Tajhat Rajbari and the Making of <i>Kuhelika Chhariye</i>
art work by gupu trivedi
"That's him, Simon. That's the guy I want."
Simon Robert Pereira, my old schoolmate, sitting beside me, gave a wry, tight-lipped smile in response. At least, I thought to myself, he did not evince any negative reaction.
"This is Nagen da, Shahid Bhai," Arif introduced the elderly man who was sandwiched between him and Jahangir. The small wizened man, quizzical eyes twinkling behind round plastic-framed eyeglasses, in white pyjamas and brown punjabi was the perfect fit for the caretaker's role. "Adaab," said Nagen Burman, clasping palms in namashkar. That surprisingly deep and clear voice sealed the role for him. And thereby hangs the tale of the making of Kuhelika Chhariye, Tajhat rajbari, and some strange coincidences.
I had just come back to Dhaka from London after a summer stint at the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art (RADA), when an opportunity to direct, and act in, the TV drama Kuhelika Chhariye arose. I was mulling over suitable location spots around Dhaka when the producer suggested one.
"But that's in Rangpur. I don't want to go that far," I had protested.
Eventually, though, after a good deal of persuasion, I agreed to go. The year was 1999. The newly-built Jamuna bridge was an impressive sight, the river flowing in its awesome might with only the massive supporting pillars forcing it to go around them. The motel we stayed in was tranquility itself, with a manicured garden and splendid service. On subsequent visits I have been saddened to see the mighty Jamuna reduced to rivulets around the bridge's pillars. The motel too, shorn of guests who prefer a resthouse located in the heart of the town, has lost its old splendor.
In early 1999, however, the motel was the staging ground for the production phase of Kuhelika Chhariye. The producer and I lost little time in reaching the Rajbari, but our first impression of a majestic building was later belied by the rot that had eaten away at its vitals.
"God, this is the place," I had exclaimed in awe.
However, once we finished closely surveying the entire building and its surroundings, we noticed the disharmony that marred this magnificent structure. The ruins of the low, plaster-covered railing punctuated by decorative little columns that surrounded the two large ponds on the pathway leading up to the gate were sad reminders of bygone days of zamindari wealth and glory. The water in the deep ponds was covered with green scum. All kinds of people from the vicinity bathed there. Back in the old days, one pond had been the preserve of the rajah and other male members of the family, while the other had been for estate employees. There was another pond situated behind, in a straight line with a side entrance to the building, where the women of the family and female guests had bathed.
The walkway from the gate skirted a roughly sphere-shaped structure where a fountain, now in disuse, stood. In full flow, during the heydays of the rajahs, it must have been a resplendent sight. The path ended at the bottom of an imposing flight of broad stone steps leading up to an open foyer, made of stone slabs, that allowed people to take in the magnificent vista spread out in front of their eyes before they made for the long corridor that lined the interior rooms of the first floor. Exquisitely patterned in geometric fashion, the off-white and black stones gave a regal splendour to the house. A massive hall from the foyer ran the entire length of the long corridor, and continued all the way to the end of the building. A parallel corridor on the western side of the hall connected what were two separate rear sections of the building. There were staircases, one leading to the rooftop, where there were two imposing miniature lighthouse-like structures on either end. At the centre of the front rooftop wall was an even more imposing structure, whose minaret-like top seemed to be reaching for the heavens.
The large hall was reputed to be the dance hall that had kept the rajah and his guests entertained. Alternatively, it was thought to have been the chamber where he oversaw the day-to-day administrative functions. There was another hall of the very same size and dimensions immediately beneath it on the ground floor, and it was uncertain which one had functioned as either the entertainment room or the administration chamber. Somehow one felt that the upper hall had served to entertain. Even after decades of ruin, one could make out the delicate etchings on some of the original glass covering the expensive wooden frames of the massive windows placed at regular intervals on the front and rear sides of the two halls. Many of the etched glass are now missing, and have been replaced by plain glass. According to the caretakers and local people that I met, several of the corridor stones have also been pilfered and are missing.
All the doors of the building were massive, and tastefully carved by master craftsmen of the day. The most impressive room on the top floor, aside from the hall room, was the master bedroom situated at the front of the building. It opened out, to the front and right, to a large balcony, but its most arresting feature was the beautifully-patterned mosaic of multi-hued, hardened terracotta floor. The spacious windows opening out to let the breeze in from an orchard with a variety of trees and the high ceiling must have made fans unnecessary. This room was reached from the ground floor by an imposing staircase, made of expensive bulky timber, and intricately carved in places, that carried on to the rooftop. It also led to the first floor through a small vestibule that was separated from the corridor by a truly magnificent stained-glass door. At the end of this corridor was a narrow spiral iron staircase, with a background formed by a patterned stained glass built into the rear wall. It was most probably used by the household help. The ground floor, with minor differences, was a replica of the first floor, and it could be reached from the front of the building via the cavernous space formed underneath the stairway to heaven, as it were. One could visualize grand carriages driving up to the space (as well as to the front of the stairway), and passengers alighting to enter the ground floor hall (or the one on the first floor), either for purposes relating to the zamindari business, or be entertained with wine, dancing women and song.
