Abhignya critiques book clubs that mirror society’s vanity and sincerity, where Satyajit Ray’s Patol Babu, Film Star, embodies integrity, defying the hollow lure of fame, for Different Truths.
In the recent past, several book clubs have mushroomed in my town. It appears to be welcome news; book clubs might herald creativity, inclusivity, productivity, progressiveness, dialogue, and perhaps most significantly, teach attention in the age of Instagram. One might, at a book club, for instance, discover a poem that helps them be a better parent to a queer child, leave their draining job, support a grieving friend, or simply experience a moment of thrill on an otherwise dull day. Sometime last year, I’d been approached to be a part of a book club committee presided over by a popular local writer (no one had read her books; she was popular because she was popular).
I saw closely the workings of the book club in question. It was not a democratic space and would often only launch books whose authors were able to pay a hefty fee. Many an honest voice was lost when money or political clout was considered more important than the quality of writing. The writer/president is an enterprising lady who produces a book every couple of months, published by a businessman.
It is an open secret that she’s to buy fifty thousand copies herself every time a book is published; these then find their way to libraries and cafes across town and are gifted to the influential individuals she meets. She also happens to be a teacher, literature festival organiser, and works with an NGO; all of her eventful, glamourous life appears on social media. She regularly posts videos where she discusses interesting episodes from her work and never refrains from giving advice. Budding writers sometimes cater to her so that her contacts may help them make a certain mark in the field of literature.
I remember at a cultural event once, she’d expressed great grief at not being called to herald it – they don’t know of my property, she’d joked. And yet that ‘joke’ seemed to stem from a bitter, staunch belief that literature had to do with capital. In public imagination, the figure of a teacher or writer is meant to shape formative minds (for the better and moral), but here was a woman of immense reach who only wished to be in the limelight and not work at the delicate craft of practising literature. This ‘inauthenticity’ (to use a term from existential philosophy) bothers me. Sartre would use the phrase ‘bad faith’ and Camus would call it ‘philosophical suicide’.
A beautiful opposite is to be found in Satyajit Ray’s Patol Babu. One ought to learn of the value of sincerity and authenticity from his example. Patol Babu, Film Star is a short story that is taught to 10th graders in the CBSE English course. Patol Babu is a “52-year-old nonentity”, an amateur actor and a hardworking man largely unsuccessful in the commercial, conventional ways of life. He leads a humble life with his partner; they have made a cosy home for themselves in a flat in Kolkata. Patol Babu often tends to live in the glory of his youthful past when he commanded the stage with his charismatic acting. There appears a ray of sunshine in the dull scape of his career (very many years later) when he chances upon a role in what was to become a hit, critical film. He acquiesces with enthusiasm. After all, it was “a speaking part in a Baren Mullick film”! He is to reach the far end of town, don a woollen high-neck in the thick of summer and do as he is instructed. As he reaches before time (the reader is informed that he’s never been late even once in his nine-year job), Patol Babu happily mulls over the prospect of delivering his best.
He receives a rude shock when he is told that the only dialogue his character has received is a quick “oh!”. Was this a joke? He drowns in disappointment, but soon comes around when he is reminded of his mentor’s advice. He has been the mentee of an exceptional stage-actor and director who has instilled in him respect for all roles, big and small. A “small” part, too, can make a difference and leave a lasting impact on the audience. He thinks:
“Was it really true that there was nothing in the part he had been given today? He had only one word to say–‘ Oh!’, but was that word so devoid of meaning as to be dismissed summarily? “Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh”–Patol Babu began giving the exclamation a different inflection each time he uttered it. After doing it several times, he made an astonishing discovery. The same exclamation, when spoken in different ways, carried different shades of meaning. A man, when hurt, said ‘Oh’ in quite a different way. Despair brought forth another kind of ‘Oh’; sorrow provoked yet another kind. In fact, there were so many kinds of “Oh’s”–the short “Oh”, the long-drawn “Oh”, “Oh” shouted and “Oh” whispered, the high-pitched “Oh” and the low-pitched “Oh”, and the “Oh” starting low and ending high, and the “Oh” starting high and ending low. Strange! Patol Babu suddenly felt that he could write a whole thesis on that one monosyllabic exclamation. Why had he felt so disheartened when this single word contained a gold mine of meaning? The true actor could make a mark with this one single syllable.”
He takes it upon himself to act in integrity and honesty. He was to dash into the protagonist and utter the “oh” as a response, irritated and surprised. He calculates the number of steps he is to take and times his movement accordingly:
“Patol Babu cleared his throat and started enunciating the syllable in various ways. Along with that, he worked out how he would react physically when the collision took place–how his features would be twisted in pain, how he would fling out his arms, how his body would crouch to express pain and surprise–all these he performed in various ways in front of a large glass window.”
He does the scene with finesse, receives praise and is then asked to wait for his payment. The reader gets a glimpse into his thoughts again:
“But all the labour and imagination he had put into this one shot–were these people able to appreciate that? He doubted it. They just got hold of some people, got them to go through certain motions, paid them for their labour and forgot all about it. Paid them, yes, but how much? Ten, fifteen, twenty rupees? He indeed needed money very badly, but what was twenty rupees when measured against the intense satisfaction of a small job done with perfection and dedication?”
The twenty rupees or so he was to receive (one is to remember that the story is old and twenty rupees was a significant amount of money) will be of help to sort out everyday affairs. That money will also stand as a symbol of his usefulness and talent in the eyes of his tired wife, who sometimes disregards the potential he holds. Patol Babu, despite the constraints of his condition and the benefits of the money, chooses to leave with dignity. He refuses to receive payment for his dedication amounts to a quantifiable sum of money. Art for art’s sake. For Patol Babu, quietly doing his duty becomes an act of resistance and joy. It brings him fulfilment.
Patol Babu’s decision is both moving and jarring in the capitalistic setting of 2025. Artists ought to accept payment to create opportunities for their juniors and secure a certain (monetary) value to their craft that helps them pay rent and enjoy the comforts of life. However, Patol Babu acts in radical faith. He chooses to believe in his truth and prefers to enjoy the satisfaction of a job well done (as opposed to the validating, gratifying privileges of gaining access, visibility, applause, or fame).
When Uttam Kumar plays a cinema hero in Ray’s Nayak, his character comes across as a conflicted, difficult person trying to hold on to approval and wealth (“in the age of Freud and Marx” when old values are discarded in favour of reason and utility). This leads him to the brink of suicide- he is only saved by the gentle, life-affirming influence of a journalist he meets (Sharmila Tagore), who teaches him by example to follow his heart. Patol Babu is already there. His story is relevant for those in the arts and those who wish to work for no ulterior motives. He exemplifies, without loud proclamations, Khalil Gibran’s philosophy: “Work is love made visible”. I wonder what the popular writer (and personality) who inspired this article would make of Patol Babu and his impractical act.
Picture design by Anumita Roy
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This was a wonderful read! Having been a member of a book and movie club myself, the thoughts expressed by the writer resonate. Interesting take on patol babu!