hits Bengal as the couple’s marriage and the entire fabric of life disintegrates. In the end, the wife hangs herself. It is a deliberately cruel film about cruel living conditions, with the stark realism heightened through several melodramatic techniques. The mother dies when the roof falls on her head in a violent storm; the marriage breaks up when Priyanath greedily eats up the little rice he can find in the midst of the famine, without leaving any for his wife. The real innovation is that the third party destroying the marriage is not a person but the impact upon the couple of, in Sen’s words, ‘the men who, as they served colonial bosses in their war efforts, cared only for profiteering and black marketing’.
On the Famine
Excerpts from ‘Always Being Born: Mrinal Sen, A Memoir’, Stellar Publishers Pvt Ltd., 2004
Yes, in Baishey Shravana, I made it a point that mine would never be a journalistic approach, that I
would not count the number of people who starved and died, that I would not show vultures and jackals
fighting over the carcasses, that I would not structure an emaciated baby fiercely sucking the breast of
the mother who had just died. I had seen enough of such dreadful scenes from close range in my city
and in its outskirts in the year of famine. Having had familiarity with the famished millions forfeiting
their right to die natural death. I was sick of death.
The 'Famine of 1943' came later in the film. Slowly but inexorably, it walked into the second part as it
grew more ugly. Inside the house, all was quiet and oppressive. Till the end, it was the story of the two -
a bitter husband and a bitter wife - both of whom, unable to endure the ruthless reality of the famine,
hurled against each other in impotent fury and hatred. They breathed stink. There was nothing to
salvage them, to pull them out of the filth, and that was what the film tried to focus on. Not to present
the statistics of a lacerated society but to vigorously suggest the slow but the inevitable liquidation of
the last vestiges of human decency. I kept my camera indoors, glued to the couple. And, hell, there was
no exit, no escape out for the either of the two.
Yet the man was no villain, the woman, all grace.
‘An Uncertain Journey’, edited version of a paper read at NIAS, Bangalore, 1994 (From, ‘Montage –
Mrinal Sen: Life, Politics, Cinema’, Seagull Books, Calcutta, 2002)
Baishey Shravan , my third film made in 1960, made me feel great. It wasn't really a great film, but I felt
good nevertheless.
Baishey Sravan explores the relationship between a man and his wife who is much younger and very
attractive woman chosen for him by his widowed mother. This relationship is the film's primary
preoccupation; how it develops and then eventually collapses without the apparent presence of
'another'. Without the aid of any catalyst, as it were to cause and/ or to accelerate the process. The first
part of the film therefore is concerned with these three characters. The man, his pretty young wife and
his widowed mother. At a point in the film, the mother dies and from then on, the film focuses entirely
on the married pair. Set in a remote village, the film captures a variety of experiences causing both
happiness and despair to the couple, until very slowly but inexorably, the famine of 1943 creeps into the
film. The camera remains indoors, picking on the cracks appearing in their relationship, and moves
outside only once. a long shot of the starving villagers abandoning the village in search of food. Outside,
the famine grows uglier ( and this our camera deliberately avoids), inside, all is quite but oppressive...Till
the very end it remains the story of these two people - embittered and unable to endure the harsh
reality of the famine, they hurl against each other in impotent fury and rage. They breathe only the
stench of copses. There is nothing to salvage them, to pull them out of the filth, and this is what the film
focuses on. My intention was not to capture the physical details of the famine nor the present statistics
of the afflicted people who simply starved and dropped dead. To suggest the slow but inevitable liquidation of every last vestige of human decency was what I had aimed at. Yet the man was no villain
and the woman was all grace. It was a cruel time and a cruel film.
Understandably, such a film can hardly be a financial success. Although it was a failure at the box office,
Baishey Shravan granted me a firm foothold in the world of cinema; I was recognized as a 'regular'
filmmaker. And, for reasons of my own, I henceforth made it a point to constantly break new ground,
cast off the shackles of conformism and evolve new modes of expression. Risky propositions all, very
risky. Even now. In every sphere, in any discipline.