For the record, it must be stated that the present Rajbari was constructed after the original building was destroyed by a massive earthquake in 1887.
From the very beginning of our enterprise there were a series of coincidences. It began with the fact that long before I set eyes on the place, I had chalked out a script that would use flashbacks from modern times to a feudal period to dramatize relationships, feelings, and foibles of a rajah, his rani, and his most coveted court dancer. Then, later, during the course of filming, and on a visit to Rangpur not too long after that (or perhaps immediately before the start of the production phase, I can't recall now), I would often talk with the locals, and with Nagenda about the Rajbari, wanting anecdotal stories they could relate about it and its occupants. Without vouching for its historical accuracy, this, in a nutshell, is what I gathered: Before the zamindari system was abolished, the rajahs lived it up to the full on the earnings from their vast landholdings. Their treatment of the projas (subjects) varied according to the temperament and character of the zamindar. One of the rajahs, probably the last before the zamindari system was abolished, was particularly addicted to wine and women. Legend has it that if he spied any comely girl or woman from his rooftop, he would make every effort to possess her. And he was obsessed with dancing girls. He had a bevy of them sequestered within the palace grounds. His official consort was apparently resigned to his peccadilloes. My fictitious drama had antecedents of sorts in its film location, and legends surrounding it and its occupants of yore.
"I passed though the vicinity of this Rajbari so many times beginning from my childhood days. And now I've gotten to see its interior for the very first time," mused Nagen da. Those rajahs must have displayed all the manifestations of the quintessential Bengali zamindar!
But then something else happened. A letter was shown to me by Mukul Mustafiz, either just prior to, or immediately after, the production phase. Mukul Mustafiz was responsible for getting me Nagen da. He was the owner, publisher, and editor of a weekly called Atal.
One afternoon, I went to Mustafiz's place, and he casually handed me a letter addressed to him in Bangla. He did not forget to pass on the envelope. I took a close look at it.
"This letter is from India."
"As you can see."
"Who is it from?"
"Why don't you read it?"
I finished it at one go, at the end of which I stared at Mustafiz. For how long I am unable to recall.
"This can't be real!"
"It is. I was as surprised as you when I received it."
"You know the guy?"
"Never saw him."
"Then?"
"I don't know. But the timing is so strange."
"You can say that again. Hope I don't get into trouble!"
"Make sure you don't."
A person claiming to be the son of the last zamindar of Tajhat had written to Mustafiz, since he was a prominent local citizen and a journalist, to try to redress his plight in India. He and his family were in pecuniary straits, and wondered if Mustafiz could help him by helping salvage something from the government, which was in possession of the estate as enemy property. He gave a lengthy account of his family lineage, and the reasons why the Enemy Property Act should not apply in his case. And he warned anyone, on pain of being taken to court, not to make any gain out of using his family name and its attendant paraphernalia.
"Mukul Bhai, I was going to do it anyway, but I'll make doubly certain that I'll prominently highlight the disclaimer at the end of the film about the story and its characters being entirely fictitious."
The story the letter writer had sketched out about his family was, in places, too uncomfortably close to parts in Kuhelika Chhariye. It was telecast a number of times by India's Zee TV's then-Alpha Bangla (now Zee Bangla) from late 2001 to late 2004.
I must admit that, during the shooting phase, which often went on far into the night, I tried very hard to spot an apparition or two. After all, it was an old house, and unsavoury things had gone on there! Maybe the intense lights with myriad gel sheets to create an illusion of moonlit night when cloud covers blocked the moon itself from showering us with the real thing scared them off. Or, maybe it was that the sound of generators and so many voices disturbing the stillness of night that made them stay away from all these creatures and their machines in the land of the living. I certainly would have liked seeing one or two of them, though!
A final note: One of the messages of Kuhelika Chhariye was the imperative of preserving our heritage. A nation is also defined by its traditions and heritage. Not too long after Kuhelika Chhariye was completed, Tajhat Rajbari was taken over by the government's archeology department. Today it functions as a national museum. I would like to think that the making of Kuhelika Chhariye had something to do with that delightful development!
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