Through The Skeletons Of A Forest: Satyajit Ray's Aranyer Din Ratri
| Fifty-five years on, every frame of this masterful tale of shifting moralities and fragile masculinities, crumbling in the jaws of nature, still resonates.
|  | Chinmoy Guha | | FLAMES lick the edges of The Statesman . Four city-bred men have set it on fire on the grounds of a forest bungalow. “There it is, the last of civilisation,” declares Shekhar (Rabi Ghose). The canvas burns. But the fire is a lie. The bug of civilisation is like a cancer that has spread through their veins. The question is, what are they looking for? On May 19th, 2025, the Cannes Film Festival did a special screening of Ray’s Aranyer Din Ratri (Days and Nights in the Forest, 1970), newly restored; actors Sharmila Tagore and Simi Garewal graced the occasion as guests of honour. Fifty-five years since its release, every frame in this cleverly crafted discourse of shifting moralities and tenuous masculinities, crumbling in the jaws of nature, bursts with relevance. The film opens like a tapestry on wheels; glimpses of the surrounding wilderness flash by in a patchwork of patterns as the credit titles roll. But perhaps this wilderness is a mere literary construct? On their way to Palamou, Sanjay (Subhendhu Chatterjee) immerses himself in the 19th-century literary classic by Sanjib Chandra Chattopadhyay that illustrates the author’s own experiences of navigating the local life in the forests of present-day Jharkhand. Is he simply on the lookout for the wilds of the past? A wasted Ashim (Soumitra Chatterjee), drunk with the potent Mahua liquor, says, “The higher I rise, the lower I descend.” A black train hurtles into darkness. Stream the movies mentioned in this essay with OTTplay Premium's Jhakaas monthly pack, for only Rs 249. Where does the train come from? And where does it go? We are reminded of little Apu as he pores over his homework next to his father on the porch of their modest hut in Pather Panchali (1955). The sound of the train whistling away into the darkness distracts him. The first time he sees the train, it brings tidings of a gradually unfurling modernity in some faraway universe. Later, in Apur Sansar (1959), he contemplates suicide on the railway tracks after Aparna’s untimely death. This same train becomes the mise-en-scène for the movie star grappling with the crushing weight of his conscience in Nayak (1966). And in Aranyer Din Ratri , the inky black train might as well be a metaphor for the protagonists’ stifled libido. An abject cry for help. A question erupts like gunfire from Jaya’s (Kaberi Bose) little boy. “Who are you?” The resident clown of the group stammers a response, “We’re…humans!” | The friends shed their inhibitions, prancing around in front of the approaching headlights in their drunken stupor. Their empty threats of grandeur rip a hole through the darkness around them. We hear them yelling, “Humlog sab VIP hain! Ve–ry Important Pee–pul!” In their state of intoxication, their words get distorted; ‘important’ sounds like ‘impotent’. Ray seems bent on capturing the ripples of time, says Henri Micciolo, as he puts under the microscope what masquerades as civilisation and its dispassionate run-in with nature. Caught in a tangled web, our protagonists are stripped naked, their fragile egos quake in front of Ray’s piercing searchlights. A bunch of preconceived notions about Santhali women weigh these men down as they drive down to Palamou. In the opening scenes, Sanjay, the shy young jute mill officer, reads aloud from the Basumati edition of Sanjib Chandra Chattopadhyay’s ‘Palamou’ travel diaries. Sanjay: The local taverns in Palamou look nothing like the ones in Bengal. One hardly comes across a woman in Palamou who is unable to hold her liquor. And yet, the same liquor wreaks havoc where men are concerned. Shekhar: Ah! Women and men drinking together…reminds one of Western society! Sanjay: Want to know how the women are described? Shekhar: Go ahead. Sanjay: All are dark as ebony. All are young. Shekhar: Eternal youth?? Sanjay: All have a tiny piece of cloth tied around their waists. All are completely naked waist upwards. Shekhar: Harey! Best not venture outside the bungalow! Later, Shekhar refers to Duli (Simi Garewal) as ‘Miss India’. | It is implied that the men are not averse to a few sexual exploits; the Palamou women, deeply eroticised in Chattopadhyay’s description of them, blend in seamlessly with their blinkered, hollow, 20th-century worldview. When these women step inside their rooms to clean up after them, the men are visibly uncomfortable; their 'gaze' travels awkwardly over the women, and their conversation becomes stilted and forced. Their unabashedly colonial mindset pops onto the surface as they stroll through the forests on their way to the tavern. Shekhar: Sunset!... Remind me, where else have we seen such a view? Sanjay: Kolkata, obviously! Shekhar: No no, I was talking about Western cinema… Hari: Was it a Burt Lancaster movie? This inherent dichotomy defines the characters throughout the narrative, like an oozing wound, instantly politicising their every thought and action. | According to Gaston Roberge, Aranyer Din Ratri anticipated in its bleak overtures with nature the profoundly philosophical and ethnographic exploration of native communities that would, years later, form a primary point of