On the name and the reception of Baishe Shraban
Excerpts from ‘Always Being Born: Mrinal Sen, A Memoir’, Stellar Publishers Pvt Ltd., 2004
Nineteen years later, in 1960, when the film producers did accept me as a full-fledged film director, and
a dependable one, I made my third film, one which made me feel great for the first time, not before. I
called it Baishey Shravana – the day when Tagore died and when, in all probability, a dead child was
crushed before he could be cremated. In my film, on the same day, Baishey Shravana, a middle-aged
villager hawking his merchandise in local trains, by Indian standards, not a presentable groom, was
married to a sweet girl much too younger than the husband. The man was no villain, the woman was all
grace, and the couple lived through good time, bad time and cruel time. The title raised an objection
from the Indian Board of Film Censors. One member, an eminent educationist, Professor Apurva Kumar
Chanda found the title pointless and, in a way, he also felt, I had obliquely shown my disrespect to the
great poet. He was very loud about his point of view and another member who totally agreed with
Professor Chanda was a deeply involved social activist, Mrs Ashoka Gupta.
The others were non-committal. I was called for a conference. I had a big fight with the two members. I
said that my film had nothing to do with Tagore. I made it clear that the incident of the tall young man in
his mid-twenties and the dead child in his arms probably crushed in a probable stampede was at the
back of my mind. True, Tagore’s death was the banner-line of the world media, and very rightly so, but
as an eyewitness, I had every right to save a tear for the story of the young man and the child. “You,
young men, are very adamant,” said the veteran educationist. “Couldn’t you have any other date, a day
earlier or a day later?” he asked.
“You could as well have Teishey Shravana (23 Shravana), couldn’t you?” said the lady, a bit impatient.
“No, I couldn’t, because they got married on Baishey.” I said.
The two members were stuck up about their point and I was sticking to mine. So, the case was referred
to Delhui, not in Bombay those days. The Ministry in Delhi was kind to me and Baishey Shravana got the
clearance. But, as usual with most of my films in my entire career, the film was a popular failure at the
box-office.
If not the lady, the veteran educationist, groomed at Oxford, and one very close to Tagore and I, we,
came closer to each other. He liked and I adored him. Once, years later, I remembered taking up the
Baishey Shravana case to lovingly tease him. I told him about on eof Aldous Huxley’s novels, which
started with a loaded line, It was the day of Gandhi’s assassination. But the text had absolutely nothing
to do with Gandhi or his philosophy of non-violence. The novel was Ape and Essence.
“Forget it,” Apurva-da said, and patted me on the back.
Apurva-da did not want to raise the subject, never again. But he did not forget the film. He liked the film
for, what he once told me, ‘its interior strength’. He liked the way I captured the famine. It was elliptical,
he said.
Release date: 13 May, 1960 (Radha, Purna, Prachi)
censor certificate
Sen recalled seeing a tall thin man with the dead body of his infant child during the stampede that accompanied the funeral procession of Rabindranath Tagore in 1941. This man, the image of the helpless father, and the dead child who was crushed probably in the stampede remained with him for a long time and inspired the name 'Baishe Shraban' about 17 years later.
Sen recollects in his memoir: "The title raised an objection from the Indian Board of Film Censors. One member, an eminent educationist, Professor Apurva Kumar Chanda found the title pointless and, in a way, he also felt, I had obliquely shown my disrespect to the great poet. He was very loud about his point of view and another member who totally agreed with Professor Chanda was a deeply involved social activist, Mrs Ashoka Gupta...I had a big fight with the two members. I said that my film had nothing to do with Tagore. I made it clear that the incident of the tall young man in his mid-twenties and the dead child in his arms probably crushed in a probable stampede was at the back of my mind. True, Tagore’s death was the banner-line of the world media, and very rightly so, but as an eyewitness, I had every right to save a tear for the story of the young man and the child." (Always Being Born: Mrinal Sen, A Memoir’, Stellar Publishers Pvt Ltd., 2004)
New Cinemas Project
The song in the opening scene, 'Mon re krishi kaaj jano na', sung by a child-hawker in the train. The song, a 'shyama-sangeet' (hymns written for the goddess Kali) by Ramprasad Sen is an earnest address to the soul. Using numerous metaphors of cultivation and farming, the hymn laments how the soul does not know how to 'cultivate' human nature and hence cannot achieve its fullest possibilities. The repeated metaphors about farming and agriculture is important here: this inability to cultivate and prosper takes on cataclysmic dimensions in the context of the Bengal Famine of 1943.
