Bhupen Hazarika’s Cinema and the Unfinished Question of Identity

 

As we mark the birth centenary of late  Dr Bhupen Hazarika, the bard of the Brahmaputra. This voice gave emotional vocabulary not only to Assam but to the idea of human belonging across borders. His song “Manuhe Manuhor Babe”(“Humen tfor one another”), and its Bengali and Nagamese renderings, articulated a humanism that travelled effortlessly across linguistic and national borders. Whereas “Bistirno Parore” (“O wide riverbank…”), later reimagined as “Ganga Behti Ho Kyon” by Gulzar, the river itself becomes a witness, questioned for its silence in the face of human suffering across the country. They are still hunting moral inquiries.

Yet, Bhipen Hazatrika’s cinematic imagination — where many of these questions first took visual form — remains less discussed. I was reminded of this not while listening to a song, but while standing before a poster at Aideu Cinema (named after Aideu Handuqe, the lead of the first Assamese movie Joynmotee in 1934) Hall in Guwahati. The poster was of Lotighoti(1966). The poster, stylised in bold, theatrical, and modern theme, seemed like a fragment of an unfinished thought.

The poster reminded me of a Sunday afternoon of the 1980s, when I watched the film as a kid in Doordarshan’s regional slot. We used to watch whatever aired. And when it carried Bhupen Hazarika’s voice, it had an intimacy that needed no explanation. The movie flashed through my mind. I remember I did not enjoy Lotighoti (confusion and Chaos) that time: no dhisum dhisum, or real entertainment for a child like me. Described as a comedy, the movie turned out to be a satire, a genre I was not acquainted with. Now we find the movie was self-reflective and a bit unsettling for the time, just as the poster itself was. It opened with “Asomiya holu buli eman nuwari” (“Not more can be added for Assameseness...”). It was merely a song; now the lyrics reveal themselves as a question of my multiple identities fighting with each other.  The storyline followed a group of Assamese enthusiasts who travelled to Kolkata to make an Assamese film. Their intention was earnest: to include every symbol, every song, every visible marker of identity. But the protagonist (Bijay Sankar), with the Bard's POV, reflects on the paradoxes. While including everything, the movie risked losing its storyline, and it never quite materialised.

Lotighoti appears less as a story and more as an act of introspection — a culture looking at itself without certainty. In one unforgettable dramatic recitation, the protagonist self-reflects on the essential question with the still-popular track "The Fierce Storm Questions Me" —Tell me, what is your desire? The other songs also linger in the gullies and towns of Assam even today, asking what a man wants “Xohoxro jone mok prosno kore” (“A thousand people question me”) or the melancholy of a lonely life “Moi aru mur xa” (“Me and my shadow”) — where the artist stood face to face with himself reflecting on the essential question of identity and path. At the same time, it records the adjustment we make with songs like “Jibon tu jodi abhinay hoy” (“If life itself is an act”). Beneath the humour lay something more enduring — the anxiety of representation itself.

In many ways, these questions were not Assam’s alone. They echoed a larger Indian concern: how does a people define itself without reducing itself? How does identity remain alive without becoming rigid?

Long before regional cinema became part of India’s national cinematic conversation, Bhupen Hazarika was already exploring these questions through film. His early work, such as Era Bator Sur (1956), explored the folk tunes of the north east with a realist approach. Contemporary to Pather Panchali, the emergence of this movie reflected the broader awakening of Indian cinema to its own cultural landscapes. This visual artistic state of Bhupen Hazarika, as detailed in this poster, also remains overshadowed by his lyrical depth and charismatic voice. It is a reminder that his imagination was not confined to a single medium. His association with M. F. Husain's Gaja Gamini reflected his ease in moving between artistic worlds.

Amidst uncertainties that made identity an everyday reality rather than an abstraction, Bhupen Hazarika’s voice remained a constant presence — not narrowing Assam into exclusion, but expanding it into shared humanity. Standing before that poster on that day, in his centenary year, it feels less like an artefact of the past and more like a mirror still held up to the present.

Because somewhere within it, the question remains.

Not only for Assam.

But for all of us.