contention in Ray’s Agantuk (1991). Notably, Aranyer Din Ratri remains widely ‘ignored’ (in Ray’s own words) amongst Indian critics and audiences, while across the Atlantic, it is an undisputed classic, discussed and debated to this day in major film institutes across the world — "a rare wistful movie that proves 'it’s good to be alive'" ( The New York Times , 1973). | In an interview towards the second half of the 1970s, Ray admitted to the basic difference between Indian and European film critics. Indian critics usually judge films (and mine are no exception) on the basis of their content. This is apparent even when the critics comment about editing, photography, mood, tempo, etc. The approach, in other words, is a literary one. Western critics, as a rule, judge a film in its totality. That is why a film like Aranyer Din Ratri (one of my best, in my opinion) goes down well with foreign critics and is all but ignored by local ones. (‘Palette’, St. Xavier’s College, Kolkata, 1977) Doubtless, the film left an indelible impression among Western intellectuals. Noted film scholar, Pauline Kael, considers Aranyer Din Ratri to be Ray’s best work, the conversation between Ashim and Aparna (Sharmila Tagore) — in her opinion — remains one of the most profound examples of an interface between a man and a woman in world cinema. In his ‘The Apu Trilogy’ (1971), Robin Wood points out the mathematical precision of the bathing scene in the film. And British film critic and journalist, Penelope Houston, rates, “this lucid, ironic and superlatively graceful film among the very best of his (Ray’s) works”. | Despite the obvious discursive differences, European critics have found structural similarities between the film and Charulata (1964) , another of Ray’s masterpieces. By the time of Aranyer Din Ratri , the director had shed any trace of diffidence that might have marked his Apu trilogy days, effortlessly playing around with the intricate balance of tempo. Like the reeds of a piano. Human consciousness fuses into a numbing silence. Ray takes a deep dive into the multifaceted human psyche in a far cry from Goopy Gyne Bagha Byne (1969), his last release before Aranyer Din Ratri (a testament to the kind of about-turn he was used to making throughout his career). The force of his critical inquiry is reminiscent of the works of the French post-impressionist painter and illustrator Pierre Bonnard, known for the vivacity of colours with which he brought alive everyday scenes of life. Like Bonnard’s art, Ray too wove into the fabric of his narrative the musical refrain — the rondo that repeats itself structurally with mathematical clarity and gathers more meaning each time it plays out. Whether in Kanchenjunga (1962), Pratidwandi (1970) or Shatranj Ke Khiladi (1977), his films are littered with evidence of his ability to turn the game around. But in Aranyer Din Ratri , the style and pace of his craft unfold in almost Mozartian ramifications. | As the varied personalities of the four young men unravel, Ray seems to place them under a scanner, evoking memories of Balzac’s la comédie humaine ; amidst the wilderness, the men are unmasked, and his camera pierces through their souls. Only in one other film, Kanchenjunga , did his characters allow the brutal beauty of nature to make a mockery of their true selves. But here in Aranyer Din Ratri , Ray drops any pretence of subtlety; he goes through his characters with a fine-tooth comb, his unflinching social commentary reminiscent of the scathing critique of the upper echelons of French society in Renoir’s 1939 film Rules of the Game . | With four men and three women, each unique and equally crucial to the narrative, Aranyer Din Ratri created quite a stir among audiences with its ‘ensemble cast’. Ray conjures with ease the myriad beauties and intricacies of a life-affirming saga that is almost Chekhovian in nature. The stuttering Forest Ranger and the Chawkidar’s sick wife, whose absence from the narrative makes her presence even more eloquent, stay frozen in time as elements of a ‘pure cinema’ where visual aesthetic takes priority over verbal communication. This isn’t the first time that Ray experimented with non-characters who gain as much significance in the broader narrative as the leads. For instance, veteran actor Tulsi Chakrabarty’s grocer-turned-school master in Pather Panchali, or the quiet, all-seeing birdwatcher in Kanchenjunga, played by another legendary actor of Bengali cinema, Pahari Sanyal, leaves a lasting mark on the audience within the space of the few minutes that they get on-screen. A static, uneventful narrative unfolds quietly but emphatically, every scene and character a compelling image of the heterogeneity of human nature. | Where do the men come from? What are their native lands, and which parts of Kolkata do they live in? How much do they earn in a month, and how would one describe their socio-economic status? These were a few of the long list of questions that Ray had in mind when he approached the author, Sunil Gangopadhyay, whose novel of the same name formed the premise of the film. The novel, for those unfamiliar with it, opens with the four men disembarking from the train at Palamou station, and initially, Ray planned to stick to the original. That, however, snowballed into further questions. Where would the four meet in Howrah Station? How