Photographer Nemai Ghosh had three trunks-full of film negatives chronicling Bengal and Hindi film industries. And there he was, ready to dump it all into the Ganges

My journey as a photographer began serendipitously. Often things in life which give us much joy begin such. A friend, Gopal Ghosh, owed me `240. He repaid the money in kind and I became a photographer. However, I should tell that story later. First a bit about the extended family I grew up in. My family was not an artistically-inclined one. But art was a good word for us—so much so that as a struggling photographer I would often seek help from them to tide things over in tough times. For them the art world was so sacred and required such talent and dedication that my intention of becoming a novelist was dismissed by a brotherin- law in seconds. I had shown him a draft of a novel which I had written and was mightily pleased with. Like a conscientious good Bengali gentleman, he poo-pooed the idea stating that unless I had read a thousand (or was it more?) novels I should not even dare to pen a line. There ended that chapter. I may have been fast to abandon my career as a “novelist”, but my relationship with theatre, actors and technicians—art directors, camera people and production assistants— has been a strong one. Theatre has been a passion since my youth. I eventually found myself in the Little Theatre Group run by Utpal Dutt, a pioneer of Bengal’s theatre scene. I received an opportunity of a lifetime to watch the legend at work, learnt concepts of light, darkness, shade, perspective, depth, tone and composition with him. Without realising, I learnt how to observe rather than just see. The stage also gave me my buddies. Those who would gather at my South Calcutta home for a game of cards. I did not play then and I still do not. But I enjoy the feeling of joie de vivre that games encourage—the laughter, arguments and discussions. It was during one such game (with me watching from the sidelines as usual) that I held my first camera. That particular day, friend Gopal Ghosh walked in triumphantly with a Canon8 QL17 (fixed lens). “Take a look,” he said holding it high for everyone. He knew that I had little idea of cameras and would show it to my friends who did. I showed Ghosh’s camera—found by his mother-in-law in her taxi and then obtained from the taxi driver for `10 as a bribe—to Joypratap Mitra, assistant cameraman to Satyajit Ray, and Bhanu Ghosh, production controller at the same team. Ghosh’s attempt to gauge his camera’s worth proved to be disastrous for him. “Keep the camera Nemai, if he lets you. You don’t have to buy film rolls, I will give you the cut pieces (rolls of films that remain in a reel after a scene has been shot),” said Mitra in a whisper. I started an argument with Ghosh. He wished to sell his camera for `600. I obtained it for `240, which I never paid, as it was a sum that Ghosh owed me. And the Canon8 QL17 was mine. One of my theatre colleagues was Robi Ghosh—a well-known Bengali comedian and constant fixture in Ray’s films, including Goopy Gyne, Bagha Byne, which was being shot in those days. Because Robi was involved in that particular film, theatre rehearsals were temporarily suspended. Armed with a newly-acquired camera and two five-feet rolls given to me by Joypratap Mitra, some of us theatre friends of Robi landed up at Rampurhat, where he was shooting. On that day, the team was rehearsing a smaller sequence in which water drops on a dhol creating a constant thud-thud; a simple shot, but so wellplanned by Ray. I was in such awe of this director’s sheer genius that I finished two rolls snapping his pictures. The technical know-how came from Joypratap Mitra and the angle was based on pure instinct and on what stage had taught me. In those days, I used to frequent a hub called Studio Renaissance run by BK Sanyal, one of pioneers who began the Renaissance Camera Group in Calcutta which later became the Photographic Association of Bengal. His studio was more like an intellectual central frequented by Ritwik Ghatak, Mrinal Sen, Tapan Sinha, Ali Akbar and Ravi Shankar, to name a few. Sanyal was fond of me. With trepidation I asked the expert to develop my films. They are of Satyajit Ray, I proudly declared. He didn’t require prompting and disappeared into the dark room to come back after a few minutes to punch my arm and plant a kiss on my forehead. Carry on, he told me–it was like a blessing coming from the 65-year-old photographer. He was the one who gave me the idea to make contact sheets. And I made them on a lark—just to show the world that I had taken pictures of Manik-da, as Satyajit Ray was known. Life went on for a bit, till another card game brought Bankshicharan Bandopadhyay (a senior photographer and cameraman in Ray’s team) to my house. He was the one who informed me that Ray was shooting again. “Why don’t you join us? And bring the sheets along,” he said. I was more than happy to oblige. This time I had an audience with the master— during one of the breaks, Bandopadhyay called Ray over and asked him to look through the sheets. Though he hardly said anything—from that day onwards I had found a place in Ray’s sets. I never came on the sets as a documentarist, but I became one. I entered into a relationship of personal trust with the legend, which allowed me the freedom of space and free access to his private and public lives. I had complete access to his home. I could walk into his house at 6am when I knew he would be the one up and about, sipping his tea and reading his newspaper. Or go again at 11.30pm or 12.00pm when he would work under that solitary lamp in the studio. An attentive man to the core he would ask “How would you go home?”. Every time I would let him know that I lived close by. One night around 9.00pm, one of Manik-da’s camera assistants informed me that I was going for a shoot in Sikkim. Usually, Manik-da lived on his own, away from the crew on his film sets. As a director he was far more disciplined and had few vices, thus he preferred to be on his and study in the simulated studio sets, on location, with his close collaborators, his actors and technicians, or in any crowd. Through him my access to the Bengal film industry was firmly established—he was my Press Card. People took me far more seriously because Manik-da gave me access. It is true that I could not make a headway into the Hindi film industry though I have been a part of a lot of lives there. I became close to Jaya Bachchan, who was a Kali devotee. I visited her when Amitabh Bachchan had the major accident during Coolie with the prasad from Calcutta’s Kalighat Temple. I have been able to be there with the stars and actors because I have been emotionally invested in their lives, their stories and because I was simply interested in them. Needless to add that after Ray died, for two years I barely picked up the camera. I lost interest in it, till I made a journey to the Kutch region. It was a ordinary holiday with such extraordinary beauty that the camera beckoned once more.

I Wish I Could...

Is it not an easy question to answer? If not a photographer I would have become a theatre actor. I really loved the stage.