Priyanath is a hawker in the local trains, with the contract to sell 'aalta' (a kind of red liquid used by married women in Bengal to adorn their feet; it is a symbol of marriage and plenitude), 'snow' (a cream, like a foundation; as the name suggests it was used as a temporary fairness agent), and even an oil for goiter. The setting is a local train, full of passengers, hawkers, beggars - vibrant and squalid all at the same time.
Priyanath's mother has been attempting to get him married for a long time, especially now that he is working and earning enough. We learn that he has been putting it off constantly. Consequently, some years have passed and the prospective brides now are all considerably younger than Priyanath.
Both his mother, and the relative she is talking to, stress on the setting: it is the village and the rules are different from the cities. Here, brides need not be the same age as grooms, and the age of the groom too is an insignificant matter. The expectations from the brides are rather simple. As the man mentions, the most desirable girls are like 'lumps of clay' who can be molded according the family they end up in. This distinction between the idyllic village and the city becomes more interesting when we compare the contrasting spaces that Sen deals with in the film he had made just prior to this: 'Neel Akasher Nichey' in the previous year.
The man seen the night before, Bhattacharya, had been a 'ghatak', a match-maker who would have extensive networks across villages through which they would conduct their business. In Bengali fiction, the figure has been used extensively as a subject of lampoon and ridicule, highlighting their mercenary nature and intrusiveness. Priyanath's attitude suggests a similar derision for the man, especially because he is not keen on getting married at all.
The rain sequence is a definitive moment for Priyanath. The utter loneliness of the scene - shots of Priyanath huddling under a tree intercut with shots of torrential rain without another creature in sight - is heightened by the shehnai playing in the soundtrack, anticipating the very next sequence. The scene is also explicitly neo-realist in form and aesthetic. The influence of Italian neo-realism is a significant aspect of the emerging 'realist aesthetic' in Bengali cinema of the time; 'Pather Panchali', the first film with these new aesthetic interventions was released in 1955.
Despite his previous attitude towards marriage, the neighbor's wedding and his mother's pleas begin to have an effect on him, wearing down his resistance.
Consequently, he admits to have begun feeling lonely. His final agreement to getting married is foregrounded by the fact that he insists his mother call Bhattacharya back, the match-maker whom he had wanted to get rid of earlier.
The group of singers singing ribald songs, a traditional part of the ceremony generally performed by the people of the 'nai' caste-group; they would also be the barbers, officiating at weddings. These songs, considered auspicious, were traditionally meant to tease the groom about marriage, especially the sexual side of it - for example, though the song is unclear, a part of it teases the groom about the bride slipping away from his bed stealthily in the night. The date is 22 Shraban, which, a few years later would become iconic as the day Rabindranath Tagore passed away.
Priyanath's suppliers, whose products he sells, teasing him on hearing about his wedding. The teasing is also a covert way of insulting him by referring to the difference in age between him and his wife.
Sights and sounds of plentitude are associated with Priyanath's marriage and his new wife - crop-laden fields, the evening lamp for the gods near the tulsi plant, the sound of conch shells from the various nearby houses.
This growing camaraderie between the newly-weds, interestingly, sets up a contrast with the latter half of the film as we shall see. The famine, which is the subtext of the film, is never in the foreground. Priyanath and Malati's relationship, instead, stands as some sort of a symbolic referent.
Sen himself has mentioned this numerous times when talking about the film: "Baishey Sravan explores the relationship between a man and his wife who is much younger and very attractive woman chosen for him by his widowed mother. This relationship is the film's primary preoccupation; how it develops and then eventually collapses without the apparent presence of 'another'. Without the aid of any catalyst, as it were to cause and/ or to accelerate the process. The first part of the film therefore is concerned with these three characters. The man, his pretty young wife and his widowed mother." [‘An Uncertain Journey’, edited version of a paper read at NIAS, Bangalore, 1994 (From, ‘Montage – Mrinal Sen: Life, Politics, Cinema’, Seagull Books, Calcutta, 2002)]
The hut that Priyanath and his family live in is surrounded by the ruins of a grand old mansion that had once belonged to their family. Malati has not come to this place before, neither is she aware of the history of the place. Ruins are important aspects of Mrinal Sen's films, recurrent in his oeuvre throughout his career as living sites of memory and history. It is significant that the lives of the protagonists here are almost framed by the ruins, like ghostly specters of their once glorious past. This theme will be majorly revisited later in Sen's career while making 'Akaler Sandhane' decades later, a film that in many ways alludes to the making of 'Baishe Shraban'.
