Mahapurush (1965): The Impostor That Impresses
Mahapurush is one of Satyajit Ray’s most unusual — and most mischievous — films. Here, Ray turns away from lyrical humanism and inward landscapes, seen in the unrelated prequel Kapurush, choosing instead satire as his weapon: light, playful, and uncomfortably sharp.
Harks back to Ray's satirical treatment in Parsh Pathar. Ray uses satire as a means to hit back at social evils.The story centres on Charuprakash Ghosh as Birinchi Baba, a self-proclaimed holy man who claims he has debated Plato, taught Einstein relativity, and walked side-by-side with Christ and Buddha. What makes this so deeply funny — and deeply unsettling — is how seriously the characters take him.
Ghosh’s performance is remarkable because he never winked at the audience. Calm, assured, almost amused by the very absurdity he utters, he embodies exactly the kind of serene confidence that makes real-world godmen believable. This is one of Ray’s sharpest casting choices.
The film features mostly new faces, giving it an everyday authenticity: Prasad Mukherjee plays Gurupada Mitra, a grieving advocate whose loss makes him ripe for spiritual consolation; Geetali Roy is Buchki, his younger daughter, smart, emotional, and disappointed by the men around her; Satindra Bhattacharya appears as Satya, Buchki’s lover; Somen Bose is Nibaran da, the one who asks questions; Haridhan Mukherjee plays Ganesh Mama; and Santosh Dutta is Professor Nani, rounding out the believers.
And then there’s Rabi Ghosh, unforgettable as Kyabla — Birinchi Baba’s assistant, disciple, and originally his nephew. Quick-witted, alert, and morally untroubled, Kyabla is the engine of the con. In one scene, he's actually wearing a brassiere! For more of Rabi Ghosh’s memorable work, see my write-up on his role in Abhijan (1962).
Stylistically, Mahapurush often feels like a cinematic cousin of Vividh Bharati’s Hawa Mahal sketches: the humour is conversational and deceptively gentle, but the target is precise. Ray lets scenes unfold without overt commentary, trusting the audience to see the joke — and the danger — on their own.
What Ray ultimately exposes is not just a charlatan but the psychology of belief. Gurupada and his circle are educated and rational by reputation, yet they surrender eagerly to nonsense. Ray suggests that blind faith is not born of ignorance alone, but of emotional need — grief, uncertainty, a longing for easy answers.
Indian cinema has repeatedly returned to this theme. From PK to Sirf Ek Bandaa Kaafi Hai, filmmakers have taken up the cause of puncturing the myth of godmen. Mahapurush may not be the very first film to do this, but it is among the earliest and most elegant. It exposes without sermonising, satirises without cruelty.
Nearly sixty years on, the film feels painfully current. Despite scandals and exposés, godmen continue to flourish. Ray seems to have understood a hard truth: belief does not dissolve under logic. Even when fraud is revealed, the hunger for faith remains.
Mahapurush ends with no triumph, no moral victory — just quiet embarrassment. The devotees feel foolish. Whether they truly learnt anything is left unresolved. Ray offers no neat resolution — only a mirror. And that restraint makes the satire linger long after the laughter fades.
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