There is a brief scene in the string of scenes that open Satyajit Ray’s Devi. In it, the character of Umparasad (Soumitra Chatterjee) reacts with shock to what is likely an animal being slaughtered as a sacrifice at Durga Puja. Prior to this scene none of the characters is ascribed any individuation, and yet Umparasad is lent this highlight, most likely as his weakness, for later in the story we learn his weak constitution as a man, and how because of it he fails to prevent a tragedy that befalls his family and wife Doyamoyeee (Sharmila Tagore).
Now, it would not be fair to lay all the blame on Umparasad’s shoulders, as there are multiple factors that lead to denouement of Devi, but his culpability prevails. The fact that it has gotten little attention from the critics once again showcases how deeper aspects of Ray’s films have been overlooked for their more overt counterparts, since Devi’s premise, too, lends itself well to the loud debates of its native land.
Somewhere in mid-19th century rural Bengal, an old widower zamindar named Kalinkar (Chabbi Biswas) has a dream one night that his daughter-in-law Doyamoyee is the reincarnation of the goddess Kali. Come morning, the old man falls at her feet, proclaiming his dream as a reality. Doyamoyee is made to sit at an altar, and is worshipped like a literal goddess. Of course, no one in the family, nor in the village questions the ridiculousness of the whole thing, for Kalinkar is an ardent devotee of gthe oddess Kali, and although he may be going senile, he is still a rich powerful man.
As all this unfolds, Umparasad is away at university, unaware of the change that has taken place in his wife’s fate. When he finally returns he sees Doyamoyee being worshipped as a living idol. The two exchange prolonged looks of astonishment and shame, but not a word is spoken. From this point onwards, we know that Umparasad is a man of little action. Moreover, Ray cleverly has this moment spun with another moment of what would have been a big reveal in a more plot-driven work, wherein a sick child regains consciousness upon drinking water bathed in Doyamoyee’s feet. This twist here, more than anything, further seals Doyamoyee’s fate, for later that night, when Umparasad sneaks her out of the house in an attempt to escape to the city (he is too timid to openly rebel), she resists, fearing that she might truly be the goddess, and that fleeing in this manner might bring harm upon her husband.
Nothing that happens in Devi feels contrived as Satyajit Ray relies on psychology of characters developed well into the first half of the film. Kalinkar, for instance, is established early on as being uncomfortably fixated on his demure daughter-in-law, whom he calls “Little Mother” as she tends devotedly to his ailments. A widower, he has a big picture of his wife hanging in the room, implying a loneliness that might have contributed to the extremist behavior of the old fool. Similarly, Umparsad, for all his western education and open-mindedness, is still a silver-spooned child, and although he does take action, by then it’s too late. There is also a key character of a little child named Khoka (Arpan Chowdhury) who is very fond of Doyamoyee, to the point he’d rather hear his bedtime story from her than his own mother.
In an excellent scene Doyamoyee is seen lying in her new room. Being a deity, she has been shunned from her regular life for some time now, the longing for which is well conveyed when Khoka, while playing, wanders into her room, but when she calls him the boy shies away from her as if a stranger. It is this estrangement that takes a heavy toll on Doyamoyee, as she is forced to assume an identity that is just too overwhelming for her. Later in the story, we get to know that she is only seventeen, but already three years into her marriage. How did she end up with these people? Where are her parents? These are the questions that have no relevance to the diegetic reality of Devi, but their very absence is the symbolic of circumstances that women face in the Indian subcontinent.
The opening sequence of Devi also manifests this. We see the blank face of a Durga idol who has her features painted, and then adorned, and venerated, only to be immersed in the Ganges. This last ritual in Durga Puja marks the return of Hindu goddess to her divine abode, which rings ironic given what visuals show us. Not that one has to know these details to understand the refraction of the opening sequence that Ray later creates with his main character, for Doyamoyee is nothing like an idol. Even when being worshipped, she is never still. Her posture, fragile and breathing, her face glinting a tear. It is difficult to watch because even as a devout daughter-in-law, we have seen Doyamoyee’s own interests and desires, the ways which fulfill her.
Many critics have been quick to jump on the victimization of Doyamayee at the hands of religious dogmatism, patriarchy, and superstition. But while these are indispensably involved, what is worth highlighting is how Satyajit Ray maneuvers through them to hold the situational responses of the characters as the real culprit. Responses that are endemic to their person. This pushes the narrative into a more grey, more absurd area, so much so that Devi plays like a Kafkaesque tale.
Of course, all this is not possible without the strikingly good performance by the cast, or the fact that the cinematography by Subrata Mitra is one of his best collaborations with Satyajit Ray. Images linger long after their fade, owing to the well-crafted compositions. Focused especially well is the innocence of young Sharmila Tagore, both in close-ups and against the claustrophobic interiors, invoking a vulnerability that adds to her character. The use of light in most frames is also worth noting as it suffuses the narrative with an eerie atmosphere.
Devi is a daring work of art that shows that no matter how closed-off and traditional the outline of your story is, there is always a room for artistic maneuvering. That the filmmaker proving this is Satyajit Ray only makes the evidence more reassuring, for one of the flawed art patterns coming from the Indian subcontinent is it being too political and melodramatic, either stuck in westernized pretensions or just plain-old premodern tropes. Devi, however, trumps this, and does so by touching on issues quite close to the dilettantes of its region, yet is apart enough in its execution to always elude their expectations.
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More from Waqas Jani: Routine Overwhelms: Reviewing Satyajit Ray’s “Mahanagar” (1963), Music of Having Been: on Monica Wood’s “When We Were the Kennedys”, Grace of Greatness: on Jessica Schneider’s “WordShapes” (Selected Poems)