That film is lost nowâeaten by fungus and humidity. But its ghost survives.
âThe British have the âEmpire.â The Americans have âHollywoodââa silly name for a holy wood. The French have âPathĂ©ââa manâs name. But you⊠you have a river. A language. A million stories that have never been told outside the addas of College Street. Your industry should not be named after a place. It should be named after a feeling.â
But Hiralal Sen, on his last day of good health, shot the first slate. On it, he wrote in chalk: bengali film industry name
Hiralal leaned forward, his eyes bright with fever. âWhat feeling?â
Radheshyamâs ears pricked up. âGo on.â That film is lost nowâeaten by fungus and humidity
They had the cameras. They had a studioâa converted stable in North Calcutta that smelled of sawdust and wet canvas. They had actors: young men from the jatras (folk theatres) and widowed women who came in burqas to sing for the silent reels. They had even shot their first filmâa five-minute re-enactment of a Bankim Chandra Chattopadhyay scene, with titles in Bengali, English, and Urdu.
But every year, on the night of Saraswati Puja, the surviving technicians of the Bengali film industryâthe aging light men, the re-recording artists, the costume stitchersâgather on the steps of the old Tollygunge studio. They donât pray to a god. They pray to a name. The French have âPathĂ©ââa manâs name
And yet.