মন যায় (Mon Jai) Zubeenda me and Assamese people

 

I was inside a conference hall in Puducherry, attending a national conference of microbiologists, when the news popped up on my mobile screen. I fact-checked, re-checked… and found it was true.

My talk was over, but I was supposed to interact with peers and finish some official work. Instead, I returned to my Hotel. That night, sitting by the sea at Rock Beach, his memories kept coming back to me over and over again…

It could be in 1994. I remember a hoarding in Ganeshguri — a comic-style poster of Mon Jai, a movie under production, with Zubeen saying: “I wish to make money, I wish to make movies, I wish to…”

It struck a chord with the wavelength of my own youth.

I too wished to make movies.

I, too, wished to write songs and screenplays.

I, too, wished to do experiments in Physics like Niels Bohr.

But by that time, I was a proud first-year medical student, just a fresher in college.

Zubeen appeared like a comet in the Assamese music scene. Around 1992, when I was preparing for my High School Leaving Certificate exam, I had a habit of looking at the covers of new books and new cassettes. One day, I spotted the photograph of a thin, spectacled Zubeen on Anamika. I couldn’t buy it immediately, so I borrowed it from a friend and duplicated it.

The songs were smooth melodies. My favourite was Pritir Xubaxe (The Fragrance of Love), with lyrics by the legendary Hiren Bhattacharya. Within a few months, all the songs became viral across Assam. The older generation was sceptical, but for us, it was new magic.

In 1992 itself, I watched his first live performance at Dispur Bihutoli (now inside the Secretariat campus). My first impression was unimpressive — a skinny figure, with bamboo-like legs in tight jeans, and mannerisms of a roadside Jorhatiya Romeo. I was struck by how ordinary he looked compared to the extraordinary voice that had already become our companion.

Then came Maya — another superhit. Soon, every young Assamese aspiring musician was imitating him.

The rise, falls, and reappearances and rediscoveries. 

Zubeen became a machine of mass production. As a self-styled “pseudo-intellectual,” I carried some inhibition against an icon with such mass appeal. But he kept coming back, again and again.

At one point, after signing with Sony Music, he stopped live performances for 2–3 years. But when he returned to George Field, I was there too. This time, he was sober, sang from his heart, and connected with everyone.

Then tragedy struck with the untimely death of his sister Jonki in an accident. The whole of Assam cried with him. Later, at the Brahmaputra Beach Festival, he re-emerged, singing a duet originally started by Jonki and completed posthumously. It was a profoundly moving moment.

In parallel, I too tried to pursue my Mon Jai alongside medicine. I became an amateur playwright and director (now retired from that), though the film we wanted to make never happened. I built a career as a microbiologist, medical teacher, and, to some extent, as a writer. Yet, I often felt I never truly fulfilled my Mon Jai the way Zubeen did.

Zubeen’s Mon jai 

Zubinda ventured into films — writing, directing, and acting. The movie quality may not always have been perfect, but he gave our small Assamese industry the star power it needed. His collaborations with professional directors, especially Munin Baruah, remain iconic. Who can forget the songs of Hiya Diya Niya? They are companions for Assamese hearts everywhere, inside and outside Assam.

I personally disliked the flood of VCD songs and the raucous crowds they attracted at Bihutolis and picnics. Sometimes, Zubeen’s public comments bordered on megalomania. And yet, he would occasionally return with a sober, innocent face, like in the movie Dinabandhu. How could the same Zubeen suddenly look so pure, so fresh?

Meanwhile, he found his place in Bollywood as well. I remember watching Gangster in Dibrugarh when Ya Ali was already a chartbuster. I watched the movie in Dibrugarh, Assam, without any expectation. Still, the moment Zubeen appeared on the big screen, the entire hall erupted in joy. It was another “comeback” moment for me.

I left Assam in 2006 and watched Mon Jai (the movie), which was much delayed in production. Zubeen’s character in it symbolised the desperation of Assamese youth at that time. So many dreams (mon jai, mon jai) but so few avenues. The protagonist takes a destructive path — a warning about roads from which there is no return.

This happens with every artist who connects deeply with the people.

