Forty-five years after its release, Bhabendra Nath Saikia's Anirban remains an overlooked cinematic masterpiece. Utpal Datta explores its haunting imagery, emotional depth, literary adaptation, and enduring artistic legacy in Indian cinema.

Forty-five years ago, a cinematic death scene was captured that remains unforgettable. The profound tremors of anguish and the silent, weeping agony of that moment continue to echo within the hearts of discerning viewers to this day, evoking an inescapable, haunting grief.

Bhabendra Nath Saikia’s second film Anirban (Assamese 1081) is the cinematic manifestation of an intense, unextinguishable desire: a conceptualisation born from the language of cinema and its miraculous mastery of poignant expression, the gloom-laden yet tangible ethereal perception created by its imagery, and the relentless impulse to preserve the continuity of existence as part of a larger, transcendent life, even after death has robbed individual existence of all hope.

From Story to Screen

The short story Prohori (The Sentinel) begins with a professional crisis for Rajani Master: he cannot solve a math problem for his student. This incompetence threatened to end his career as a private tutor at any moment, potentially closing off the modest extra income that sustained his impoverished life. However, right from the outset, the film adapted from Rajani Master’s story steps away from the limitations of daily survival, gesturing toward a broader canvas. Beyond merely expanding this backdrop, the opening conflict transforms from a personal, mundane struggle into a profound crisis between life and death—an element that appeared deeper within the original narrative rather than at its beginning. Clinging to this singular crisis, the physical and thematic dimensions of both the story and the film unfold. While the title Prohori is celebrated in Assamese literature, the primary motivation for replacing it with a new title was the aesthetic evolution, transformation, and addition of thematic layers to the narrative. In contrast to the material concept invoked by the word Prohori (Guard), the word Anirban (The Unextinguished) evokes a vast, otherworldly glimpse into a surreal or spiritual realm.

The deaths in Prohori are heartbreaking events for a pair of parents; in Anirban, however, death carries the weight of a vast, overwhelming void. Gradually, this invisible experience transforms into a "terrible melancholy," and pushing past this grief, the protagonist and his wife step forward in search of communion with a larger, transcendent life. By retaining the core characters and plot points while elevating the overarching message from the personal to the monumental, Anirban becomes essential viewing for any student of filmmaking.

The Art of Cinematic Adaptation

Discussions surrounding the adaptation of medium can elevate any literary or artistic critique to a deeper level of analysis. From William Shakespeare's play Macbeth, Akira Kurosawa created Throne of Blood. Differences in period, environment, socio-geographic positioning, and subtle yet pervasive sociological elements afforded Kurosawa absolute freedom and fluid movement to adapt Macbeth. When translating a theme from literature to the medium of film, adapting the characters and sequence of events is not the final word; the true measure lies in how the core message is re-envisioned using the tools of the new medium.

Unlike Kurosawa, who had vast resources at his disposal, Bhabendra Nath Saikia operated under severe constraints. Even with the story's setting, social context, and geography remaining unchanged across both media, transcending those limitations to reach a sense of grandeur was no simple feat. Yet, as a master of both literature and cinema, Saikia accomplished this with effortless grace.

Opening with Death, Not Life

At the beginning of the short story Prohori, Rajani Master attempts to solve a mathematical problem—a subtle, deeply sensitive symbol of the unresolved state of his own life. In contrast, the film opens as follows:

A flock of vultures circles in the sky.

Nearby stands a silk-cotton tree. In the far distance, a few people appear. Four pallbearers approach.

The figures draw closer.

A close-up of the men. One holds a spade. In Rajani’s arms rests an infant wrapped in a white cloth.

A big close-up of Rajani. He walks forward, holding the baby in his arms.

The men move closer.

Nearby stands the silk-cotton tree. In the far distance, a few people. Four pallbearers approach.

A flock of vultures circles in the sky.

The open grounds of the cremation site. The camera pans across ashes and half-burnt firewood. Finally, an overturned earthen pot comes into view. Ashes, firewood. The feet of the men pass by a short distance away.

In contrast to the personal plight in the story, this scene holds nothing but the melancholy of death. The mystery generated by the vast, motionless, indifferent sky against the circling vultures leaves the audience without answers as to who died, how they died, or what lay behind it. Instead, the director creates an atmosphere whose ambient weight can deeply stir any sensitive soul. The peak of this resonance is what Tarkovsky referred to as "terrible melancholy"—a living portrait of which the director paints near the end of the film, a rarity in Indian cinema. It is often said that Guru Dutt’s Pyaasa comes to mind first regarding melancholy in Indian cinema; however, had it received proper exposure, Anirban would have claimed that stature.

