Basanti Opera Keeps the Jatra Alive
In Galsi, West Bengal, a century-old tradition thrives. Discover the quirky, heartfelt saga of Basanti Opera—a jatra legacy that still steals the show.
In the charming town of Galsi—once little more than a dot on the map with a population barely brushing two thousand—the show has most literally gone on for a hundred years. Yes, while the rest of us can’t commit to a gym membership for more than a fortnight, the good folk of Galsi have kept their beloved ‘Basanti Opera’ galloping along for a century. Hats off, or should we say, curtains up!
Back in the Bengali year 1330 (which, for those without a Panchang handy, was 1923-ish), Galsi was all but a sleepy hamlet, populated largely by hardworking souls whose day began at sunrise and ended with the scent of mustard oil and stories. Amidst this simplicity bloomed an idea—bless his visionary socks—of one Bhupendranath Ray. Not content with the usual gajan and pujo fare, he rounded up the villagers, knocked on doors, rattled donation boxes, and lo! ‘Basanti Opera’ was born, under the soft glow of kerosene lamps and cultural idealism.
Now don’t let the word opera fool you—this wasn’t Verdi in the rice fields. This was Bengali jatra in all its over-the-top glory: a little bit myth, a little bit revolution, and a whole lot of drama, darling.
Of Gods, Ghosts, and Grit
The Basanti Opera started off during the annual Basanti Puja—not to be confused with that other show-stealer, Durga Puja. As Asimkumar Dutta, the current treasurer (and unofficial archive of village wisdom), explains, the timing was strategic. Monsoon rains played spoilsport during gajan, and the pujo circuit was simply too crowded. So, a new stage was born—for the people, by the people.
At the now historic hat tala (presently known as Gargeshwartala, presumably upgraded for SEO purposes), villagers gathered like moths to a lantern. The stage? Nothing but a makeshift wooden plank flanked by bamboo poles. The audience? Seated on hay with a tarpaulin thrown on top for, well, dignity. And yet, between 10 pm and the crack of dawn, magic happened. Plays like Shonghokuchur, Bhikarishwar, and the oddly relatable Achol Poysha kept the crowd utterly rapt—even if someone’s elbow was in your rib the whole night.
In those days, if you fancied playing Sita or Draupadi, you had to first grow a moustache. That’s right, the women’s roles were all played by men, with a flair that would put the West End to shame. Honestly, some of them probably looked better in a laal paar saree than your average auntie at a wedding.
Lighting the Way to Change
As time ticked on, so did the stagecraft. Gone were the hand-painted backdrops dangling like your mum’s old sarees on a washing line. In came proper wooden frames, cloth scenery, and—wait for it—petromax lights. Forget your flashy LEDs, these oil-fuelled marvels brought to life explosions, infernos, and divine apparitions with nothing but a hiss and a flicker.
Soon, actors from nearby villages joined in, making it the rural equivalent of a travelling Broadway troupe—minus the gluten-free snacks and air-conditioned green rooms.
Still Standing, Still Singing
Fast forward to the present day. Galsi may have acquired mobile towers and Instagram handles, but the Basanti Opera remains gloriously analogue. This year, in honour of its centenary, they’re pulling out the big guns: Nati Binodini, the tragic tale of Bengal’s first theatre queen, and Kollir Durga Dhorechhe Trishul—which sounds like something Quentin Tarantino would direct if he ever visited Bardhaman.
“We no longer have the pomp of yesteryears,” admits committee president Pranab Dutta with a sigh. “But every year, against all odds, we stage a performance. The young ones, despite job hunts, data packs, and existential dread, still show up to rehearse, to honour what was and what must continue.”
And perhaps that’s the real magic. Not in the props or pyrotechnics, but in the passing of the baton, from moustachioed Sitas to hoodie-wearing tech-savvy sons of the soil.
So, here’s raising a toast (or at least a steaming cup of cha) to Galsi’s Basanti Opera. May your wigs stay untangled, your lights stay lit, and your hundred-year-old stage never run out of stories.
Break a leg, Galsi—though preferably not during the sword-fighting scenes!
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