Bhupen Hazarika, too, was commodified, and we all cried again and again when he left us. But Bhupenda had mentors like Bishnu Rabha and Jyoti Prasad Agarwala. Their ethos shaped him, even if they had passed away long ago. Zubeen, by contrast, had no such guiding force. His lifestyle, habits, and occasional political flip-flops — which I never understood — perhaps reflected an unguided Mon Jai. And tragically, it has led to a fatal result.

A reflection for us all

I personally saw (!) him last in 2018, I was on a flight as an external examiner to Assam, he was seated in front of me ... and my ego refused me to wish him.... as a redemption, I am sitting in my Hotel and not willing to go back to the conference Hall for today till I finish this writing

Zubinda lived as he wished (mon jai), and in doing so, became the voice of our generation. His journey is both an inspiration and a warning.

In this transitional time, when definitions of everything are rapidly changing, we must learn to guide our emotions with an upright ethos. That may be the rightful way to live a life — a way that balances Mon Jai with responsibility.

The Storyteller

Author Sanjoy Das

 

Storytellers come in many forms. But ever since Gutenberg, the traditional oral storyteller has almost disappeared. Where do you still find them today? Maybe in a remote hill village, a jungle campfire, or a forgotten corner of the country—where people still tell stories, not for fame or prizes, but simply for the joy of telling.

For the last 25 years, I have been writing fiction. But am I really a “storyteller”? The line between a writer and a storyteller is fuzzy, and honestly, not my primary concern. What matters to me is the experience of stories—how they live, travel, and transform.

Recently, I watched The Storyteller, Ananth Mahadevan’s film based on a short story by Satyajit Ray. At its heart is a fascinating clash: an oral storyteller meets a businessman who secretly longs to be a writer. Who truly “owns” a story—the one who tells it or the one who pens it?

That question took me back to my days in Dehradun (2007–2012), when I had the privilege of knowing an unforgettable oral storyteller—Dr. Sanjoy Das. We spent almost five years in close company. Every evening, he would take us into the jungle or sometimes into the comfort of a hotel lounge, and then—story after story would flow.

He was a wildlife enthusiast and photographer, and his tales often came from real adventures in forests across India. Some had supernatural twists, others were so wild that I doubted them. Years later, I met a few of the “characters” in real life and realised his stories were true.

Despite his gift, he was strangely reluctant to publish. He had a coffee-table book ready, but instead of printing, he kept “finishing” it in Photoshop. For years! Whenever I suggested meeting a publisher, he dodged the idea—just like Tarini Bandopadhyay in The Storyteller.

At times, I wondered—did he really want his book out in the world? Or was telling the story enough for him? I even tried helping him connect with publishers, but nothing worked out before I left Dehradun in 2012.

Much later, the book finally came out. When I visited him a few months ago, he gifted me a copy. Holding it, I felt a strange pride. I hadn’t written a single line, yet I was part of it—because I had lived inside those stories for years.

The experience reminded me of another film—Big Fish. Its protagonist is also an extravagant storyteller, while his son, a writer, keeps questioning the truth of his tales. Only when the son meets the people from those stories does he finally reconcile with his father’s world.

For me, Dr. Sanjoy Das is my own “Big Fish.” His reluctant masterpiece may have taken years, but his stories—told with the same intensity every time—were always alive, somewhere between myth and truth. And perhaps that is what makes a real storyteller.

Ray

I stumbled upon works of  Ray very late , may be in around 2008 , I had already touched my thirties and had my own likes , dislikes and interest when it comes to creative thing ,specially cinema. I took special interest creative things like plays, literature etc since childhood since I was in schools but somehow avoided Satyajit Ray from my domain.

In child hood we followed Bhanendra Nath Saikia, Jahnu Baruah and whatsoever were available from  Assam. Thanks to Sunday noon award-winning movies in noon shows we had the luck to watch some of the best cinema from south. We liked south Indian cinema for their diverse plot and technical brilliance .

Our groups icons were Shyam Bengal, Mani Ratnam , little bit of Gobind Nihlani. 

  
I kept asking myself - Why I missed Satyajit Ray in childhood? There may be many reasons ..the scenes from Pather Panchali frequented in TV . They looked very depressing . May be I thought his cinema would be dealing with poverty and sadness Or May be  regionalism in Assam  is to blame but still then I liked few of the Aparna Sens movie so it was not really hundred percent regionalism to blame for it.

