Baithakkhana Chapter 2: A Toast to the Beautiful Losers
At Baithakkhana Chapter 2, held at Kolkata Centre for Creativity, defeat took centre stage. With Swastika Mukherjee and Anirban Bhattacharya reading letters of longing and loss, and poet Srijato and musician Upal Sengupta closing the evening with verse and song.
Let’s face it — history has always been a bit of a show-off, hasn’t it? Forever banging on about the winners, the revolutionaries, the epic love stories that ended with violins and fireworks. But what about those who stumbled at the final hurdle, wrote letters instead of memoirs, loved a tad too fiercely, and ended up with a soggy handkerchief rather than a trophy? At Baithakkhana Chapter 2, held at the Kolkata Centre for Creativity, it was finally their turn to nick the spotlight — the defeated, the undone, the gloriously heartbroken.
Curated with the poetic precision of a surgeon by Chandril Bhattacharya, Sanchari Mookherjee, and Tausif Rahman, this second edition of the annual literary meet was no stiff-upper-lip soirée. No, this was a literary hug in a world that’s too fond of loudspeakers and LinkedIn victories. Over three days, Baithakkhana gently tugged us away from our inboxes and Instagram stories and handed us a box of tissues and a stack of letters — the kind that smell faintly of old ink and unresolved longing.
Letters that Whispered, Letters that Wept
On Day Two, the highlight was a spellbinding session titled Letters: Faded into Oblivion. Think less ‘brass band fanfare’, more ‘quiet sob into your tea’. Two of Bengal’s finest actors, Swastika Mukherjee and Anirban Bhattacharya, turned the stage into a confessional — reading letters penned not in the flush of success, but in the tender, treacherous terrain of failure.
Swastika, resplendent and razor-sharp, opened with a set of letters that would’ve made even the most stoic of souls reach for a biscuit and a lie-down. Frida Kahlo’s anguished outpourings to Diego Rivera were read with such rawness, you could practically hear the bones creak. Then came Amrita Pritam’s tear-stained epistles to Sahir Ludhianvi — part love letter, part existential shrug. Simone de Beauvoir’s philosophical fervour to Nelson Algren crackled with ache, while Lady Ranu Mukherjee’s tender scribbles to Tagore felt like a hush in a cathedral. These were not letters sent in conquest — they were love’s receipts, bruised and beautiful.
If Swastika bared the heart, Anirban brought the stormclouds. His delivery was all the more devastating for its restraint — a bit like being quietly handed your own obituary. Vincent Van Gogh’s letters to Theo, echoing with desperation and doomed genius, were followed by Wilde’s De Profundis, that most exquisite of emotional autopsies. Luigi Pirandello’s missives to Marta Abba were filled with the ache of a man who knew his best applause came long after closing time. But it was Kafka’s infamous letter to his father — equal parts therapy and indictment — that sent a collective shiver through the room.
But pity? Oh no, none of that here. In Anirban’s hands, the defeated weren’t tragic — they were luminous, like candle flames flickering in a draughty chapel.
A Room of Reflection, Not Resignation
What set this evening apart wasn’t just the letters or the readers (though frankly, you’d be hard pressed to find better). It was the ethos of Baithakkhana itself — a space where silence is golden, nuance is not a dirty word, and one is gently reminded that feeling too much isn’t a character flaw. In that quiet cocoon at KCC, defeat felt less like a dead end and more like a bend in a deeply poetic road.
And Then, the Music Played
Just when you thought you’d recovered enough to stand without wobbling, along came poet Srijato and singer-songwriter Upal Sengupta of Chandrabindoo fame, to sprinkle a little lyrical salt into our open wounds. Their session was a duet between verse and tune — Srijato’s poetry sighing with sorrow, Upal’s voice wrapping it in melody like a scarf on a wintry evening. Songs like Bhindeshi Tara and Onno Kothao Chol weren’t just performed; they were inhabited. If heartbreak had a playlist, this would be side A, B, and the hidden bonus track.
In Praise of the Also-Rans
As the organisers aptly put it, “We may admire the victors, but our deepest sympathies lie with the vanquished.” And truly, who amongst us hasn’t, at some point, been more Karna than Arjuna — stuck in the metaphorical mud, staring at the wheel, while destiny marched on with annoying punctuality?
Baithakkhana Chapter 2 was a gentle, generous reminder that there is nobility in being undone. That defeat, when worn honestly, can be more poetic than any medal. And in a world obsessed with winning, perhaps it’s time we wrote a few more love letters to those who simply — felt.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to re-read Kafka and cry into a crumpet.
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