would they reach? Would they get there on the bus, the tram or simply hail a cab? How much greenery does one get to see in Palamou at that specific time of year? In a radio interview in France, Gangopadhyay confessed to being astounded by Ray’s eye for detail, the fact that he took the trouble to carefully etch out the nitty gritty of each character, something the author himself hadn’t considered necessary. | Ray enthusiasts know that the director filled pages of his notebook with painfully detailed descriptions and backstories of his characters, a few examples of which have been presented by his biographer, Andrew Robinson. We see the way a character slowly becomes flesh and blood before our eyes — their silence, their vocabulary, their body language — all melding together to create a well-rounded, living, breathing human being. His ability to paint a picture of the multifaceted human psyche in film after film has been hailed by critics all over the world. Eric Rhode, in his extensive work on the history of cinema, praises Ray for heralding a new age in cinema, alongside Ingmar Bergman (1918-2007) and Akira Kurosawa (1910-1998). British filmmaker Paul Rotha identified Ray and Kurosawa as the two greatest filmmakers of the time who had made a place for themselves in world cinema beyond the all-pervasive reach of Hollywood. Closer home, Bengali film director Tapan Sinha stated in an interview on Doordarshan that Ray alone had been able to create characters on screen, something that Sinha himself had spent his entire life trying. | Ray’s character briefs for Aranyer Din Ratri: Ashim: The most affluent amongst the friends. Had struggled with his conscience in the past about making the kind of money he did, possibly even had some leftist leanings during his college days, but is currently part of a capitalist establishment. He is confident around women and has most likely left a trail of broken hearts in his wake, but is still unmarried. Has an intellectual air about him, takes some interest in poetry. A sharp dresser. Smokes expensive cigarettes. Reads only light magazines these days. Reason for travelling to Palamou: - Wants to take his new car out on a long drive (this is dropped in the final cut of the film)
- Wants a few days’ release from the travails of corporate life
| Sanjay : Has dabbled in politics as a younger man, just like Ashim. Still has some vestiges of values left in him. Basically, an introvert, and therefore shy when it comes to women. An avid reader. Has a varied range of interests. Looking to lead a simple life, has an eye for beautiful women but lacks the confidence to make overtures. Will probably agree to an arranged marriage. Reason for travelling to Palamou: - Loves to travel
- Needs rest
Hari : A cricketer by profession. Not intellectually inclined. Has a certain amount of boyish good looks that may appeal to some women. Might get on well with a woman of his own wavelength, as he’s basically good at heart. A gloomy, dispirited facade masks a sense of an inferiority complex. Reason for travelling to Palamou: - Wants to get over his ex after being jilted in love
Shekhar : High-spirited and energetic. Fun-loving. Very eloquent. Can convey a range of emotions with equal vigour. Is orthodox at heart. Has convinced himself that he would be something of a ladies’ man had he been six inches taller. For now, he is content making friends easily with the opposite sex, excels in offering advice, and can confidently touch hands with women on the pretext of shaking hands. On face value, he seems unperturbed by the trajectory his life has taken, and that’s all the audience needs to care about. Reason for travelling to Palamou: - He is pretty much the life of every party
Seemingly trivial expressions gain momentum as sombre moments get interspersed with dry wit. When the lovely Aparna (Sharmila Tagore) and Jaya, her sister-in-law, drive down to the forest bungalow to return Hari’s lost wallet (for which the latter had already had a scuffle with Lakha and chased him away), the half naked Sanjay, Shekhar and Ashim react to the situation in very different ways. Sanjay dives behind the pond, and there he stays until the car drives away. Ashim smiles uncomfortably, clad in nothing but boxers and lathered all over in soap. It falls on Shekhar to take charge, and he does so in a ridiculous aping of the West (every international critic has called out Shekhar on his unapologetic mimicry of the West, calling him a product of the country’s deep-seated colonial hangover). | Robin Wood goes into a minute analysis of the way Ray presented the bathing scene. In the scene, we find Aparna sitting inside the car at the right end of the screen. Shekhar stands across from her; we see him through the car window, trying to muster a false sense of bravado. Ashim looks on helplessly from the opposite end of the screen, and Sanjay’s absence from the shot makes his presence in the moment all the more potent. Together they form the vertices of a diagonal. The sheepish look on Ashim’s face, coupled with Aparna’s tacit acknowledgement of him even though she looks away, magnifies Shekhar’s over-exuberance, transforming the entire sequence into side-splitting comedy punctuated only with a hint of compassion. | Consider the circular form in music. In Aranyer Din Ratri , the circular theme keeps coming