If my grandfather Anadinath Bose ventured into the uncharted world of cinema in 1921, the credit goes to my grandmother Prafullanandini.
They used to stay in Kashi Mitra Ghat in Baghbazar. He was the fifth of nine brothers and the family owned an acid manufacturing outlet in Ezra Street called John Key and Co, named after the elder son Janaki. But when my grandfather passed matriculation with three scholarships at the age of 16, his wife convinced him to get out of the family business. So he started to think of diversification.
After a few years of working in a Parsi trading company owned by Lyon Subol, with two of his friends, he launched a travelling show outfit called Magic and Theatrical Company around 1906. Charu Ghosh used to show magic while Debi Ghosh was a cinematographer. He had done a lot of shooting for the Bhagalpur maharaja. In those days, cinema was a huge curiosity. The outfit used to stage shows, a part of which would be a live magic performance and a part film reel screening, shot using a hand-winding machine. They used to erect a bamboo frame on which they would hang a canvas to be used as screen.
The projector had to be wound by hand at 24 films per second speed. Those who manned it could do so even when they were half-asleep. They even provided commentary to the silent films. Once a screening of a Radha Krishna reel was stopped at a school when the colloquial language they used for commentary was deemed too coarse for students.
A poster of the film ‘Prahlad’. The Telegraph
Wherever his men spotted a myarap (temporary structure of cloth over bamboo framework) being set up, they would go and enquire if they wanted to exhibit cinema. It was quite the rage then. Once they did not realise that the cloth was milk white (indicating a funeral) and were severely told off by the attendees.
In those days, Hiralal Sen had already filmed a scene of a play using a certain Professor Stevenson’s camera (in 1898) and followed it up with several short films based on theatre shows and (in 1903) with Alibaba and the Forty Thieves, based on a stage performance at Amarlal Dutta’s Classic Theatre in Calcutta (said to be India’s first full-length film).
That became a tradition — a bit of theatre, a bit of cinema and again theatre at these shows.
Anadinath Bose. The Telegraph
It is because of films that a telephone came into the Aurora house. In those days, only Rajendralal Mitra’s house had a telephone in the area. All the neighbours used it. One day, an uncle complained that he would never go to the Mitra house again. “I was speaking on the phone and their Alsatian was all over me,” he complained to my grandfather. Dadu said they were welcome to arrange for a telephone in the house.
So they cut frames of films and started selling a packet of two for 2p. These were inserted in viewfinders — a small tin box with an opaque glass at one end and held against the light. The box added a dimension to the view. The proceeds went towards getting a telephone to our house.
In 1915, a tender was floated seeking bids to entertain Indian soldiers in World War 1. My grandfather won the bid. Eight wooden cameras were purchased from abroad.
Tokhon bola hoto Aurora barir unun kokhono nebhe na. (It was said that the fire in the clay oven never went out in the Aurora house).
There were eight units which would be out screening films all day. The house was close to the river and boats were the chief mode of transport. So there was no knowing when a unit would return. Our grandmother used to look after them.
They used to get commissions to exhibit films in zamindar houses. There was such competition that sometimes a zamindar would forcefully detain a unit on their way to another’s zamindar’s house downstream. A frantic telegram would reach us. Someone would have to go over to negotiate that they would surely exhibit the film to them on their way back after honouring the other booking.
In the meantime, in 1917, Hiralal Sen’s residence-cum-godown caught fire, destroying all his films. It was next to Black Square, in Hari Ghosh Street, a lane opposite Rupabani cinema in north Kolkata. His father used to be one of the wealthiest lawyers of his time, living on Theatre Road and travelling in a 19-horse carriage. But Hiralal died in poverty. When he had cancer, he had sought help from his brother Matilal, who looked after his finances but was refused. Even one of Matilal’s daughters died in the fire.
The Lumiere brothers had shot a train stopping at a station. Everyone knew Hiralal was shooting plays. So why was he denied the recognition of being the father of Indian cinema?
Milestone debut
In 1921, our first feature film Dasyu Ratnakar was made. Dadu was having trouble releasing it. It was the age of J.F. Madan (who produced the first Bengali feature film Bilwamangal in 1918). He had two tent house cinemas. One was opposite the Press Club and the other was Elphinstone Bioscope Company, near the Corporation building. He exhibited only the films that he brought from Bombay, starring Anglo Indians. He was producer, distributor and exhibitor rolled into one.
By then, DG (Dhiren Ganguly, a pioneering film actor-producer) had come over from Hyderabad. He had even got his wife to act in his films. Dadu felt confident with him by his side. The two went around looking for a place to show their films.
The cultural hub was then in the north of the city. Beyond Bhowanipore in the south, it was a jungle. The aristocratic Bengalis of Bhowanipore — the Maitras of Calcutta Chemicals, the house of BC Ghosh on Harish Mukherjee Road and some others — had built Russa Theatre, which is now called Purna, down south.
Dadu asked them if they were ready to show films at Russa Theatre. They agreed. Thus Dhiren Ganguly’s Bilat Pherot and our Dasyu Ratnakar released in Bhowanipore in March, 1921. A leaflet was published saying this was the first Bengali film with Bengali actor, producer and director.
When the Viceroy Council was formed, Dadu was asked to become a member. Dadu turned down the proposal, saying it would not help the poverty-ridden countrymen and would rather harm his business. He never believed in taking the easy way.
Birth of new theatres
N.N. Sircar (erstwhile Advocate General of Bengal) was a friend of Dadu’s. In 1929, he came to our office on Lenin Sarani. Pushing the door open, he said he was leaving a boy in his care. “He is crazy for films, like you,” he said. That was his son B.N. Sircar. Their relation became such that soon after, people would say that B.N. Sircar was Anadi Basu’s eldest son.
Sircar went on to found New Theatres in 1930 in Tollygunge, where India Film Lab stands. Pramathesh Barua was also building a studio on the field opposite AAEI (Automobile Association of Eastern India). Barua never got the credit he deserved. He went by ship to go buy equipment from abroad. Thus the studio system came into existence in Bengal.
The Sircars were pucca sahibs. N.N. Sircar built six houses for his sons, all identical, on Elgin Road. At 9pm, once the gong sounded, they all had to appear in dinner suit at their father’s table. There would be no dinner if they were late.
Dasyu Ratnakar did well. But Dadu went into documentary film-making. He needed to run the mobile film units. And covering news of one’s own country was a novelty then. Ritwik Ghatak was roped in to make a couple of documentaries.
Dadu also became the sole distributor of New Theatres. Such fascinating letters were exchanged between them! Dadu would dissuade B.N. Sircar from doing a film. When he refused to listen, Dadu would remind him where the funds came from. Sircar would airily tell him not to distribute the film if it did not suit him. After a while, he would write an apology, requesting him to take up the film as no one else could do a better job.
To be continued