GOPESWAR PAUL…Bengal’s Donatello

It wasn’t perchance that the front of G. Paul’s studio appeared on the expansive cover of Raghu Rai’s INDIA – Reflections in Black & White. That was an ace lensman’s deliberate tribute to the proud legend of Gopeswar Paul who, counting on a rare talent for sculpting faces from clay in three deft strokes, once had set sail for the continent and struck Gold at an international salon of sculptors in England. 

Let me rewind a century to the beginning of a lesser-known story of Bengal’s Donatello. 

Kumartuli, the potters’ quarter, that by all probable premises predates the genesis of Calcutta, owed its birth to Krishnanagar - a city in Nadia district of Northern Bengal. Seventeenth century Bengal hosted an inrush of potters from there to Gobindopore, a thriving village on the banks of Hooghly, to meet a rising demand of clay-idols in rich households, and exploit the mirage of British kindness for native crafts. Those settlers had to eventually move further up the riverbanks to Sutanuti, the weaver’s settlement, following Gobindopore’s identification as the site of Fort William. Peripatetic potters thus found their final base and fast colonised it with an evocative name. Kumortuli. Or, Coomartolly if spelt archaically. 

Back to the story. 

Gopeswar had cut his teeth in clay-modelling under his maternal uncle who however did not take kindly to his nephew’s remarkable growth as an artisan. Circa 1910, a persistent Gopeswar left Krishnagar with eyeful of dreams and ten annas in the pocket for a bounteous Calcutta. Having dabbled there for some years in stray jobs to earn enough to buy a shelter, in 1924 he did hit upon the serendipity that had eluded him too long. In the wake of the First World War, British Empire organised an exhibition at Wembley to reclaim its eminence in the Art world. Percy Brown, the then head of Government Art College, having taken an active liking to Paul’s exemplary skill of shaping the likeness of any person in a jiffy, arranged for his travel to Wembley to represent India. On the way, a timid Gopeswar – a coloured travelling on a third-class ticket, bided by making clay busts of co-passengers by the deck. And, ended up being upgraded to First-class by a patronising Captain of the ship who aptly had found in him a diamond in the rough. 

Wembley’s exhibition was visited as fervently by the British Royalty as the aspiring artists from other British colonies of the world. And, Gopeswar swept the show with ease by sculpting the bust of Duke of Connaught out of a handful of clay at an unseen pace, a feat that soon led to his being felicitously dubbed the ‘Lightning Sculptor’ on London’s Daily Telegraph. When subsequently invited by the Royalty to travel across continent to exhibit his talent, Gopeswar, a perfectionist to the core, chose to visit Italy instead to whet his skills. By the time he returned home, his had already become a sought-after name amidst the resident elite. With an oeuvre nearly covering all conventional mediums of sculpting, Gopeswar never looked back ever since. 

Gopeswar Paul lived ahead of his time. And his sprawling European studio in Calcutta strategically fitted with skylights to facilitate free flow of sunlight attests to that. ‘Kumortuli’s Durga Puja began in 1933. My grandfather, Gopeswar was requested to build the first idol for Kumartuli Sarbojonin that he gladly accepted’, said grandson Byomkesh, who with an able team of clay-artists now fronts G. Paul & Sons. ‘Seizing that opportunity Dadu [Grandpa] built separate idols of the deities’, Byomkesh recounts, ‘at a time when ‘Ekchala Thakur’ (Durga and her children in a single half-circle frame) was only in vogue’. Gopeswar continued making idols for Kumartuli Sarbojonin for eight years unbroken. Impeccable miniatures of those idols are still on display in the studio. 

Meanwhile Belur Math was founded and Gopeswar was commissioned to sculpt the marble-image of Sri Ramakrishna. During the process, he by practice would cover the unfinished idol before calling it a day. But deliberately rumpled was how he always found the covering the day after. That recurring mystery left the devout sculptor bewildered for days until ‘Thakur’ is said to have appeared in his dream and begged – ‘You cover me so tight that I suffocate. Please be kind.’ Since then an awestruck Gopeswar never failed to leave a gap in the covering, being consummately in the know how living his ‘Thakur’ was. 

The legend of G. Paul, thus, abounds with anecdotes startling enough to baffle the harshest of sceptics. The sparkles I saw in the eyes of his worthy successors and admirers are, nonetheless, what only unwavering faith bestows. 

Sculptor Gopeswar Paul died in 1945. But his timeless body of work continues to stand in utter denial of the truth in that inconvenient fact.

walls of Calcutta...happy to be freed?

Are all the silent walls of Calcutta puffing and panting under thicknesses of myriad posters? Have they all grown weary of living with visual indignity? Are the grids of bricks dying to show stained teeth to the dwellers of an unforgiving time? And, am I to deem the rise in use of billboards for hosting movie-posters a kind move to liberate those wronged walls of Calcutta? [...and take the blush off her furrowed cheek.]

