Through Raghu Rai’s Lens, There Is Always Drama in Bengal, in Faces and in Nature
Writing about the place where you grew up is a bit like writing about your mum. If you are too effusive, people shake their heads: “The boy loves his mother”. If you try and be more objective, they again shake their heads: “There’s obviously some issue there”. What does it mean to photograph Bengal? What makes Bengal Bengal? There are, of course, answers. A land that stretches from the high mountains to the sea. A land of poets. Of romantics, of rebels. A land of festivals, baro mashe tero parbon, as we say in Bangla. Dignity amidst decay. Decay amidst great beauty. Like most clichés, there’s a nugget of truth in each. Raghu Rai, who knew Bengal well—he worked for The Statesman and then for Sunday—was never entirely seduced by any of them. Through his lens, Bengal was not merely a subject of praise but a site where people confronted extraordinary tragedies, displaying a strength that became his main subject. His new book, capturing today’s more prosperous Bengal with its shopping malls, cellphones, shiny billboards, and new anxieties, searches for the appropriate palette: Bengal, he concludes, is green and grey, with accents of pink, red and orange. There is always drama in Bengal, Rai seems to be implying: sometimes it is in people’s faces, but sometimes it is in nature herself who delivers it.
The Poet, the Rebel, the Festival-Lover
It is true that many of us wrote poetry at some point in our lives, with mixed success—or unmixed un-success. It is true that many of us flirted with revolutionary ideologies, sometimes without being able to separate between our desire for change in the world and a yearning for redemption from the deadening mundaneness of our lives. So did our parents, and their parents. Before the peasant revolution, there was the fight against the British; before that, there was Young Bengal and the fight against traditional social mores. Beef bones were thrown into homes of the conservatives; guns were fired, not always at the right British official; Gandhi ji had to use all of his moral authority to keep Bengal from straying off his non-violent path to independence, and it did not always work. When I was a child, young men from middle-class families went underground; one heard rumours of them showing up at midnight, disguised as a sadhu, to be blessed by their mother before disappearing again into the dark. Along with poetry, violence is all too often part of our tradition.
At the same time, it is also true that we seem to live from festival to festival: From Saraswati Puja to dol, from pola boishakh to Durga Puja, from Kali Puja to Christmas, with many more in between. The festivals are not merely religious observances; they are social glue, economic drivers, and cultural expressions. They are moments when the city of Kolkata, often described as “dying,” comes alive. The pandals, the lighting, the crowds, the sound of dhak—these are the pulses of Bengal.
The Decay and the Dignity
And it is true that there is a lot of decay. At least in the years when I was growing up, the debris of British rule was everywhere. Calcutta was the first city of the Empire; it was where the colonists built their shops and factories, their swankiest mansions, snootiest clubs. When they left, first to the new capital in Delhi and especially after Independence, all that started to unravel. Decay comes fast in wet and tropical Bengal. The grand facades of North Kolkata mansions crumble. The tram tracks are rusted. The overhead wires are a tangled mess. The rajbaris (palatial homes) of zamindars are now crumbling ruins, occupied by multiple families, their original grandeur visible only in faded frescoes and broken chandeliers.
At the same time, the small minority of Indians favoured by the colonials, the zamindars, the box-wallahs, and their many hangers-on, was drowning in the rising tide of new people and new pressures unleashed by Independence. Their sinking fortunes set off skirmishes over what remained. But there was heroism, too. Men from these families seemed, all too often, totally unable to react to what was happening to them, beyond shouting, screaming and drinking too much. It was their wives and sisters who fought back, determined to never give up their dignity and to protect their families at all cost. That, too, is Bengal.
The Gaze of the Subjects: Strength Without Gratitude
One impression that stayed with me from Raghu Rai’s photographs is that of common people displaying uncommon strength. Not so much the muscle string of the boatman’s taut body—though there is that too—but more the inner strength of people who have kept going in the face of extreme adversity. People escaping the Bangladesh war, pushing those who can no longer move on their own, carrying them if needed. A man looking out from his home inside a sewer pipe; women gathered to mourn the dead in Bhopal; grieving fathers carrying their children.