The sense of wonder she feels in these ruins is heightened by the silence of the scene punctured only by sound of the ankle-bells as she walks down the corridor; the ruins loom over the slender figure of Malati in the low-angle shot, a silent space from a bygone era, full of memories.
Priyanath relates to Malati the history of the ruins, back at a time when his family were the zamindars of the surrounding area. The tales of extravagance that he refers to are in fact quite commonplace in the histories of Bengali aristocracy, especially of the time around the Permanent Settlement act of 1793 and after. In fact, the stories of torture of the villagers for the sake of power and taxes bear close resemblance to the kind of land policies and practices that became commonplace among the zamindars as a consequence of the Permanent Settlement.
Having suddenly woken up, he glances at his young wife and realises that he has been selling 'aalta' for married women all this while but has not put some on his wife's feet.
The shot of him pouring 'aalta' on Malati's feet is heightened by both the nascent sexual nature of the act and the eventual awkwardness of it when she wakes up and mistakes him for a thief. The portrait in the background, presumably an ancestor, underlines the irony of the episode especially in the context of the stories he has been narrating to her: stories from his family history.
Priyanath in the train next day, relating the incident that has happened the night before as an anecdote to the passengers, using it as a marketing ploy. There is a noticeable energy in him that had hitherto been absent when he had been plying his wares, underlining his gradually developing relationship with Malati and its effects on him.
Even acquaintances remark on his changed demeanor, and he happily places the blame on the duties of married life - something he clearly has taken to despite his earlier reservations regarding marriage.
The effects of this are seen at home - he has begun to take responsibilities he had not even paid attention to before, like the re-thatching of the roof. His mother is fully aware that it is Malati who is instrumental in bringing about this change in him and she says this in a matter-of-fact way without censure or judgment, even admitting that she herself has taught Malati these things. It reveals her tacit approval, at least partially, of all the changes that marriage and Malati have brought to Priyanath's life.
Since re-thatching is expensive, Priyanath's mother has resolved to get work done on only her son and his new wife's room for this year. This act of selflessness will have immense consequences in the narrative.
The other man automatically assumes that Priyanath has gotten the plant from somewhere. Being from the village, this would be an obvious assumption to make. That is why he is surprised on learning that not only has Priyanath bought it from Calcutta, but that it also costs two rupees which would be a lot of money at the time.
Priyanath defends his purchase, stating it's a foreign breed, which would justify its steep price once the plant starts flowering. The justification, if not the suggestive nature of the entire sequence itself, makes his growing feelings for Malati quite apparent.
Malati is caught stealing guavas from the neighbor's garden, and the woman proceeds to curse and insult her. The entire episode, a familiar trope in fiction and cinema associated with childhood, foregrounds her young age and immaturity.
'Olai chandi' is a local goddess, a variation of chandi, and the goddess of cholera. An important part of the folk traditions of Bengal, she belongs to the pantheon of gods prevalent across the villages of estuarine bengal who are worshipped to protect the devotee from immediate everyday threats and problems. The neighbor curses Malati with diseases which would cause her hands to fall off for having stolen the fruit.
Malati, fearing the altercation and its consequences, has gone and taken refuge in the pond, pretending that she has gone for a swim. It is uncertain whether Priyanath has understood her ploy, but he plays along nonetheless, claiming Malati is entirely innocent of all that the neighbor had been accusing her of.
The two women recite from what is popularly known as 'Krittibasi Ramayan' or 'Sri Ram Panchali' (a 'panchali' is a form of narrative folk song used for ritual verses to the gods in Bengal). This version was the first translation of the Ramayana into any Indian language other than Sanskrit, not just a rewording of the original Indian epic, but a vivid depiction of the society and culture of Bengal in the Middle Ages. Reading from it would be an important component of the religious and everyday practices in Bengal, especially among the women and children of the house.
writing
A year has passed after their marriage. Priyanath writes on the wall that it is their wedding day and their first anniversary. His mother can be heard on the soundtrack reciting from the Ramayan; it is in keeping with what Sen has claimed is essentially a story of three people in the first act, presenting a picture of prosperity and domestic bliss.
writing
Whatever Malati wants to write in front of her name on the wall, she does not wish for Priyanath to see it. What she writes is revealed later in the film and it will become deeply symbolic in the context of the final act of the narrative.
