Chitrangada: a crowning wish

Why Chitrangada?

Rituparno Ghosh’s latest borrows the title of Tagore’s poetic play (more popular in its condensed form as a dance-drama) and adds an appendix to it: ‘a crowning wish’. This play was adapted by Tagore from an episode in The Mahabharata, and in its preface, the poet shares his thoughts which went into its conception: while travelling from Shantinekatan to Kolkata in late spring, the poet was struck by the abundance of the season as he looked out of the train window. The fertility of the season would manifest itself in early summer, when the trees would modestly exhibit their fecundity in the loads of fruits that would hang from their branches. Simultaneously, a strange thought came to the poet:

…hothat amar mone holo sundori juboti Jodi onubhob kore je se taar jouboner maya diye premik er hridoy bhuliyechhe tahole se taar surup kei apon soubhagyer mukhyo ongshe bhaag boshabar obhijog e sotin boley dhikkar ditey pare. E je tar bairer jinish, e jeno rituraaj bosonter kachh theke pawa bor, khonik moho bistar er dwara joibo uddeshyo siddho korbar jonyo jodi tar ontorer modhye jothartho charitrpshakti thake, tobey sei mohomukto shaktir daani taar premik er pokkhe mohot laabh, jugol jibon er jayayatra r sahaye. (Rabindra Natya Sangraha, Prothom Khanda, 327)

To summarize: The poet’s intention of composing Chitrangada was to establish the beauty of the soul over the beauty of the body, the latter being temporal and therefore undesirable. When Chitrangada became a dance –drama, Tagore had it open with the following prologue:

Manipur Raj er bhakti te tushto hoye, Shib bor dilen je raajbongshe sudhumatro putroi janmabe. Totsatweo, jokhon rajkul e Chitrangada r janmo holo, Raja takey putro roop e palon korte thaklen…

(Pleased by the devotion of the King of Manipur, Lord Shiva granted him the boon that the royal family would only bear male children. Even then, when Chitrangada was born to the royal family, the King brought her up like a son…)

The two phrases “even then” and “like a son” are important:

1. A woman who is born debunking divine decree is expected to be unique.
2. A woman, who is conditioned to become a man, epitomizes the reality of the social construction of gender.
3. The King of Manipur imposes his wish on his daughter and rears him like a son.

Ritupano Ghosh’s film takes off from these three possible inferences that could be drawn from the prologue of the dance-drama, although the profundity of the original seems wanting. Smitten by Arjun, Chitrangada approaches Madan, the God of Love, to bestow upon her feminine grace and beauty for a year, so that Arjun falls in love with her. Madan relents and grants her the boon; hence, the famed transformation from Kurupa to Surupa (please note these are not Tagore’s terms). However, Chitrangada, recognizing the superfluity of physical beauty, returns the boon before that promised one year is over. Perhaps, the most recognizable literal link between Tagore’s text and Ghosh’s film lies here: Rudra too calls off his cosmetic transformation into a woman, and chooses to remain what he was.

At the very outset, Rudra (Ghosh himself) interprets Chitrangada as the ‘story of a wish’: Chitrangada’s wish versus her father’s wish. But, it’s more about the performativity of gender; or in other words, the fact that gender performance is an illusion, best expressed in the song:

Narir lalita lobhon lilaye ekhoni keno e klanti/ekhoni ki sokha khela holo oboshan/je madhur rosey chhile bihvala, se ki madhumakha bhranti…seki swapner daan, seki satyer opomaan/…dur durashaye hriday gorichho kothin premer protima gorichho/…ki mone bhabia nari te korichho pourush sandhan, eo ki maya r daan?

 The repeated use of such words and phrases as lila (dalliance), khela (play), bihvala (stupefaction), madhumakha bhranti (charming error), swapner daan or mayar daan (an illusory gift) underscore the very illusory nature of gender performativity (seki satyer opomaan). Rituparno Ghosh’s Chitrangada begins with the promise of playing with this very notion, but loses track in the course of the development of the plot, returning to a plausible end, though. Given the access to modern technology which is adept to change the body, the possibility of playing with the ideas of body, gender and sexuality was enormous. The film displays awareness of the same, but doesn’t convincingly execute it.

