One of the hallmarks of Indian New Wave cinema was the interconnectedness of the arts even as it told stories of churn. Satyajit Ray’s films roped in Ravi Shankar or Birju Maharaj, Mrinal Sen had KK Mahajan giving shape to his cinematic vision, Ustad Bahadur Khan’s soundtrack formed the backdrop in many Ritwik Ghatak films. They left a quiet imprint, inalienable from the narrative.
In Kumar Shahani’s Maya Darpan (1972), though, the flute of Hariprasad Chaurasia or the performance of the Mayurbhanj Chhau troupe stood out amid the structural formalism and slow tension of a feudal and patriarchal system caught in the throes of change. Like a poetic aphorism, these interludes cut through the film’s politics or its slow narrative pace, becoming a leitmotif in later films such as Khayal Gatha (1989), Kasba (1990), and Char Adhyay (1997).
Despite his excellent credentials — FTII graduate and Ghatak acolyte who apprenticed with French filmmaker Robert Bresson — Shahani’s road to success was long-drawn. But the delay owed as much to the filmmaker’s perfectionism as to the failure of critics and others to do justice to his cinematic idiom. Distinct from those who came before him in the genre, it matched minimalism with neo-realism, formalism with quiet flamboyance.
In an essay in Our Films, Their Films, an anthology of film critiques, one of the pioneers of Indian New Wave cinema, Ray, wrote, “To me Maya Darpan seems a combination of poor psychology and poorer stylisation. Even the sophisticated response to colour goes for nothing in a film that is so gauche in its handling of the human element”. Yet, for Shahani, who died on Sunday in Kolkata, the form, replete with digressions and asymmetry between plot and action, is what lay at the heart of the story. It spoke of change, incremental and insidious, creeping up on a society neither prepared for it nor understanding it, except in hindsight. Quite like his films and the place they hold in Indian cinema.