The Power of Visual Grief

After repeatedly giving birth to stillborn children, one child survives for Rajani Master's wife. The parents build their dreams around her. Then one day, she too passes away. There are no scenes of wailing, no dramatic sound design—only a stark, helpless reality. One can feel the sheer power of a visual image in these scenes of Anirban. What if Bhabendra Nath Saikia had possessed a cinematographer like V.K. Murthy to capture these images, or an art director like Bansi Chandragupta for the set design?

A Death Scene for Eternity

Reading the screenplay for this death scene alone conveys the sheer emotional intensity of the sequence:

[Nisha (daughter) lies sick in bed at night.]

Bhagyawati feeds her another spoonful of water. Zoom in. The water dribbles down the corner of her mouth. Bhagyawati wipes it with her hand. As she wipes one cheek and moves to the other, her fingers freeze. Her fingers press against the cheek.

Class Nine. [Outside, a bell tolls heavily with a dong.] The girls raise their heads as if startled. They wait. Then, they hurriedly gather their books and notebooks. They stand up.

Girls jostle at the exit door.

The front yard of Rajani's home. A crowd of schoolgirls.

Crowding near the doorway.

Inside the room, many girls. Nisha’s bed.

Manju and Jonali rest their heads on Nisha’s bed. Jonali raises her head once, wipes her nose, and buries her head again. Zoom in. Her back quivers. A girl holds her.

Suramaya stands at the foot of the bed. She looks once, then covers her face with her shawl.

Chintamani stands near the water tap. Taking off his glasses, he wipes his eyes.

In a corner of the front yard stand Mrinal, Dilip, and Babul. Sitting on the ground, they anxiously fidget and pinch at the earth.

In another spot, Bipin and another man are cutting bamboo.

The front yard. A few female teachers. The schoolgirls. A group of girls in the open yard. Divakar [Nisha's lover] walks through them. He takes off his sandals and steps past the camera.

Nisha's room. Divakar pushes through the crowd toward the bed. He looks.

Divakar looks on.

Nisha's face. Zoom in. Finally, only her closed eyes remain.

Over those closed eyes—seen through the window, the sun sets in the sky.

Fade out. A black frame lingers for a moment.

Fade in. The empty front porch.

The empty rear porch.

The empty courtyard, alongside the water tap.

The empty living room.

The bedroom. [Panning] Rajani sits near the corner window, resting his feet on an empty wooden cot. Hearing something from outside, he turns his head.

Through the doorway, Bhagyawati’s shadow falls on the ground.

Rajani turns his head back toward the outside.

Bhagyawati enters Nisha’s room. As she approaches the wall, she steps on a single sandal. She looks down.

Bhagyawati steps off Nisha's sandal. Stooping down, she sets the sandal aside. Suddenly, words slip from Bhagyawati’s mouth—"Can't even keep her pair of sandals organised..."

Straightening up, Bhagyawati startles at the sound of her own voice.

Rajani startles as well. He looks, realises, and stands up.

Rajani: Did you say something?

Bhagyawati: No, I didn't.

Rajani: I thought I heard you say something. That's why...

Bhagyawati sits on the bed.

Bhagyawati: I was mistaken.

She collapses onto the bed, weeping heartbrokenly.

Sitting in Nisha’s chair, Rajani leans his forehead against the desk, lays his cheek down, and slumps over.

Bhagyawati and Rajani seem to fall asleep in those very postures.

Death, Memory, and Cinematic Poetry

This depiction of death brings forth the essence of John Donne’s poem Holy Sonnet X —"Death, be not proud, though some have called thee mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so"—much like a moment of dramatic irony. Examples of conveying the impact of death on the silver screen through such evocative and suggestive visual imagery are rare. In Pather Panchali, Satyajit Ray had to rely on music to convey the immediate terror of death—a Taar shehnai score that was hardly believable in that naturalistic environment. Yet, in Saikia's death scene, the sound of the school bell was both completely natural and far more poignant.

However, the film does not end with this unimaginably powerful scene of death; it culminates in the momentum of life. After a lapse of time, Rajani Master takes on a new student. The boy’s mother brings a cup of tea, and as steam rises from the cup—an image signifying movement and vitality—the film draws to a close.

A Forgotten Cinematic Achievement

From an objective standpoint, this death sequence stands as the film's most potent and haunting sequence. Yet, the sheer mastery behind its creation and the deep resonance it evoked were never fully acknowledged in its time. It reflects a familiar tragedy in Assamese cinema: deserving masterpieces often languish without recognition, while far lesser works capture unmerited acclaim.

While Agnisnaan instantly captured the attention of audiences and critics alike due to its sharp narrative, Anirban—Bhabendra Nath Saikia's most powerful film across all artistic dimensions—never received its due honour. The rediscovery of this film ought to be a solemn duty of Assamese culture.