What stands out in these pictures is the gaze of the subjects. There are, of course, those who could not care less whether they are being photographed or not. But then there are the many whom Raghu ji photographs look straight at the camera. What is striking is their expression, which goes from the stoic total obedience to the ever-encountered contemptuous—never the usual smile of gratitude or the pride in being chosen. “Who are you to come asking about my tragedy, what can you understand about the depth of my pain,” they seem to be asking. Raghu ji does not shy away from that challenge. He captures it so often that it is clear that it is something he values, a part of the photographer’s duty as he sees it, perhaps as a way to get us to deepen our empathy, to transcend the Pavlovian reward system of grateful smiles and bowing acceptance. We need to do things for the world because of our inner compulsion for justice; we need to admire those in pain for the strength that allows them to bear it.
This is the opposite of the “poverty porn” that infests much of development photography. In that genre, the subject is passive, victimised, grateful for the attention. In Rai’s work, the subject is active, defiant, demanding. He does not ask for your pity; he asks for your recognition. He does not need your charity; he needs your solidarity.
The Trees: Symbols of Hope and Resilience
It is perhaps not accidental that another of Rai’s great interests is in trees. Trees are strong, trees do not crave admiration. Rai is one of the great photographers of trees, whose life has been a source of inspiration for many others. The tree is a symbol of hope and resilience, and its presence is a reminder of the importance of nature in our lives. A banyan tree standing in the middle of a Kolkata street, its roots strangling the pavement, is a metaphor for Bengal itself: chaotic, sprawling, indestructible. A lone palm tree on a Sundarban beach, bent by the wind, is a metaphor for the people: flexible, resilient, surviving.
In this sense, while Bengal featured often in Rai’s past work, Bengal was less the subject of praise than a site where people were confronted with extraordinary tragedies that provided the backdrop for the display of strength that is his main subject, much like there are locations where his trees live, but he is less interested in them than in the trees themselves.
The New Bengal: Prosperity and New Anxieties
His new book is more clearly about Bengal, in its diversity, in its many moods. It is today’s (pre-Covid) more prosperous Bengal, with its shopping malls and cellphones, shiny billboards and skyscrapers, its new anxieties, its changing aspirations. The roof on the Ganges where, many years ago, he had filmed a group of bodybuilders, is still there, but there is just one building in the recent photo. Is this a comment on our busier times? The bodybuilders are gone, replaced by office-goers checking their phones. The akharas (traditional gyms) are disappearing, replaced by air-conditioned fitness centres.
The new Bengal is caught between tradition and modernity. Young women in jeans walk past temples where priests perform aarti. Men in suits haggle with vegetable sellers. The city is no longer just Calcutta; it is Kolkata, a global city struggling with its identity. The anxieties are new: the pressure to succeed, the cost of living, the traffic, the pollution. The aspirations are new: a foreign trip, an MBA, a flat in a high-rise. The drama continues, but the stage has changed.
The Palette of Bengal: Green and Grey
Most importantly, however, this book is about searching for the appropriate palette for Bengal, and it is very clear what Rai’s answer is: Bengal is green and grey, with accents of pink, red and orange. The green shades from almost blue to a brazen yellow, while the grey goes from the brilliant off-white of a post-rain cloud to the brooding steel-blue of a monsoon sky.
The green is the green of the paddy fields, the shal forests, the tea gardens of Dooars, the mangroves of the Sundarbans. The grey is the grey of the Kolkata sky, the Hooghly river, the concrete buildings, the monsoon clouds. The accents of pink, red and orange are the colours of the sindoor (vermilion) on the foreheads of married women, the palash flowers of spring, the sarees of Durga Puja, the sunsets over the Ganges. This is not a romanticised palette; it is a realistic one. It captures the beauty and the grime, the hope and the despair.
Conclusion: The Drama Continues
There is always drama in Bengal, Rai seems to be implying: Sometimes it is in people’s faces, but sometimes it is in nature herself who delivers it. The monsoon floods, the cyclones, the heatwaves—these are nature’s dramas. The political rallies, the strikes, the festivals—these are human dramas. Through it all, the people endure. They complain, they celebrate, they fight, they love. Raghu Rai’s photographs capture that endurance. They are not sentimental; they are not judgmental. They are simply observant. And in that observation, they reveal the soul of Bengal.
For those of us who grew up there, the photographs are a mirror. For those who did not, they are a window. Through that window, one sees not just a place, but a way of being. A way that is chaotic, passionate, resilient, and deeply, stubbornly alive. That is Bengal. That is what Raghu Rai saw. That is what he left us.