The central conflict is not between Rudra and any other external force; rather, it is a confounded conflict within him. The apparent problem with the origin of the wish (here, the wish to become a woman) is that it has no credible history. It’s born one fine morning when Rudra discovers Partha’s (Jishu Sengupta) fondness for children. Consequently, he descends into sentimental musings about how Partha would never be happy with him, for he would never be able to bear him children. Two male parents cannot even adopt a child. In order to sustain the relationship, Rudra decides to undergo a gender reassignment surgery. And, in no time, the desire becomes so overwhelming that he actually consults a doctor, and goes in for breast implant. Please note, Partha never asks him to opt for this. In fact, the reality of Partha’s discomfort with the sex-change dawns on Rudra when the former tells him that he was in love with a man; if he had to, he would rather have a real woman, than a synthetic one, not a ‘half-thing’. Despite the political incorrectness of Partha’s invective, I would say this is the most ‘queer’ moment of the film. Although Rudra is shattered and censures Partha for his insensitivity, it is difficult not to sympathize with the latter’s view. It is much later, however, that Rudra admits to Shubho (Anjan Dutta) that he could not blame Partha.

Commendably, therefore, the film recognizes the multiplicity of desires, unwittingly or knowingly; but, the film does not ponder over the sudden change in Rudra’s decision on the day of the final surgery. Apart from that one mysterious text message (‘Why do you call a BUILDING a building even when it is complete?’), that recognizes the fact that the body is into a perennial process of change, there is no elucidation. Rudra abandons as abruptly as he had plunged into exercising his desire. Is it because of a realization that a desire to enter a compulsive heteronormative structure (by becoming a woman) is redundant for it ‘dis-empowers’ him by taking away from him the gender fluidity he has so far embodied?  If that is so, the use of Tagore’s Chitrangada as the reference text might be found just. But, we can only speculate.

Spaces, In-Between

The film demands of the audience painstaking attention; for the narrative not only moves back and forth in time, but also inhabits both real and surreal spaces simultaneously. The stage, the sea beach, the hospital cabin and the operation theatre become a spatial continuum, and the protagonist often exists in more than one space at the same time. This deliberate confusion of the real and the surreal is perhaps the most appealing aspect of the film, for it opens up the right kind of space to accommodate gender liminality. The sexual Other who debunks normativity often acquires monstrous dimensions in the cultural imagination. Therefore, it was important to situate Rudra in a fluid space where the real and the surreal coalesce. In any case, the film is also a celebration of a fancy (as in wish), for which the classical realistic mode would not have worked. The three text messages from some mysterious sender, and the enigmatic counselor Shubho who turns out to be Rudra’s double fit well into this surreal mode.

However, the three philosophical text messages, especially the last one, (‘If driving in a drunken state is not allowed, why do bars have parking lots?’, ‘Everybody wants to go to Heaven, but no one wants to die’ and ‘Why do call a BUILDING a building even after it is complete?’) could have had a greater impact, if it wasn’t explicated. The final explanation given by Shubho robs the message of its intensity. And, the nurse telling Rudra that he must have been hallucinating all these days is completely undesirable. The problem is Ghosh assumed his audience to be intelligent, but could not completely depend on their acumen. Had Shubho remained elusive till the end, the surreal mode would have been highly successful. (May be it's a compromise he had to make keeping in mind the box-office!)

The Journey

The questions, the confusions, the anxieties, and the agony that assail Rudra before he undergoes the final surgery do not seem unreal. It’s quite natural to go through these states of mind before changing one’s biological sex. Rudra is lucky enough to have such understanding parents (Dipankar De and Anashuya Majumdar) who stand by him through the process. It’s a tad painful that Rudra continuously sees his father as a tyrannical patriarch who has never approved of his son’s effeminacy; but, the father does not come across as tyrannical as he was meant to be. Or perhaps, it is Rudra’s imagination that fathers are always tyrannical that makes him look upon him thus. The parents accept their son’s decision with a reserve unexpected of middle class Bengali parents in general. Rudra’s parents are remarkably exceptional to that end. However, a major Freudian slip occurs on the part of the father when he says that they have bought new curtains to do up Rudra’s room. Perhaps, the father still wants to keep him under wraps, away from curious eyes. In his subconscious, he still thinks of his son as a social embarrassment, notwithstanding his compassion for him. The curtains remain uppermost in Rudra’s mind too; when he meets his erstwhile boyfriend in dreamy darkroom, he does not forget to mention them. Has Rudra too not been able to accept himself?

                

 Rudra does not undergo the final surgery, and decides to return to his original self. The abandonment of the quest is not affected by some sense of guilt, but he no longer feels the necessity of a cosmetic transmogrification. Now, this is what Rudra feels; this is his crowning wish. It would be incorrect to see the film as a cautionary against sex-change; or as a moralistic narrative that ends with the dictum that sex-change is undesirable. It’s important to understand Rudra’s story as the story of an individual. His ‘wish’ cannot be representative of the community, and he cannot be held responsible for not exacting the expectation of the community of transpersons. Taking Rudra’s final decision as a statement on sex-change might be dangerous.

