Twice in the late 1980s and once in 1990, I spent several hours with Satyajit Ray. I was very struck by his appearance when I first met him. Six-foot three, looking very relaxed in a kurta pajama, with a deep sonorous voice and a very firm hand grip. His eyes had a touch of mischief. Not a prelude to laughter, but quizzical, sceptical, mocking. His laughter was infectious. His intelligence usually revealed itself casually. The Japanese master Akira Kurosawa once said: “Not to have seen the cinema of Ray means existing in the world without seeing the sun and the moon.” What he meant was that Ray was a foundational genius of the new art form that swept the twentieth century. I often wonder how many cinema-lovers in the West (or for that matter even in India) know his work today. Not many, I would wager.

What did we discuss? Everything. Cinema, of course, but also politics, literature, food, language. In the early eighties, he had received a phone call from the prime minister, Mrs Gandhi, who wanted his advice. Sir Richard Attenborough was pressing her for government funds to help film Gandhi. “I am fond of Dickie, but how could I recommend throwing money down the drain? I said no. She disregarded my advice. The film was awful, but a huge financial success. It made a lot of money and our government made a handsome profit. This remark is not to be repeated.”

Earlier that month in Delhi I had, together with other friends, teased one of the Indian producers of the film. Finally he revealed: “When we started filming, Attenborough told us ‘There’s only one reason we’re making this film. I don’t want anyone in the West to make the mistake of thinking that Mrs Gandhi is Mahatma Gandhi’s daughter.’” Back in London, I asked Attenborough whether he had actually said this. He replied: “I did but I failed. After the film was shown in the White House, Reagan came up to me: ‘Congratulations, Sir Richard. Great man. Just like his daughter.’”

...We moved on to other subjects. I noted his lack of sympathy for younger filmmakers. Eyebrows were raised. A weary look. “I know they groan and moan, my dear. But how could I possibly help them? The best help I can give them is by remaining silent. Mrinal (Sen) would be better at that than me. He’s a very good teacher. Have you seen his latest?” In fact, I’d seen Khandhar (The Ruins) a few days before and it was fresh in my mind. Mrinal Sen, a tremendous filmmaker himself, was an unabashed Marxist but hated it when he was referred to as a Marxist version of Ray. Both directors disliked the description. Khandhar was compulsory viewing for me since the lead was one of India’s best actresses and a dear friend of mine, Shabana Azmi. It was not Sen’s best work; a bit mystical and the cinematographer slightly out of control. I said this to Satyajit. He claimed not to have seen it, but several minutes later returned to the subject. “The problem with Mrinal’s latest is that there is only one hero: the ruins. Nothing else of note. Nothing. Correct me if I’m wrong. And you’re not to publish this.” I laughed. I had noticed the cinematic obsession. The ruins dominate. They are striking, but the story of emotional transience didn’t grab me.

Derek Malcolm, the film critic at the The Guardian, had written a snarky review of one of Ray’s recent films, Ghaire Baire (Home and the World), also based on a Tagore novella. Malcolm, usually an astute critic, didn’t fully understand the political and historical context (Lord Curzon’s partition of Bengal, considered by many as a dress rehearsal for 1947) or Tagore’s deep hostility to crude nationalist demagogy. His fiction explored complexities. There were inner contradictions. In this work, he explained why so many Bengali Muslims didn’t object as strongly to the partition as the Hindus did. In fact, secretly, some poor Muslims favoured it for a combination of economic and existential reasons. Ray understood each sensitivity in the Tagore story and Ghaire Baire is a very fine movie.

I reviewed it in Time Out and received an appreciative note from him a few weeks later. I’ve since misplaced the note, but my response was neatly filed away. It reminded me that he had suffered a debilitating heart attack while filming Ghaire Baire. This, for him, added another layer to the film. I suggested in my response that some of his critics at Cannes were possibly settling accounts with their recent radical past:

“What is far more disturbing is that these reactions to your work and that of others reflect an undoubted cultural and critical decline in the West. It’s almost as if the fact that too many mainstream filmmakers in Hollywood are making movies for 9–15-year-olds and making pots of money as a result has scarred the faculties of many critics as well. I have yet to read a polemical blast against Hollywood infantilism by Derek M...”

Excerpted with permission from Seagull Books. The book will be released at the Calcutta Book Fair