Page 179 - The Apu Trilogy_ Satyajit Ray and the Making of an Epic
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166                    The Apu Trilogy

                   Ironically, the novelist Salman Rushdie provides a good
                example of Akhtar’s concerns. As is well known, Rushdie is a
                writer fascinated with the subtleties of multicultural identity
                (for example, in his novel Midnight’s Children), who was born in
                Bombay and educated first in that city in an English-medium
                school and then at British institutions. Writing about Ray and
                Pather Panchali in 1990, Rushdie began his essay with a personal
                homage to the film:


                  ‘I can never forget the excitement in my mind after seeing
                  it,’ Akira Kurosawa said about Satyajit Ray’s fi rst fi lm, Pather
                  Panchali (The Song of the Little Road), and it’s true: this movie,

                  made for next to nothing, mostly with untrained actors, by
                  a director who was learning (and making up) the rules as he
                  went along, is a work of such lyrical and emotional force that
                  it becomes, for its audiences, as potent as their own, most
                  deeply personal memories. To this day, the briefest snatch of
                  Ravi Shankar’s wonderful theme music brings back a fl ood
                  of feeling, and a crowd of images: the single eye of the lit-
                  tle Apu, seen at the moment of waking, full of mischief and
                  life; the insects dancing on the surface of the pond, prefi gur-
                  ing the coming monsoon rains; and above all the immortal
                  scene, one of the most tragic in all cinema, in which Harihar
                  the peasant comes home to the village from the city, bring-
                  ing presents for his children, not knowing that his daughter
                  has died in his absence. When he shows his wife, Sarbajaya,
                  the sari he has brought for the dead girl, she begins to weep;
                  and now he understands, and cries out, too; but (and this is
                  the stroke of genius) their voices are replaced by the high,
                  high music of a single tarshehnai, a sound like a scream of
                  the soul.


                  ‘Harihar the peasant’, writes Rushdie casually. But Harihar
                is no peasant: he is a Brahmin, a priest, a scholar and a writer,
                for heaven’s sake, who has never touched a plough in his life. An








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