How autobiographical is Chitrangada?

This is one question which is nagging everyone and many are flocking to the theater to see Rituparno Ghosh’s life-story. Towards the beginning of the film, Shubho listening to a script read out by Rudra, asks with concern: ‘Boddo beshi autobiographical hoye jachche na?’ (Isn’t it becoming much too autobiographical?) Rudra replies: ‘Seta tumi jano boley’ (You think so because you already know my story). The film self-reflexively introduces the autobiographical dimension. In fact, the repetitive use of mirrors in the film prompts the audience to see Rudra as an image of Rituparno Ghosh. But, to treat the film as a purely self-indulgent autobiography of the director would be rather reductive. It’s undeniable that Ghosh’s iconic status (as a filmmaker and also as a queer person) remarkably overpowers the character he essays, and it’s extremely difficult not to think of Rudra as a fictional counterpart of Ghosh. For instance, if Sachin Tendulkar plays anybody but himself in a film, it would be difficult for the audience to imagine him as just another actor attempting a fictitious character. Ditto for Rituparno Ghosh. I believe many were even expecting to read under ‘Cast’ on the title card ‘Rituparno Ghosh as himself’. But Rudra’s story, despite containing recognizable allusions to the director’s personal life, is completely fictional, as attested by the disclaimer at the beginning. And I’m sure Ghosh did not intend Chitrangada: a crowing wish to serve as a medium of confession. Even if he had intended, there’s no need to bother. For, we have long stopped taking authorial intention seriously. Thanks to Roland Barthes and Michel Foucault. 

Note: The film would be remembered for its use of spectacle, music (Debojyoti Mishra), and of course, the choreography (Sharmila Biswas). 

Image Courtesy: sliceoflife.com

Release date of the film: 31 August 2012

Producer: Shri Venkatesh Films, Kolkata

Noukadubi: With and Beyond Rabindranath

Initially, I was rather apprehensive of Noukadubi (The Boatwreck), for I was rather disappointed with this Tagore novel, for it is perhaps the weakest of his prose-fictions, in terms of plot. The plot turns on too many glaring coincidences, much in the manner of several Dickens or Hardy novels. Again, the later part of the novel where Kamala almost mushily sentimentalizes on her victimization is simply nerve-racking. At times, Noukadubi  seems to read more like a Sarat Chandra novel, than a Tagore novel (However, I am not suggesting that Sarat Chandra’s novels are bad; what I’m trying to imply is that Tagore seems to play to the gallery in a manner akin to Sarat Chandra’s in Noukadubi; and this unsettles the reader, for she opens a Tagore text with a different kind of expectation altogether) Quite bewildered by his choice of text, I was rather curious to see Rituparno Ghosh’s treatment of a story, which originally begins with an interesting twist, but dwindles into dullness. Boatwrecks are famed to wrought havoc, as had been already established by Daniel Defoe's prose romance Robinson Crusoe, and therefore, an fascinating point to begin a narrative. That element of thrill was also there on the first pages of the Tagore novel as well; but, lost wind as the story unfolded. So, I was rather interested to see whether the Rituparno film can sustain the interest! 

I do not really believe that you need to read a novel before going for its cinematic adaptation. But in case of Rituaparno Ghosh’s Noukadubi, I would personally suggest that if you have not read the novel, it would be difficult for you to appreciate the spectacular departures the director makes from the original story. Re-narrating a novel frame by frame on celluloid is not desirable at all; Ghosh steers clear of that brilliantly and very interestingly renders one of Rabindranath’s not-so-good-novels rather watchable. 

