The Intellectual Jewels of Bengal
Had Ritwik Ghatak been alive, perhaps he could never have
descended to such an act — the very act now performed by Mrinal Sen and his
cohort. Just before the elections in West Bengal, fifty-three so-called
democratic intellectuals — writers, poets, artists — published a bizarre
declaration, proclaiming their support for the Left Front. Their message was
clear: let the people cast their votes in overwhelming numbers, let the Left
return in triumph. The patriarch, the chieftain of this cabal, was none other than
Mrinal Sen.
Many detractors often mutter that throughout his life Mrinal Sen made barely a film and a half — the rest being nothing more than propaganda reels for the Communist Party. Connoisseurs of cinema hesitate to seat him alongside Satyajit and Ritwik. Much like how the Marxists, with their Goebbels-style propaganda, pushed Manik Bandyopadhyay into the exalted company of Bibhutibhushan and Sarat Chandra, they too contrived to enshrine Mrinal Sen beside Satyajit and Ritwik. With the help of their organized drum-beaters, they raised him to greatness. And so, whenever elections loomed in Bengal, Sen appeared as a loyal party cadre, performing his assigned duty.
Next in the line comes Dibyendu Palit. Only a few years ago, he wrote with great flourish, alleging that during the Ballygunge by-election the CPM’s hired goons prevented him from casting his vote. “There is no democracy in this state,” he thundered then. The third figure is Sunil Gangopadhyay, the darling of Anandabazar. A suspicion always lingers in the literary world — had Anandabazar not been his patron, would Sunil have become Sunil at all? Once, during the era of open conflict between Anandabazar and Jyoti Basu, he even shared a stage with Mamata Banerjee, the then fiery leader of Congress, and praised her role in the battle to “save democracy” in Bengal.
Chintamoni Kar admitted in an interview, and Mahasweta Devi said in private gatherings, that the state government had done nothing for them. They lamented that in Gujarat, more heed was paid to their suggestions than in Bengal. Jyoti Basu himself, in his candid and brusque manner, confessed: “I know nothing of this culture-valchure. Buddha handles all that.” It was his political genius that he kept a healthy distance from these mandarins of art and letters, and chose to stay directly connected with the masses. Thus, during his long reign, the so-called cultural vultures never posed any real threat.
But once Buddhadeb took his seat, the calculations began to change. The pet intellectuals of Ganashakti and Ajkaal were relegated. With the reconciliation of Buddhadeb and Anandabazar, a new species of “market intellectuals” surged to the fore. Overnight, the Nehruvian Anandabazar group acquired a Marxist tongue, and lo! Mahasweta joined hands with Sunil, Debesh Roy embraced Dibyendu Palit. For over a year, they all toiled openly for the CPM, as though the party had been reborn, purified, elevated under Buddha’s stewardship. And so, even the older guard of “pure” Left intellectuals — Sandipan Chattopadhyay, Debesh Roy, Shankha Ghosh — found themselves sharing the honey pot with their “market” counterparts. Tiger and cow drinking from the same pond — such rare a sight that we, the proletarians of Bengal, can count ourselves strangely blessed to witness it.
And all this, mind you, at a time when Nandigram’s peasants were massacred, when police atrocities in Garbeta filled the air with groans, when nepotism infested every pore of society, when Bengal’s cultural and moral life was in steep decline, when law and order had collapsed, when unemployment stalked every household, when corruption ran riot. In the face of such decay, these eminent savants raised their hands and bestowed blessings upon the very regime responsible. By what principle, by what moral compass, did they arrive at this? The people are baffled.
They claim they cannot side with “Ram” — that morality restrains them. And yet morality does not restrain them from accepting Akademi awards, fellowships, and state stipends from Delhi’s “Ram.” Then they proudly call themselves secular. A few steps into Kharagpur, however, and they morph into Marxists. Such chameleon play! And now, in unison, they exhort the public to once again vote for a party that has clung to power for twenty-five long years. The world has not witnessed such a phenomenon before.
To understand what web Buddha-Anil-Biman have spun to entrap these intellectuals, one must visit the Nandan-Rabindra Sadan complex — that lush “garden of intellect.” Four or five buildings, auditoriums, the Bangla Academy, and seventy-odd committees. Each post carries honorarium, each festival means thousands of rupees, not to mention government publishing houses, exhibitions, seminars, patronage galore. For these mandarins, what is lacking? Each day, like clerks, they mark attendance at Nandan, Rabindra Sadan, Sisir Mancha, the Information Centre, the Fine Arts complex. Marxism, long exiled from the world, is taught there with zeal. And alongside it, “market literature.” From government coffers, huge sums are spent for story-readings, poetry recitals, musical evenings, lectures, stipends for committee members. In this fairy garden, Marxism is bartered for cash and applause.