back, literally and metaphorically. Not just in the structure of the pond, but in the way the characters sit down to play a memory game. Ray takes care to place Ashim and Aparna, the well-read, more cerebral of the lot, across from each other. Even the names the players utter as the game commences bear significance on their specific character traits. Aparna and Ashim go with Cleopatra and Shakespeare, respectively; labour officer, former leftist Sanjay comes up with Karl Marx and Mao Tse Tung; the professional cricketer Hari (Samit Bhanja) wears his intellect lightly in his selection of ‘Helen’ (“Of Troy or Bombay?” asks Shekhar). And the essentially conservative Shekhar can think no further than Bengali politician, Atulya Ghosh. | The circle comes back in the formation of the Santhali dance sometime later, and the shape of the thrill ride in the mela . At this point, the friends separate, and we see their core selves revealed in a terrifying interplay of hypocrisy, faint-heartedness, humility and loneliness. The circle pops up yet again as Shekhar gambles. Alone. He has sold his soul to the devil. The camera watches him. A lonely man, despite the playfulness. Duli and Hari: The camera captures them slyly at their most intimate. The audience reels as voyeurism turns to shock. It is no wonder that the heartbroken Hari, who harbours a deep sense of resentment towards everything that is urbane and pretentious, should be drawn by the raw, unguarded sexuality of the Santhali Duli. We are familiar with his story, with the sheer astonishment on his face as, in the moment of truth, his former lover, Tapati (Aparna Sen), sheds her garb of sophistication, her wig comes off to reveal the small, self-seeking woman beneath. We have seen Hari maintain a safe distance from Jaya and Aparna, who, to him, represent the same shallow urbanity that he has come to despise. Yet, this same Hari seduces Duli with the prospect of a wig that he offers to buy for her from the city. “Imagine your own hair, and then another layer on top of it!” A complex, deeply disturbing psychology unfolds as Hari attempts to transform his lover, whose hair smells of the earth, into the same vapid, hard-hearted, city-bred woman he claims to despise. | Jaya and Sanjay: Jaya: Don’t stand there like an idiot. Come on, tell me, how do I look? Sanjay: N-nice Jaya: Hmm, nice! You look like you’ve seen a ghost!.... But then, I suppose…ghost is right. When your man dies, you die with him…My husband killed himself, did you know that?.... Are you nervous? Sanjay: N-no Jaya: I am. | She tugs at Sanjay’s arm and places his palm above her heaving breasts. In the bewildering interplay of light and dark, we see Sanjay sweating profusely. Just a few hours ago, that afternoon, he had offered Jaya a pillow from his own bed to prop herself up as they sat playing on the bungalow grounds. We see him humming a tune and taking a quick look in the mirror before heading out. Now, as dusk gathers around him, the chirpy confidence of the afternoon has ebbed away. Only the bare bones remain. This was the tree which has its inner harmony and inner movement of life in its beauty, its strength, its sublime duty of endurance, its pilgrimage to the unknown through the tiniest gates of reincarnation. (The Religion of Man, Rabindranath Tagore, 1931) | Aparna and Ashim: Aparna: I was twelve when my mother was killed in a fire. I was the only other person in the house at the time…Then, in my first year in college, we drove down to Palamou. We were out on an evening stroll. I looked out over the horizon and saw the sky…a brilliant fiery red. The woods had caught fire…I remember fainting. …. She’s (the Chawkidar’s wife) so sick! Didn’t you know? Verses unfold on screen. Ashim, always self-assured, gropes around for an anchor, his battered ego now lying at Aparna’s feet. Aparna rifles around in her purse, pulls out a five-rupee note and offers it to Ashim. He holds up his lighter to find her phone number jotted hastily on the corner. Money becomes irrelevant as the sun goes down over the woods. Aparna has clawed her way through his vanity, bringing Ashim face to face with his conscience. | The Palamou saga ends with the friends heading back to Kolkata. Shekhar throws open a packet of food sent over by the Tripathis (Aparna and Jaya belong to the Tripathi family) — one for the road! Delighted, he picks up a boiled egg. Ray has turned something as mundane as eggs into an empty threat to civilisation. Earlier in the film, on their first morning in Palamou, we see the men craving eggs for breakfast. Now, as they make their way back, their journey starts with a carton full of boiled eggs. As the scene fades out, we are left with the image of four lonely, helpless men twisting and writhing around a bonfire as they dance to their heart’s content in the engulfing darkness, away from the watchful eyes of civilisation. Only the small ‘round’ mirror inside the forest bungalow silently reflects their secret wounds. Chinmoy Guha is Professor Emeritus, University of Calcutta. Author and translator. Knighthood of Arts and Letters (France), Order of Merit (France), Knighthood of Academic Palms (France). Sahitya Akademi Award, 2019. This piece has been translated from Bengali by Surangama Guha Roy. | Know someone who'd love this newsletter? 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