Ritwik explains exactly what he wants during the shooting of his final film Jukti, Tokko aar Goppo. Pic courtesy Shamya Dasgupta

I didn't pay heed to what Ritwik da used to say then, but I do now. He’d say, ‘What are these films you act in—no one will remember them.’ And I used to argue with him: ‘I can’t be irresponsible like you are.’ He wouldn’t reply, just laugh in that way so typical of him. That only made me angrier. But the man I found so irresponsible, so unconcerned about everything then, I now understand was so right. Isn’t it true that an artist’s main responsibility is towards their art? Ritwik da isn’t around anymore. If he had been, I would have owned up to my mistake.

Sometime before Komal Gandhar was made, Sailen da, from Ritwik da’s production team, came to my home one day. He asked me to go meet Ritwik da at his Bhowanipore home. I did, I went and met Ritwik Kumar Ghatak. He read out the screenplay of Komal Gandhar. It was decided that I would act in the film. Some days later, Ritwik da informed me that the producer had asked for someone else to play the leading role. He asked me to try one of the other roles, but I didn’t agree to that. Maybe that was a wrong decision too.

Ritwik da’s habit was to keep changing his script as he went along with the filming. During the shooting of Subarnarekha, I watched two female actors playing significant roles. But, in the film itself, one of those actors had only one shot. That’s why I wonder—what if I had done that role in Komal Gandhar, and would Ritwik da have kept all of it in the final film?

The Ritwik da behind the camera and the Ritwik da outside the film sets were totally in conflict with each other. Seeing him drink and hurl abuses at everyone, you didn’t get to see the fire that was always burning inside him. I have seen so many directors lose their cool when working with the junior actors. Ritwik da would tell them, ‘Ma, it won’t work if you do it like that’ or ‘Baba, you sit here like this, rest your back’. He was always calm and cool-headed then. He knew how to make people work.

In Subarnarekha, my character was supposed to lip-sync to a song. He used to keep asking me to memorize the song. The tape recorder the song used to play on was a weak machine. But that’s what played during the shooting. Despite using such an anti-cinema technique and method, he managed to get the lip-sync right. I don’t think anyone else could have done it. In one scene in Subarnarekha, the sister watches her brother appearing. At the time of shooting, we realized that the lens required to take the shot the way Ritwik da wanted was not available. He placed a lens from his spectacles in front of the camera lens to get it right. Can you imagine that?

I am eternally grateful that I got a chance to work with both Manik da [Satyajit Ray] and Ritwik da. But the two were so different from one another—if one was restrained, the other was the complete opposite. The actors in Manik da’s films got the script well in advance, but Ritwik da preferred to keep the script hidden away. He wanted the actors to be spontaneous, act without preparation. The two of them had a lot of respect for each other, but when they met, they would argue about everything.

Manik da had been invited to attend the premiere of Subarnarekha. I think it was screened at Basusree. At the end, the two of them came face to face, cups of tea in hand. Ritwik da started, ‘In which film was Madhu better—yours or mine?’ Manik da replied, ‘In mine.’ Ritwik da didn’t agree. And they started arguing. Now I understand that they were just discussing and debating each other’s work. I was irrelevant. Manik da never spoke ill of anyone. And behind his back, Ritwik da would say, ‘Don’t watch films by anyone other than that giraffe. The rest are all buffoons.’

Although I ended up not working with Ritwik da again, our relationship didn’t change. The taxi metre would start from eight annas (half a rupee) in those days. Once, Ritwik da suddenly turned up at my house in a baby taxi. He got off and told me, ‘Madhu, pay him.’ I saw that the fare had come to four hundred rupees! This didn’t happen just once, it was fairly routine.

I went to Bangladesh not long ago. A gentleman came and introduced himself, but I couldn’t place him. Then he said that he had come to my place with Ritwik da—and I remembered. Ritwik da knew that I wouldn’t give him money for his alcohol, so he would try various tricks. Once he told me, ‘Give me twenty rupees, otherwise I won’t be able to get my ration.’ I didn’t flinch. So he said, ‘Okay, fine, they will all remain hungry.’

I thought maybe he wasn’t lying, and I should give him the money, but then I remembered that Lokkhidi (Surama Ghatak) had asked me not to give him any money. I had to go out for a shoot, but I realized that I was feeling uneasy about refusing money to someone like Ritwik da. So I went to Lokkhidi on my way to the shooting location and gave her the money. I told her, ‘Whether you need it or not, keep this. I can’t keep my calm and work if you don’t take it.’

At the same time, I have seen this same Ritwik da put his hand into the pocket of his kurta, pull out a fistful of coins, and give it to a technician who needed the money. Truly, it was so difficult to understand this man. His talent went unrecognized in his lifetime. This pained Ritwik da no end. It is my good fortune that I got a chance to work with him, spend time with him.

*This article first appeared in a special edition of the Bengali daily Aajkal on February 25, 2001.

Excerpted with permission from Unmechanical: Ritwik Ghatak In 50 Fragments, published by Westland Books