Mahanagar (1963): Satyajit Ray’s Quiet Revolt
Satyajit Ray returns to black and white after Kanchenjunga with Mahanagar in 1963. Man, this fellow could churn out films at an astonishing pace. And he returns with a bang. This one is an absolute classic.
Mahanagar is the story of Arati Mazumdar, played by Madhabi Mukherjee. A simple housewife in an orthodox household, the film charts Arati’s journey—from being gently hemmed in by domestic expectations to stepping out into the world to financially support her family, and finally to standing up to injustice, even at the cost of upsetting the very financial applecart that sustains them.
Madhabi Mukherjee as Arati Mazumdar — a woman whose revolution is ethical, not theatrical.
The film makes a strong statement on the value of women in society, and not just through Arati. Ray spreads this idea across his canvas with remarkable sensitivity through every major female character: Bani (played by Jaya Bhaduri), Edith Simmons (Vicky Redwood), and Sarojini (Sefalika Devi). Each woman occupies a different social position, yet all are bound by invisible lines drawn by class, gender, and convention.
Jaya Bhaduri as Bani — a brief appearance that already hints at an extraordinary screen presence.
Ray’s depiction of women unfolds in a world where patriarchy, not matriarchy, holds sway—and carrying that torch are the men around Arati: Anil Chatterjee as Subrata “Bhombol” Mazumdar, her well-meaning but hesitant husband; Haren Chatterjee as Priyogopal, Subrata’s conservative father; and Haradhan Bandopadhyay as Himangshu Mukherjee, Arati’s progressive-seeming yet deeply compromised boss.
What’s truly brilliant about Arati’s character is that while her circumstances change dramatically, she does not.
This inner consistency is beautifully symbolised by the lipstick.
Ray also engages with a sensitive and often overlooked social reality of Calcutta at the time: the Anglo-Indian community.
Edith Simmons: Modernity Without Apology
Vicky Redwood as Edith Simmons — unapologetically modern, punished for refusing to be smaller.
Edith Simmons as a character was far ahead of her time. She is easily the Indian woman of today—highly aware of her sexuality, bold, and unwilling to be a doormat. Wielding a lipstick, she tells Arati, “Bill’s got an Indian book on sex, you know… a famous one.” Edith’s reference to the Kamasutra is delivered with the same casualness as one might paint their toenails. Ray does not exoticise her modernity; he simply allows it to exist.
Sefalika Devi as Sarojini — dignity shaped by restraint, not submission.
Comments