What I could not stop marvelling at is the little play on authorship that Rituparno introduces. From the very beginning of the film, Rabindranath enters the narrative as a character whom Hemnalini (Raima Sen) adores, and when asked by Annada, her father (Dhritiman Chatterjee) whether she has developed amorous interest in someone, she says that her obvious choice is the poet. Next, Ramesh (Jishu Sengupta) while shifting to his new house and setting it up, admits that Rabindranath has become an indispensable part of his reality and demands a special corner in his house. I guess he even uses the word bojha (or burden) that the cultural phenomenon called Rabindarnath Thakur has become in the educated middle class Bengali household. The picture of the poet is used quite frequently; particularly the positioning of the picture in the scene where Nalikakshya (Prasenjit Chatterjee) sings Tori amar hothath dubey jai (My canoe sinks all of a sudden) is rather suggestive. The camera moves from Nalikakshya seated on one side of the room to a tearful Hemnalini sitting on the other side. The picture sits royally in-between the two, almost, overseeing, as it were, the proceedings. While he is the primary inspiration behind the story we see on celluloid, the director good-humouredly calls into question the very sanctity of his authorship by moulding the existing text to serve his cinematic purposes, right under his nose, as it were. This in turn deconstructs the whole notion of author-as-God, and also perhaps rescues Rabindranath from the unquestionable divine status many have attributed to the poet. Ironically, the picture is shown to be ritualistically worshipped. The introduction of this picture leaves you wondering endlessly what happens when the author himself finds access into his own fictional world. Then again, whose fictional world is this? Rituparno’s or Rabindranath’s? In fact, when the film ends, you realize the significance of the song Khelghar bandhte legechhi (I have begun building a doll’s house brick by brick) with which the film begins. The word khela translates into ‘play’; the suggestion is the director too is all set to begin a ‘play’ (please note play may mean both ‘game’ and ‘drama’) with a Tagore text; he is constructing a little drama, in the spirit of ‘play’, where he enters into a dialogue with the original author of Noukadubi. In this sense Khelaghar bandhte legechhi almost functions as a preface to the film.

The Bhawal-Sanyasi case forms the subtext of the film and quite understandably so; Shakuntala too is an important inter-text. The story of the wife’s predicament when she finds that her husband has completely lost all memories of her acts as an elaborate dramatic irony in Kamala’s (Riya Sen) narrative. In one occasion there is a delightful reference to Tennyson as well. In the novel both Ramesh and Akshaye gift the same hard-bound copy of Tennyson to Hemnalini. The suggestion could be that Tennyson, the pioneer of mainstream Victorianism, was an important vehicle of cultural colonization in colonial Bengal. One may recall in ‘The Lady of Shallot’, there appears a couple walking hand-in-hand in the moonlit night, when Tennyson almost with a sense of urgency quickly adds that they are lately married. Love or sex outside wedlock was regarded sacrilegious by the Victorian moral police. Therefore, Tennyson as a gift resonates with political implications. Ironically, however, the very inviolability of the institution of marriage is sufficiently challenged by the novel (and the film).

The use of Rabindrasangeet is extremely intelligent and the songs selected meaningfully contribute to the plot. Khelaghar bandhte legechhi amar moner bhitore (In the core of my heart, I have begun building a doll’s house brick by brick) with which the film begins acts a dramatic irony introducing Hemnalini’s vulnerability in love. The heart-rending Tori amar hothat dubey jaye literally takes on the title, while adequately expressing the misgivings of estrangement. Tomar ashimey (In the eternity that you are) comes at the right moment when a lovelorn Hemnalini fights with herself to come to terms with her reality. And all ends well with Anandalok e mangalaloke birajo satya sundar!

I feel that Noukadubi demands to be appreciated not only on the level of the narrative, but in terms of its execution. Since I was sceptical of the novel per se, the film came to me a pleasant surprise. And yes, once again, Rituparno Ghosh has proved he can really make his actors act: Raima is believable, and Jishu is sublte; but Prasenjit disappoints to a certain extent. He fails to bring into his performance the gravity Nalinakshya’s character demands. The astonishing part is that Riya Sen has actually acted; but, I feel, the lion’s share of the praise which Riya would command, should go to Monali Thakur whose voice-over has miraculously accentuated her performance.

An enjoyable film, Noukadubi could have gained a little more complexity had Ghosh shown a developing physical relationship between Kamala and Ramesh before the latter comes to discover Kamala’s real identity. The novel had given clear indications of that. But for some unknown reason Rituparno has refrained from it. But that does not take away from the film its brilliance.

You’re standing beyond the reaches of my song…

That’s what the great maestro ruefully sung. His intense urge to unite with the Infinite has found expression in song after song. The union has sometimes seemed almost complete, sometimes impossible…but the appeal never stopped. Ironically enough, while composing such songs, the poet had ended up creating another order of that Infinite. And today, on his sesquicentennial anniversary, we, the lesser mortals have found for ourselves the definition of that Infinite: it’s the Poet himself! Every composition, how insignificant it may be, aspires to attain to that order of the Soulful Infinite. Tagore, for us, has turned into that Shelleyan skylark, the symbol of uncontaminated joy and unpremeditated art, albeit his sweetest songs tell of our saddest thoughts, they have all reached that unreachable: a perpetually flowing river of happiness, where we all stand, wishing to realize that Infinity in our humble attempts at giving expression to life! The craving to merge with the poet would be and has always been a life-long quest for all of us…a quest which is never-ending, but, certainly, worth pursuing.