A fair organised on the occasion of Durga puja; generally, the puja would be held at the local landlord's house and would be an occasion for the entire village community to gather in revelry.
The women organising Laxmi puja and celebrating Kali Puja in the house. The short sequences foreground both the passage of time and the general contentment and plenitude that marks their lives. The two festivals, essentially domestic, are organised to invite well-being and prosperity and to drive away evil respectively.
While the two women have been shown from the beginning to have gotten along very well, the entire sequence evokes a sense of unresolved tension that has apparently been brewing below the surface for some time.
Tepi, the daughter of Balaram, who had been working on the roof of the house. She is pregnant, and as per custom, has come to stay at her parents' house for the duration of her pregnancy and childbirth.
One cannot be sure but it seems probable that the old woman's change of heart has more to do with the disinterest she has seen in her son and what she perhaps perceives as a deliberate added burden she is placing on them.
Her disillusion is somewhat perceivable in her next comment when she advises Malati about fulfilling all her dreams and desires before getting tied down by the duties of home and family.
A fair organised during 'gajan', a Hindu festival starting at the last week of Choitro continuing till the end of the Bengali year, associated with such deities as Shiva and local deities like Dharmathakur. A festival marking the marriage of the gods, it is an important event in the rural calender with the fairs as an important commercial event of the year, drawing visitors and devotees from far and wide. A mix of ritual practices and revelry, it marks the end of the year with the 'Charak' puja done on the last day. Scenes of revelry, throngs of people, merchants and shops, are intercut with shots of Priyanath and Malati enjoying themselves immensely in the fair.
Malati drifts away in the crowd of people and gets separated from Priyanath who frantically begins to search for her. Rapid shots of the two searching for each other, accompanied by the cacophony of the soundtrack, heightens the tense nature of the scene.
Adding to the tense, manic energy of the scene, clouds are scene to have gathered and a storm lashes onto the fair. Eventually though, the storm helps in dispersing the crowd and the two manage to reunite.
The storm has stopped and the two return home late. Rather ominously, the walk through the woods is constantly interrupted by a series of things on their path. The dark, oppressive mise-en-scene, along with the howls in the background heighten the sense of foreboding.
The discovery of the tragedy is not immediate; he first sees the mango tree behind his mother's hut missing and from then on it gradually builds up to a crescendo to the discovery that the tree has crashed through the roof into the hut, killing her. It only serves to heighten the gruesome and devastating nature of the tragedy. The long shot at the end of the sequence is dominated by the shot of the mango tree through the roof; it harks back to the last scene with the mother where she had changed her mind about re-thatching the roof.
That there has been a definitive shift in the tone of the narrative is immediately apparent; Priyanath is seen returning from the last rites in a long shot, through the devastation that the storm has left in its wake. The shot lingers through the new ruins created alongside the old ones, Priyanath walking among them.
Malati lets the ducks out of their pen in an action reminiscent of Priyanath's mother earlier in the film; it recalls the old woman's last words where she had asked Malati to fulfill all her desires before the responsibilities of the family fall on her.
While Kamala's action signals an inevitable, albeit forced, return to normalcy, the voice of Priyanath's mother reciting verses from the Ramayan, along with the gradual close-up shot of Priyanath, serves to underline how the tragedy hangs like a shadow over the house.
It becomes apparent that a few months have passed. Balaram's daughter Tepi is in labour and gives birth.
Malati has suggested a name for Tepi's infant daughter. Priyanath teases her that she has given away a favourite name to some one else's child - a nod to the happier times in their marriage made all the more ironic by the lonely routine of their life now.
Malati has begun to feel alone in the house all by herself, it seems haunted to her. The feeling, as Priyanath's comment highlights, foreground the similarities between their life now and how it used be for his mother when Priyanath had been a bachelor.
Priyanath's refusal to let Balaram build over the ruins over his mother's hut stems from his guilt that he had not repaired the house when it had been needed. One invariable consequence of such a feeling of guilt is the possibility that he feels responsible in some way for his mother's tragic demise.
Consequently, one immediate consequence is that his age seems to have begun to catch up to him (the film booklet published at the time of release had placed his age around forty in the beginning of the film). The comment by the guard brings this into sharp focus.