In my twenties I thought I upgraded my creative taste .. got hooked by French/ Polish director Krzysztof Kieślowski . I also ventured into the Iranian movie , classic new wave French cinema and all ..my affinity to deeper subject made me watch many good but depressing cinema specially from Eastern Europe. I was sad seeing all those nihilism filled vibes.

Seeing my complex taste, One of my friend who was also a movie/crime novel buff and Arthur Conan Doyle fan recommend me Feluda. I never explored that genre till I was around 30. I liked it very much . I liked it a lot and helped my to go out of the nihilistic genre.  Then read his other stuff like short stories , memoirs (chelebela) all was full with life wit and humour and depth.

Then my friend had shown me one short documentary he made on Sukumar Ray and I loved it. So I decided to watch Apus tribology. I was thirty two or three then. It was around 2010 , Satyajit Ray dead for about 18 years.
And found how brilliant. My earlier vibes that he tells sad stories about poor people was completely wrong.  May be then only I matured as a movie buff (just before my retirement as a hardcore world cinema lover. Off course story vs plot or Ghatak vs Ray or other academic discourse like that will continue, that is a healthy sign it seems.

He was both movie maker, a writer , illustrator , writer for children (but adults liked them too). I decided to explore more and found his illustration, book cover design , music interest , writing for children and found them highly inspiring and then only acknowledged  what a genius he was.
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Well it was too late ..he left much earlier then that and after that with inclusion of modern life , professional pressure could not persuade my interest of looking into great world cinematic happening all around the world.

Not only me the world changed drastically after that (from my thirties till date until pandemic struct the structure of everything.)

I had no time for cinema or OTT platform since last nine years . But when I saw advertisement of Ray in Netflix  to commemorate 100 years of the master I  thought yes! let’s try this new stuff called OTT which many people talks about but I never got any time for all those luxury.

Watched few world cinema in it but my primary objective was -Ray.

Watched all the episodes that have been played now and here is my feeling

Netflix has made it keeping their target audience in mind. Their cast , location, language used, light and all process of storytelling reflects that.
In contrast most of the Rays works looked real. Most of them looked through middle class Bengali characters who are plotted in unique condition which was made into a unique story for all.
Over the years the taste, language and body language of people has changes. As told by friends from film fraternity language of cinema has also changed drastically.
May be keeping the target audience bin mind Netflix intentionally did it like this.

Because uniqueness of the stories , fast paced story telling new generation will like it. I to enjoyed few episodes and moment s of many episodes and of course the plot woven by the master. Still the difference is the character seemed to be about 'someone' in the OTT sphere. Whereas in most of the Rays movie and in writing the characters looked all the real person somewhere existing in person.

Till now most interesting episode is Hungama Hai Kyon Barpa ... Manoj Bajpai and most of the other characters and the dialogue were fluid the best episode so far.

In Bahurupiya Kay Kay was in his usual best , but I think maker tried to overdo many thing but still Kay Kay and the story manged to keep everything intact 

Spotlight was average ….and the first show -Forget me not was not good at all .

Let’s hope in forthcoming episodes if any they try to make it more real and interesting .

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Man’s search for meaning

I would share my personal problem with my experience with search for meaning. One’s believes (or the thought process behind it) has extreme polarity.

Take my case, early in my childhood when I saw Amitabh Bachchan (A criminal) in Dewar asking his brother Shashi Kapoor (A Police Inspector) the famous line –“Jao ush admi se sign leke aao…. At that time I thought the whole world was wrong but Bachchan is right

But as I grow up my bad habit of observing people’s behavior intensified I observed that it is a recognized technique of any person who has been caught on the wrong foot to come up with hundreds of excuses. (My friend in psychiatry calls it Psychological projection)

Gradually I become a strong denouncer of this and started a strong self analysis of myself everyday). It is tough and problematic as I continued to search for meaning in everything. But all I found was -nothingness. I had to accept the philosophy under it and continued even if there is nothingness in everything. So these search for meaning become impractical.

As life continues, I embraced it, as it is unavoidable. But due to strong self analysis- self pity, self blaming lead to a miserable state of mind.