This is not the CPI of Promode Dasgupta, not the fiery Left Front of the 1970s. This is the corrupted Left of Buddha-Anil-Biman, embraced without question. Buddhadeb for Chief Minister — he is selfless; Mamata desires power — she is greedy. Buddha’s ambition is noble, Mamata’s is vulgar! By what arithmetic, by what logic? None of these intellectuals care to explain. The whispers of Alimuddin Street now escape their lips. Creativity, conscience, impartial analysis — all cast into the gutter. What remains is feasting at the state’s expense, singing its praise. The true working class has long been abandoned.
I recall an incident: in the Rabindra Sadan fairground, a decorator’s worker, washing his hands at dusk, remarked, “Elsewhere, when we build a stage, people at least give us a corner to sleep at night. Here, they give nothing.” In Bengal, the unorganized sector forms the largest part of the workforce. Farmers and laborers are bound hand and foot to party-controlled unions. If they disobey, their livelihood ends. And the intellectuals, hand-fed by the state, behave with them in ways that elsewhere in India would be unthinkable. Strange indeed, that these very people call themselves Marxists!
But why, you ask, does no one protest? Who will? If a young writer raises his voice, his work will be blacklisted everywhere. In Bengal, there is no industry, no factories, no jobs. There exist only two powerful institutions: the Left Front and Anandabazar. And now, they have joined hands. What straw can withstand this deluge? Every stage, every forum is tied to the same string. History shows us: fascists and communists alone possess the skill to turn culture into “valchure.” To monopolize media, communication, imagination. Only the Left could float five versions of Ganashakti under different names in the market.
And intellectuals? They are usually beggars for money. Art alone rarely feeds in today’s marketplace. To survive, they surrender to institutions. Greed for money and prestige makes them easy to purchase. Today, no one comes to art with a passion for truth, for society, for the country. Art has become merely another commodity. The dream now is to ride in government limousines, to obtain state plots in Salt Lake and Rajarhat, to secure subsidized flats in south Kolkata, to bask in the glow of power and recognition. These writers, artists, intellectuals — are they any different from corporate managers or potato traders?
Those who cannot view society with impartiality have no right to human respect. Immortality is not even in question. The day is not far when these intellectuals will be consigned to the crematorium of oblivion — and with them, in a funeral pyre, will go the art, culture, and literature of Bengal itself.
Many detractors often mutter that throughout his life Mrinal Sen made barely a film and a half — the rest being nothing more than propaganda reels for the Communist Party. Connoisseurs of cinema hesitate to seat him alongside Satyajit and Ritwik. Much like how the Marxists, with their Goebbels-style propaganda, pushed Manik Bandyopadhyay into the exalted company of Bibhutibhushan and Sarat Chandra, they too contrived to enshrine Mrinal Sen beside Satyajit and Ritwik. With the help of their organized drum-beaters, they raised him to greatness. And so, whenever elections loomed in Bengal, Sen appeared as a loyal party cadre, performing his assigned duty.
Next in the line comes Dibyendu Palit. Only a few years ago, he wrote with great flourish, alleging that during the Ballygunge by-election the CPM’s hired goons prevented him from casting his vote. “There is no democracy in this state,” he thundered then. The third figure is Sunil Gangopadhyay, the darling of Anandabazar. A suspicion always lingers in the literary world — had Anandabazar not been his patron, would Sunil have become Sunil at all? Once, during the era of open conflict between Anandabazar and Jyoti Basu, he even shared a stage with Mamata Banerjee, the then fiery leader of Congress, and praised her role in the battle to “save democracy” in Bengal.
Chintamoni Kar admitted in an interview, and Mahasweta Devi said in private gatherings, that the state government had done nothing for them. They lamented that in Gujarat, more heed was paid to their suggestions than in Bengal. Jyoti Basu himself, in his candid and brusque manner, confessed: “I know nothing of this culture-valchure. Buddha handles all that.” It was his political genius that he kept a healthy distance from these mandarins of art and letters, and chose to stay directly connected with the masses. Thus, during his long reign, the so-called cultural vultures never posed any real threat.