His work too has begun to suffer and his employers, displeased by his deteriorating performance, warn him of drastic consequences. Yet again, his age is referred to, this time in the context of his late marriage (their earlier comments too had been about this, though of a different tone) to a much younger wife.
The cycle race, more than a competition, is about proving to himself that he can keep up with and defeat a younger man. The rapid cuts, the close-ups of Priyanath struggling to keep up intercut with the tracking shots of the two racing bicycles, the soundtrack, it all adds to the urgency of the scene. This, in turn, makes the loss even more poignant as the sequence suddenly slows down to one long take with Priyanath far behind in a long-shot while the younger man races away.
Having lost the race, Priyanath, more desperate than before, decides to emulate something far more dangerous by moving from one compartment of the moving train to another. In a near-fatal encounter, he falls off the speeding train.
A few days have passed and Priyanath is still bed-ridden. Over and above everything, a sense of boredom has settled in which is foregrounded by his constantly fiddling with his cane in the next few scenes.
In her hurry to get to the crying child, Malati inadvertently hurts Priyanath's wounded leg without even realizing it. His feelings of uselessness, and anxiety over the future, have now acquired an added dimension: loneliness.
Malati is relating to Tepi the incident when Priyanath had attempted to put 'aalta' on her feet. Priyanath, sitting in the sun outside, can only hear their laughter and it serves to intensify his gloomy state of mind.
The feelings of resentment brewing in him, partly due to the belief that his wife too has cast him aside, prompts him to lash out against her. Malati is unused to this side of him and she is deeply shocked and hurt.
With everything valuable already gone, Priyanath sells the bicycle, unable to use it any longer because of his injury. The bicycle had been the last connection to his earlier life and the prosperity seen at the beginning of the film. The sale of the bicycle thus evokes a sense of anxiety over what is come now that all that he had once had was gone.
The notion of the passing of an era and the uncertainty of the future brings with it the first reference to the Famine in the film. The 1943 Famine would extend fan this fear and uncertainty to inhuman proportions.
Priyanath mentions writing to the company for a clerical post and Malati immediately suggest he approach her uncle who owns a chain of rice-mills. Ironically, the very mention of rice is immediately followed by the siren of the police trucks sent to the villages, presumably to monitor the famine situation.
This is one of the few scenes that make a direct reference to the 1943 Famine in the film, though not through the protagonists. In fact, the film had started off as a story of a marriage through its ups and downs and remains so through most of its duration. Sen has remarked that this had been a deliberate decision on his part during the making: "I made it a point that mine would never be a journalistic approach, that I would not count the number of people who starved and died, that I would not show vultures and jackals fighting over the carcasses, that I would not structure an emaciated baby fiercely sucking the breast of the mother who had just died...The 'Famine of 1943' came later in the film. Slowly but inexorably, it walked into the second part as it grew more ugly. Inside the house, all was quiet and oppressive. Till the end, it was the story of the two..." ('Always Being Born: Mrinal Sen, A Memoir’, Stellar Publishers Pvt Ltd., 2004)
Priyanath's resolve to move to the city for better opportunities echoes the sentiments of millions at the time who sought to escape the onslaught of the famine. Historical and academic studies of the famine, especially Amartya Sen's study in 1976, have claimed that there was no shortage of food in Bengal and that the famine was caused by inflation, with those benefitting from inflation eating more and leaving less for the rest of the population.
The local ration shop where people have been waiting in line for rice. One important factor during such times is the problem of hoarding with the result that far less rice was available in the market than in 1941. The villagers confront the local rice-dealer over his allegations of hoarding, pilfering and smuggling of rice.
Hunger is a major element in the latter half of the narrative - hunger that is so basic and elemental that it alters the very person one is. As the famine takes hold, Priyanath has begun to grow increasingly unreasonable and cruel. This notion of cruelty is one of the dominant leitmotifs in the famine section of the film - a sort of cruelty that cannot be placed squarely on one person but is a symptom of the time. In fact, Sen has repeatedly referred to 'Baishe Shraban' as a cruel film in his memoirs.
A controversial scene from the film where Priyanath sits down to eat after going without for a few days. at the time of its release the scene garnered immense controversy with the censors who deemed it offensive and unsuitable to show to the foreign audience.