Q&A: Raghu Rai’s Photographic Journey Through Bengal
Q1: How does the article characterise the tension between effusive praise and objective distance when writing about one’s homeland?
A1: The article opens with a metaphor: “Writing about the place where you grew up is a bit like writing about your mum. If you are too effusive, people shake their heads… If you try and be more objective, they again shake their heads.” This captures the dilemma of representing Bengal—any homeland—without falling into either sentimental romanticism or cold detachment. The article argues that clichés about Bengal (land of poets, rebels, festivals, decay) contain “a nugget of truth,” but Raghu Rai “was never entirely seduced by any of them.” He found a third way: documenting the drama in faces and nature without the usual “smile of gratitude or the pride in being chosen.”
Q2: What are the key elements of Bengal’s identity that the article identifies through Rai’s photographs?
A2: The article identifies several elements:
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Poetry and revolution: Many Bengalis wrote poetry and flirted with revolutionary ideologies; violence is “all too often part of our tradition” (from Young Bengal to the Naxalite movement).
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Festivals: “Baro mashe tero parbon” (twelve months, thirteen festivals)—from Saraswati Puja to Durga Puja to Kali Puja to Christmas.
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Decay and dignity: The debris of British rule, crumbling mansions, rusted tram tracks, alongside the heroism of women who “fought back, determined to never give up their dignity.”
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Strength in adversity: The inner strength of people who have “kept going in the face of extreme adversity”—refugees, survivors of Bhopal, grieving fathers.
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The gaze of subjects: Never smiling or grateful, but “stoic” or “contemptuous,” asking: “Who are you to come asking about my tragedy?”
Q3: What is distinctive about the gaze of Raghu Rai’s photographic subjects, according to the article?
A3: Many of Rai’s subjects look “straight at the camera” with expressions that range from “stoic total obedience to the ever-encountered contemptuous”—never the “usual smile of gratitude or the pride in being chosen.” They seem to ask: “Who are you to come asking about my tragedy, what can you understand about the depth of my pain?” The article interprets this as Rai’s refusal of “poverty porn.” The subject is not passive, victimised, or grateful for attention, but “active, defiant, demanding.” He does not ask for pity; he asks for recognition. Rai captures this gaze “so often that it is clear that it is something he values, a part of the photographer’s duty as he sees it.”
Q4: What role do trees play in Rai’s photography, and how do they connect to his portrayal of Bengal?
A4: Trees are another of Rai’s “great interests.” They are “strong” and “do not crave admiration.” The tree is a “symbol of hope and resilience.” The article notes that Bengal was “less the subject of praise than a site where people were confronted with extraordinary tragedies that provided the backdrop for the display of strength that is his main subject, much like there are locations where his trees live, but he is less interested in them than in the trees themselves.” A banyan tree standing in a Kolkata street, its roots strangling the pavement, becomes a metaphor for Bengal: “chaotic, sprawling, indestructible.” A lone palm tree on a Sundarban beach, bent by the wind, is a metaphor for the people: “flexible, resilient, surviving.”
Q5: How does Rai’s new book differ from his earlier work on Bengal, and what is the “palette” he chooses for contemporary Bengal?
A5: His new book captures “today’s (pre-Covid) more prosperous Bengal, with its shopping malls and cellphones, shiny billboards and skyscrapers, its new anxieties, its changing aspirations.” The roof on the Ganges where he once filmed bodybuilders now has just one building—”Is this a comment on our busier times?” The bodybuilders are gone, replaced by office-goers checking their phones. The akharas (traditional gyms) are disappearing. The new Bengal is caught between tradition and modernity. Rai’s chosen palette for Bengal is “green and grey, with accents of pink, red and orange.” The green ranges from “almost blue” to “brazen yellow”; the grey from “brilliant off-white of a post-rain cloud” to “brooding steel-blue of a monsoon sky.” The accents are the colours of sindoor, palash flowers, Durga Puja sarees, and Ganges sunsets. This is “not a romanticised palette; it is a realistic one. It captures the beauty and the grime, the hope and the despair.” There is always drama in Bengal: “sometimes it is in people’s faces, but sometimes it is in nature herself who delivers it.”
