Gautam Chattopadhyay. Always.

Jibonmukhi, about which I may have written earlier is the return to realism movement in Bengali music. Perhaps the best proponent was Suman Chattopadhyay. I am not sure what that eccentric genius is up to these days (some people say politics..?), but it might not be out of turn to describe him as the voice of not a generation (see, no cliches!) but rather as the poet of an age which lived in the portentous shadow of changes which would eventually overwhelm everything familiar. But for the moment, the hand was stayed, and a people walked home together in the late afternoon sun knowing only that the evening would pass, bringing a dawn which they would not recognize. Suman belonged to that age. And you are a wee bit confused. But this is not about Suman, this is about an older musician called Gautam Chattopadhyay. The late seventies was a confused time of riotous colours, bell bottom pants (they came to India somewhat late) and the angry, pathetic, remnants of yet another failed political movement. And in music, for a brief moment, the wonderful romances where the hero and heroine run around trees or sing along in a Shikara on the Dal lake... these romances were also becoming a thing of the past. Soon enough, the Dal lake in Kashmir would echo with the crackling of assault rifles. But this was, just another day. And no one, really no one was holding his breath.

Gautam Chattopadhyay came together with a small group of like minded musicians and wrote Haay Bhalobashi, and suddenly this was different. This bloke wrote about what you felt, not what you were supposed to feel. Mahiner Ghoraguli was the first true Jibonmukhi band, on either side of the border. And people walked out on him. After a few years, he faded into obscurity.

Then, Suman and Tomake Chai happened. The rest, as they say, is history. But for some of us, even if we weren't actually there, Gautam Chattopadhyay's afternoon still lives on.