Ones identity is his thought process – gradually I had none as I got emerged in daily mechanical life and lost the time and appetite to analyze anything to my liking. I was immerged in the vortex of a vicious cycle. And saw me degrading (spiritually) as well as mentally.

Seeing it as a danger sign  I started the process of reconciliation (with me)and started doing what I like most –reading and thinking (writing comes next) may be after a year or so .

It’s a small book named: Man’s search for meaning (Viktor E. Frank)

While considering my life as miserable, I was amazed how this man found spirituality even in the most unfavorable condition inside the dreaded concentration camp. Coming from an affluent Jew family, a physician of merit, fate led him to the concentration camp. With humiliation to the core, hunger, death (of friend, family) and what not he continued his spirituality, survived all the possible danger and noted the point that there is purpose to every life (even in most unfavorable condition). This meaning may be some creative work, someone you love or something you wish.  And if you pursue it (and if you are lucky enough, unlike many of his friend and family) you may become a higher human being (there is no guaranty but that is the only option we have). And it is a continuous process (like He doesn’t have the right to behave inhuman way only because he has suffered a lot during the holocaust)

After reading I refreshed myself.

Self defense by psychological projection is bad and so is over self analysis.

Finding the balance (and Budha’s middle path is the ideal way but it is a tough state of continuous journey)

Yes the life is miserable –still there are many meaning to nothingness in life.

Movies that helped shaping my thought process 2 The Three Colors Blue

After ‘Gandhi’, I have to mention the film named  Blue from the famous The Three Colors series. or its creator Krzysztof Kieślowski. His art of storytelling has influenced my thought process to a great extent.

I had been writing a series of parallel stories since the year 2000; I had no idea at the time that these are called parallel stories.  Most of the stories dealt with the dark aspect of the human mind and had an undiluted structure. I didn’t compromise by altering even a single sentence of this chronicle just for the sake of so-called linearity of structure. The result was that for those who couldn’t devote enough time to a paragraph and reflect on the human feelings behind those words, this series remained indecipherable or worse, an exercise in futility. I experienced great creative satisfaction while writing them and was eager to see the reaction of my readers. This was where I faced a problem; you see, most of my friends are not into literature and hence, I couldn’t depend on them to give me a proper feedback. Moreover, I was residing away from my home state, Assam, so I could not understand first-hand how the readers were responding to my creative effort by any sort of interaction with them.

I concluded that the stories into which I had put so much time and effort, turned out to be some incoherent gibberish. I went into a kind of depression, repeatedly asking myself whether I should compromise on my writing style. Should I start writing in a simple linear style (which is not my way of storytelling)? Should I write about populist clichés that do not excite my creativity at all? (Assam has its own trends of bestselling plots). On a more megalomaniac note, I was beginning to think that there was no one in this world, who thinks like me, that there were no takers for original thinking, that I was a lone man amongst an indifferent swarm of people.

Then I happened to come across this much heard series – directed by Kieślowski . Three colours Blue was my first Kieslowski movie, which I watched in 2007. As the film progressed, I realised that the thought process of the protagonist or the scriptwriter behind the scenes reverberated with mine.  Many of the frames of ‘Blue’ inspired me. What I found most inspiring about this series is that the auteur didn’t compromise on anything while presenting his creative vision, yet he was able to connect with his audience, to convey his version to the world. This fact encouraged me and eventually I decided NOT TO CHANGE MY STYLE.

In this movie, there is a scene in which the female protagonist was having coffee in a restaurant and a street musician was playing some music. The tune was the same as the one her husband was composing, but he died before being able to complete it. How could an unfinished musical score have reached the street musician? Later, during an interview, Kieślowski had this to say about it, “Music never dies, it vibrates, swirls in the atmosphere, you just have to pick it up from nature.”

I watched Three colors Blue in 2007, but this message from the scene was the seed of a Play –ঐক্যতান Akoikyatan (The Beethoven of someone’s love), I had written, directed and staged in 1997.

At that time, the whole unit of the play had the same doubt that I had been having – “Does anyone think like us?” The discovery of Kieślowski through Blue was a positive propelling force for me, it reinforced my intention to continue writing in my own unadulterated style by being true to myself.