Sen remarks on the scene and its effect: "It was in 1960. They told me, 'We have seen the film. And now it's on its way to Venice [ Film Festival]. But the sequence of a man, eating...( They were obviously discussing Gyanesh [Mukherjee] licking his fingers and smacking his lips.) We found the whole thing quite nauseating and the foreign audience is bound to find it even more so.. It's best if you got rid of that all together.' 'You surely can't expect me to do that,' I replied. I never have any food sequences in my films but this one was imperative to entire narrative. This man is looking at food after three days. Which is why, hunger-stricken and greedy, he doesn't even bother about whether his wife gets her share or not. He's stuffing his mouth with food as fast as he can, constantly looking from one side to another, in case someone arrives to claim a portion. His wife sits before him. Staring at him unblinkingly, her eyes full of hatred, and refilling his plate. Watches him gorge. It is not just that she is doing so out of sense of wifely duty- because a wife must serve her husband first and eat only after he's finished his meal.. No, there is something else, here. A deep loathing. An overwhelming revulsion. And I had explained all this to Madhabi, who brought it all out excellently." [Interview by Samik Bandyopadhyay at the Seagull Arts and Media Resource Centre, Calcutta, 7 November 2001. Transcribed and translated from Bengali by Sunandini Banerjee. (From, ‘Montage – Mrinal Sen: Life, Politics, Cinema’, Seagull Books, Calcutta, 2002)]
Malati is talking about her difficult childhood at her uncle's home and how it had taught her to deal with hunger. Her complaint is not about that but about Priyanath's gradual descent into unkindness and cruelty.
What the Famine provides is a sort of overarching structure of cruelty that defines the end of their relationship. This sequence and the very next are testaments to that cruelty as the two individuals clash constantly. She comments that she is very strong and did not break down when she had first seen him on the day of their wedding - a reference to his age and appearance that we have not heard her make ever before.
Malati's admission regarding his age and appearance deeply hurts Priyanath, especially because that was one thing he had perhaps been sure of - that she has never judged him for his age and appearance. With the relationship crumbling around them just like the starving world outside, all her resentments and complaints are foregrounded.
Balaram has decided to migrate to the government's famine relief camps with his daughter and grand-daughter.
Hurt, both by Balaram's admission and the events of the previous night, Priyanath retaliates by taking out his anger on Tepi's infant daughter and Malati's fondness for her. His tirade, borne out of a mix of anger, hurt, hunger and frustration, is deliberately meant to hurt.
An internal monolgue - Priyanath laments about the state of the family in front of the ruins of his mother's hut and rails against the unjust ways of the gods for having taken away his mobility at such a difficult time.
The suicide sequence works through suggestive mise-en-scene (the hook and Malati looking up at it before moving out of the frame), background sound (the ominous sounds of something heavy swinging from the ceiling, albeit off camera), and close-ups of Malati's devastated appearance to heighten the sense of tragedy, without ever showing the actual act.
Scores of villagers leaving their homes for the city or for the camps; one of the few sequences in the film directly about the famine and its effects, outside the purview of the home.
Sen recollects: "The camera remains indoors, picking on the cracks appearing in their relationship, and moves outside only once. A long shot of the starving villagers abandoning the village in search of food...My intention was not to capture the physical details of the famine nor the present statistics of the afflicted people who simply starved and dropped dead. To suggest the slow but inevitable liquidation of every last vestige of human decency was what I had aimed at." [‘An Uncertain Journey’, edited version of a paper read at NIAS, Bangalore, 1994 (From, ‘Montage – Mrinal Sen: Life, Politics, Cinema’, Seagull Books, Calcutta, 2002)]
Priyanath comes back home and is hit with the realization that the house is now empty. Despite his insults, he had perhaps expected that Balaram and his family would not leave.
Neither is Malati's body ever shown; instead, the background score builds up to a crescendo as he begins to break the door down and then abruptly stops, with the hook from the ceiling falling and swinging suggestively as the screen fades to black. Two things must be mentioned here which the film never shows. The publicity booklet of the film had included a post-script of a scene where many years later an old Priyanath is still seen walking up to the hut. The place has changed drastically by then and is part of the city of Calcutta; he walks into their room and stands in front of the writing on the wall. The final film never reveals what Malati had written in front of the name. The booklet explains she had written 'jhara', the Bengali word for 'fallen', a play on her name which is also the name of a common flower and which uncannily anticipated her tragic end.
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