Sab Choritro Kalponik: Grand Conception, Faulty Execution

The pre-release hype that made us feel Sab Choritro Kalponik was Rituparno’s artistic comeback with a bang, after such odious let-downs as The Last Lear and Khela, died into a whim, not long after the curtains went up. A worldly-wise corporate wife (Bipasha Basu as Rai), a heedless husband lost in his world of poetry (Prosenjit Chatterjee as Indranil), a surrogate mother-stereotype of a housemaid (Sohag Sen as Priyabala alias Nandor Ma), and the wife’s apparently caring male colleague (Jishu Sengupta as Sekhar) set up a familiar quadrilateral. However, I can’t recall any Bengali film that has a poet as its protagonist, and that way, Sab Choritro Kalponik had set high hopes of doing something novel. But as the narrative unfolds in leaps and jumps (there’s no story apparently; the director opts for the stream-of-consciousness technique, thereby doing away with the linearity of time — the abrupt fade-out and fade-in of short scenes gives the impression of a collage), the film seems to be more about the same-old problem: marital differences, and an eternally whining distraught wife, and a pacifying colleague acting happily as a stand-in for the husband absent in her emotional space. The only saving grace in these otherwise painful moments is a vibrant Bipasha Basu (perfectly done-up in awesome designer sarees, and perfectly complementary accessories). However, Sohini Sengupta’s voice-over irredeemably damages Bipasha’s performance which is, believe me, quite good. Prosenjit looks anything but a poet, though he tries hard. But, sorry dear! You do not have the intellectual demeanour to carry the image of a ‘frenzied’ poet with panache, no matter, how much you refrain from make-up or sport stubble. In fact, his wrinkles (in this deglamourized avatar) so conspicuously stare into your face that Bispasha with all her youthful vivacity seems to be his balika badhu (courtesy: a witty friend of mine). Jishu is awful. Sohag Sen pumps life into Priyabala, but her bangal bhasha appears a bit too contrived.

Back to the narrative: in the second half, after Indranil’s sudden demise, the film takes an unexpected turn. Though the pre-release promotional of the film constantly harps on the fact that Rai falls in love with her husband through his poetry after his death, I believe the film is more about Rai’s discovery of her own poetic self, which in turn, emotionally connects her with her husband. Clearly, the film is about journeys, as underscored by the repeated use of the train-motif. If one the one hand, it talks about the Partition and the forced migration from the other side of the border, of rootlessness, of the pain of un-belonging, on the other hand, it charts an internal journey into the soul. While Priyabala does not know where her ‘desh’ is and the mad man in the streets of Kolkata still hunts for a vehicle that will take him back to Dhaka-Bikrampur, Rai too suffers from an intense sense of un-belonging in the domestic space where the emotional distance between her and Indranil is insurmountably immense. Rai’s journey is essentially a journey into the inner most recesses of her soul whereby she discovers her poetic self, which eventually erases that distance. Reality effortlessly blends into the imaginative in the dream sequences, where Rai meets Kajari (Pauli Daam), her husband’s muse. Interestingly, however, Kajari turns out to be her second self, her alter-ego, the hidden poetry in her heart. She had once asked Indranil, “Who is Kajari? Me?” Indranil had said “No”. Since then, Rai has been wondering who this woman is who recurs in his poetry. She gets the answer towards the end: it’s her poetic self, which could translate Tagore’s “Amader chhoto nodi/ Chole anke-banke/Boishakh mashe tar haantu jal thake”, which could compose an almost ethereal poem about a woman whose husband returns to her after a long time, insane and almost unrecognizable! May be Indranil has always celebrated the poet-Rai in poem after poem, the poet who got buried under worldly pursuits.

When retold, as I have attempted to, Sab Choritro Kalponik, may appear to be a brilliant film. In fact, Rituparno had a grand conception; but the execution is faulty. It’s the same problem that destroyed Sanjay Leela Bansali’s Sawaariya. Although poetry plays a very important role in the narrative, the film is far from poetic. Emotions do overflow, but the flow isn’t spontaneous enough. Sab Choritro Kalponik, nonetheless, would not be forgotten easily; for, in spite of several shortcomings, it makes a different attempt; an attempt at reinstating the importance of poetry in an overwhelmingly consumerist world, where softer feelings often get lost in mad materialism.