I was never really inclined to watch movies as a child. But as I grew older, somehow a love for cinema blossomed — I don't know exactly how. Now I watch quite a few films. But let me tell you about the movie that first made me fall in love with cinema.
It was during the summer holidays. Lazy afternoons with nothing to do. I had already finished my holiday homework in the first two days. My mother would often say, "See, this is how you spend your holidays!" I was a little afraid of demons and monsters, so if shows like Lalkamal Neelkamal or Arun Barun Kiranmala were on, I'd sit in the scorching sun on the veranda and play with a neighbor instead.
One afternoon, while playing, I suddenly heard a song on TV. I ran inside, abandoning the game — it was that captivating. Even though I used to be scared of ghosts and monsters, I was completely enchanted by the song "Bhooter Raja Dilo Bor." From then on, during Puja, I would sing joyfully without really understanding the words:
"Dekh re noyone mele jagoter bahar."
And on Christmas morning, I'd find gifts beside my pillow with the song echoing in my head.
Later, on another such afternoon, while playing, I heard a rhyme:
"Lekha pora kore je, anahare more she."
At that age, I instantly became a fan. I ran to the living room and saw Feluda, wearing a panjabi (I didn't know clothing differences then), standing with a solemn face, listening to a man with a cap speaking. Feluda was solemnly repeating the lines:
"Janar kono shesh nai
Janar cheshta britha tai
Biddya lave lokshon nai
Artho nai maan
Hirak Raja buddhiman
Gao shobey tar joygaan."
I must have been six or seven then, and Feluda's words were like sacred scriptures to me. So whenever my mother told me to study, I'd say, "Biddya lave lokshon nai, ortho nai maan." What followed were a few good spankings — a story best left untold. Can you really blame me, though?
Not long before that, I had watched Joi Baba Felunath with my elder cousins. Feluda's dialogue, "Ami hoy er bodla nebo na hoy goyendagiri chere debo" — I had memorized it by hearing them repeat it. My cousins, like wise elders, told me Feluda was a great detective. So how could I believe his words were untrue?
Now, let's talk about the movie itself. I wondered — how did he become Hirak Raja? Isn't he Maganlal Meghraj? It took me years to figure out what was right and what was wrong. But by then, I had become a devoted fan of Hirak Rajar Deshe.
Still, there is one sadness: God never knew that such a devoted fan existed. But then again, just as one can only marvel at God's mysterious creations, I guess I can only marvel at my own obsession. Anyway, that's not relevant here.
So back to what I was saying — the film had such an influence that if my mom scolded me too much at lunch, I would say:
"Anahare nahi khed, beshi kheley barey medh."
But that was risky. My mom would respond:
"Je kore khonite shrom, jeno tare dorey jom."
I would reply, "Mom, you don't need to work in a mine. Just clean up your bookshelf and you'll be free." I'd ask, "Are you the Hirak Rani?"
Mom would say, "Yes, since this mine has been discovered."
And if I ever said:
"Onachar koro jodi rani
Tobe chharo godi
Jara tomar dhama dhari
Tader-o bipod bhari."
Sometimes I'd get punished, sometimes I'd be spared thanks to my grandmother.
That's how my childhood passed. I grew up, but that love never left me. Even today, if my sister, cousin, or I sneak food from the fridge, we whisper:
"O he Bagha-da, hira nile koto shuni?
Shomoy ki achhe ki guni?"
So now, in these battle-like times, I feel like if Goopi and Bagha were here, they would sing:
"O re halla rajar sena
Tora juddho kore korbi ki ta bol?"
And if any injustice occurred, Udayan Pandit would shout:
"Dori dhore maro tan, raja hobe khan khan!"