But once Buddhadeb took his seat, the calculations began to change. The pet intellectuals of Ganashakti and Ajkaal were relegated. With the reconciliation of Buddhadeb and Anandabazar, a new species of “market intellectuals” surged to the fore. Overnight, the Nehruvian Anandabazar group acquired a Marxist tongue, and lo! Mahasweta joined hands with Sunil, Debesh Roy embraced Dibyendu Palit. For over a year, they all toiled openly for the CPM, as though the party had been reborn, purified, elevated under Buddha’s stewardship. And so, even the older guard of “pure” Left intellectuals — Sandipan Chattopadhyay, Debesh Roy, Shankha Ghosh — found themselves sharing the honey pot with their “market” counterparts. Tiger and cow drinking from the same pond — such rare a sight that we, the proletarians of Bengal, can count ourselves strangely blessed to witness it.
And all this, mind you, at a time when Nandigram’s peasants were massacred, when police atrocities in Garbeta filled the air with groans, when nepotism infested every pore of society, when Bengal’s cultural and moral life was in steep decline, when law and order had collapsed, when unemployment stalked every household, when corruption ran riot. In the face of such decay, these eminent savants raised their hands and bestowed blessings upon the very regime responsible. By what principle, by what moral compass, did they arrive at this? The people are baffled.
They claim they cannot side with “Ram” — that morality restrains them. And yet morality does not restrain them from accepting Akademi awards, fellowships, and state stipends from Delhi’s “Ram.” Then they proudly call themselves secular. A few steps into Kharagpur, however, and they morph into Marxists. Such chameleon play! And now, in unison, they exhort the public to once again vote for a party that has clung to power for twenty-five long years. The world has not witnessed such a phenomenon before.
To understand what web Buddha-Anil-Biman have spun to entrap these intellectuals, one must visit the Nandan-Rabindra Sadan complex — that lush “garden of intellect.” Four or five buildings, auditoriums, the Bangla Academy, and seventy-odd committees. Each post carries honorarium, each festival means thousands of rupees, not to mention government publishing houses, exhibitions, seminars, patronage galore. For these mandarins, what is lacking? Each day, like clerks, they mark attendance at Nandan, Rabindra Sadan, Sisir Mancha, the Information Centre, the Fine Arts complex. Marxism, long exiled from the world, is taught there with zeal. And alongside it, “market literature.” From government coffers, huge sums are spent for story-readings, poetry recitals, musical evenings, lectures, stipends for committee members. In this fairy garden, Marxism is bartered for cash and applause.
This is not the CPI of Promode Dasgupta, not the fiery Left Front of the 1970s. This is the corrupted Left of Buddha-Anil-Biman, embraced without question. Buddhadeb for Chief Minister — he is selfless; Mamata desires power — she is greedy. Buddha’s ambition is noble, Mamata’s is vulgar! By what arithmetic, by what logic? None of these intellectuals care to explain. The whispers of Alimuddin Street now escape their lips. Creativity, conscience, impartial analysis — all cast into the gutter. What remains is feasting at the state’s expense, singing its praise. The true working class has long been abandoned.
I recall an incident: in the Rabindra Sadan fairground, a decorator’s worker, washing his hands at dusk, remarked, “Elsewhere, when we build a stage, people at least give us a corner to sleep at night. Here, they give nothing.” In Bengal, the unorganized sector forms the largest part of the workforce. Farmers and laborers are bound hand and foot to party-controlled unions. If they disobey, their livelihood ends. And the intellectuals, hand-fed by the state, behave with them in ways that elsewhere in India would be unthinkable. Strange indeed, that these very people call themselves Marxists!
But why, you ask, does no one protest? Who will? If a young writer raises his voice, his work will be blacklisted everywhere. In Bengal, there is no industry, no factories, no jobs. There exist only two powerful institutions: the Left Front and Anandabazar. And now, they have joined hands. What straw can withstand this deluge? Every stage, every forum is tied to the same string. History shows us: fascists and communists alone possess the skill to turn culture into “valchure.” To monopolize media, communication, imagination. Only the Left could float five versions of Ganashakti under different names in the market.
And intellectuals? They are usually beggars for money. Art alone rarely feeds in today’s marketplace. To survive, they surrender to institutions. Greed for money and prestige makes them easy to purchase. Today, no one comes to art with a passion for truth, for society, for the country. Art has become merely another commodity. The dream now is to ride in government limousines, to obtain state plots in Salt Lake and Rajarhat, to secure subsidized flats in south Kolkata, to bask in the glow of power and recognition. These writers, artists, intellectuals — are they any different from corporate managers or potato traders?
Those who cannot view society with impartiality have no right to human respect. Immortality is not even in question. The day is not far when these intellectuals will be consigned to the crematorium of oblivion — and with them, in a funeral pyre, will go the art, culture, and literature of Bengal itself.
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