Possibly most of those who champion watching cinema in multiplexes by not minding risking fortunes over tubs of trifling popcorn, gaze only skyward while travelling in the open. They are not the common men in the street. Stretches of windshields and windows define their outlook. Things overhead as opposed to those on the ground catch their eyes faster. To hook that run of patrons the posters had to move up to the billboards. And, the bare walls sighed in relief as only an obvious but chance fallout.

That said, emptiness is what my city has never condoned. Engaging Graffitis will soon fill those freed walls with life.

One hailing from kolkata would know how well does a Bus double as rocking cradle to countless office-goers...even today when my car moves next to a spilling bus, I make an effort to hold my head out to see the stooped heads swaying in rhyme with the notes of a bumpy road. Engine's sonorous rumble adds a lullaby touch, with the seats rocking them to a short-lived yet consummate sleep.

An unusual breakfast...India Restaurant

The wait was mutual.

And the prospect of feasting on the likes of Bhuna Gosht or Mutton Tamatar Stew for breakfast was no doubt an aberration too charming to be turned down. Allies fanned a dying fire and I, sleep-starved, reached India Restaurant on a promising Sunday morning in pursuit of ‘The Mughlai Breakfast’. Abhimanyu, being an unapologetic repeat-offender, graciously took upon himself the duty to order.

Dishes like Keema Muttor, Daal Gosht, Mutton Tamatar Stew or Bhuna Gosht would barely raise eyebrows when ordered for lunch or Dinner. But at breakfast, the first bite into a Naan dripping with the gravy of ‘Gosht Tamatar Stew’ made me trash all that I had learnt about meals. And, much to my delight, this Mughlai stew of temperate taste [and a stark antithesis of the familiar Irish stew] carried a lovable texture and character yet left some deliberate space for individual creativity. I loved it with a dash of lime bringing that unusual tingling on tongue. I crave savouring the stew with Rumali some time as, I hold, Rumali’s thinness meddles the least with the taste of any gravy ‘of substance’.

‘Muttar Keema’ is my old love – thick, meaty, lovable and strictly averse to be swallowed without being teased with a curious tongue. Came close on heels the aromatic Bhuna (‘Fried’ in Urdu) – perfectly balanced in taste, covertly sweet with thick sauce and minced vegetables. A spoonful of its gravy would surprise with the hint of Ghee subtly drizzled from top. I loved it in entirety! I found the ‘Daal Gosht’ eminently forgettable with the unimpressive pulses coming in the way of its savouring.

The collective joy was too telling to be hidden in sobriety and the friendly waiter sensed it. What we got in return was warm and freshly prepared Shahi Tukras – served on table much ahead of its scheduled serving time - an unusual gesture made in appreciation of love for food!

What did this entire experience leave us with? Lingering taste, fun, glimpses of madness, some knowledge, many surprises and a craving for more.

Maharani

Voluptuous Kachoris are haunting me. Blame it on the FB post that, besides making me drool in sleep, set the untiring treasure-hunter on 'The Kachori’ yet again, landing him on the other side of the teeming city seeking immediate consummation. Now I am at ‘Maharani’ on Lansdowne Road mooting on the ways to begin my Kachori-binge. The ones I hold are consistent, freshly fried, tanned, round, indulgent, soft and coming with the quintessential 'Alu'r torkari’ to complement. What the priceless mole on upper lip did to Rekha’s face for years, the Green Chilli Pickle does exactly that to the Kachoris – enhance – turning the experience surreal.

For the uninitiated, Maharani is one of the Kachori Trinity - the rest two being The ‘Maharaja’ on Hungerford Street and ‘Potlada’r Kochuri’ on Bagbazar Street.

lately I discern, being essentially a part of the whole experience, a passivity in cinematic language in India...with contemporary directors using this medium not to pamphleteer, be it for good or bad, or articulate but to share experiences allowing absolute cognitive liberty to viewers. This space was long needed...now the viewers leave the cinema not with a moral but with a thought, a seed, a beginning...

Besides being particularly fond of people who are elegantly clumsy in their bearing while eating, I preserve a perverse habit of associating fine-dining with charlatans. The music in the ‘Talking while eating’ is always more appealing and preferred to the moronic tinkling of cutlery. In many of the new run of fine-dining restaurants of the city, where attitude is preferred to love-for-food, I feel terribly displaced. Surprisingly most of the celebrated eateries of the world I’ve had the opportunity of visiting, particularly in Europe, conspicuously promoted silence. [And definitely as inborn gastronomes Bengalis have always trusted their tongues more than Michelin’s.]

This hidden penchant for disorder has made Bengalis irrevocably vulnerable to dishes as profane yet profound as Phuchka, Tarka or the Roll...