In the heart of the COVID-19 pandemic, I sought solace in the nostalgia of old Hindi movies, dedicating each day to a captivating cinematic journey. It was during this time that I stumbled upon Mrinal Sen’s 1984 masterpiece, “Kandahar,” a poignant adaptation of Premendra Mitra’s Bengali short story, “Telenapota Abishkar” (Discovering Telenapota). The stellar cast, featuring Shabana Azmi, Naseeruddin Shah, and Pankaj Kapur, breathed life into the narrative.
Little did I know that years later, I would find myself standing at the very location where this cinematic gem unfolded. During a recent visit to Shantiniketan, a friend shared an intriguing tidbit—a few kilometers away lay the dilapidated beauty of Raipur Rajbari, a once-prominent backdrop for a Hindi film.
This afternoon, my journey led me to Raipur Rajbari, where the setting sun bestowed its last radiant rays upon weathered brick walls. Captivated by the allure of the ruins, local youths snapped selfies, while pigeons traced their final circles in the open sky. The timeless charm of this forgotten haveli unfolded before me, bridging the gap between cinematic nostalgia and the living remnants of an era gone by.
The now-ruined Palace of Raipur, once the distinguished residence of the illustrious Sinha Family, boasted three wings, 120 rooms, and sprawled across more than 60 bigha of land. The roots of the Sinha family traced back to their migration from Ayodha to Raipur, Birbhum, in the 15th century. Progressing through generations, they eventually attained the esteemed status of zamindars in Raipur.
Satyendra Prasanno Sinha, a key figure in the family, made history in 1919 by becoming the inaugural Indian member of the British House of Lords. A distinguished barrister, he held the honor of being the first Indian Advocate-General of Bengal in 1905 and later the first Indian appointed to the Viceroy’s Executive Council in 1909. In 1917, he served as an assistant to the then-Secretary of State for India, Edwin Montagu, during the Imperial War Conference.
In 1863, the talukdar of Raipur, Bhuban Mohan Sinha, played a pivotal role in shaping the present-day Santiniketan. The land, now a part of this renowned area, was originally owned by the esteemed Sinhas of Raipur. Maharshi Debendranath Tagore, seeking solace beneath the shade of a Chatim tree, was captivated by the unparalleled tranquility during his meditation. Enchanted by this serenity, he decided to acquire the land surrounding the miraculous tree.
Debendranath Tagore secured a permanent lease for 20 acres, annually paying Rs. 5 to Bhuban Mohan Sinha. Interestingly, local rumors suggest that, in a symbolic gesture, Maharshi acquired this land for a mere one rupee from Bhuban Mohan Singha, the Zamindar of Raipur at that time.
During my inquiries about the Rajbari near the temple, I fortuitously encountered an elderly gentleman—a distant descendant of the Jamidar associated with the Rajbari. Residing in Hyderabad, he makes an annual pilgrimage back to the village during the winter season, keeping the ancestral connection alive.
The middle-aged priest at the temple shared vague recollections of the film shoot, but evening rituals limited our conversation. As I started my bike, I cast one more glance at the ruins, standing silently submerged in darkness. To some, it may appear haunted, but to me, it exuded an air of mystery. The ruins seemed to hold a silent, untold story—one that nobody has cared to listen to for years.
