As the world marked the birth centenary of the visionary filmmaker Ritwik Kumar Ghatak on November 4, the landscape of his early life tells a quieter, more sorrowful story: one of loss, neglect and forgotten heritage in the very place that shaped him.
Born in 1925 in what was then the Bengal Presidency, Ghatak spent his formative years in Rajshahi. He studied at Rajshahi Collegiate School and Rajshahi College, and the surroundings of the Padma River, the Varendra Museum and the rich cultural soil of the region would later find their way, transfigured and mythic, into his films.
Yet the house where he grew up tells a different tale: the ancestral residence in the Ghoramara (also known as Miyapara) area of Rajshahi now lies in ruins, overrun by weeds, strewn with broken bricks, its moss-draped wall and scant mural the final echoes of a story almost erased.
The residence was at one time a proud family home, but after the Partition of 1947 Ghatak’s family migrated to India and the property was designated as vested land under government rules.
In 1985, part of the land was leased to the Rajshahi Homoeopathic Medical College and Hospital for use as an outdoor treatment centre.
Cultural activists allege a more deliberate erasure as portions of the structure were demolished in 2019 to build a bicycle garage, sparking protests from local organisations who demanded the house be declared a heritage centre
In August 2024, the house was reported to have been razed; contractors hired under the college’s land lease allegedly removed the structure, leading to an administrative probe and widespread condemnation from film scholars and heritage groups.
For cinephiles and scholars, Ghatak is a colossus of Bengali cinema. His films such as ‘Titash Ekti Nadir Naam’ (1973) and others addressed displacement, identity, partition, everyday suffering and mythic memory.
The loss of his childhood home is more than a local architecture story. It’s a symbolic erasure of a tangible link to his roots.
“We started the organisation to keep his legacy alive,” says Ahsan Kabir Liton, president of the Ritwik Ghatak Film Society in Rajshahi. “The city shaped his imagination. The river, the museum, the air of this place. Losing his home is like losing a piece of that history.”
Even so, the society continues to hold its annual programme at the site of the former home, a ritual of remembrance amid the rubble.
As the director’s centenary arrives, tributes are surging from both sides of the border, Bangladesh and India, and the global film-community is paying renewed attention to his work. But in Rajshahi, the roots remain fragile, scattered among broken bricks and overgrown lawns.
This moment offers a critical question: can the loss of physical heritage spur renewed commitment to preserve cultural memory, not just of Ghatak, but of the places and people that shaped an art-form?
Film historians emphasise Ghatak’s early environment: the riverine landscape, the refugee trauma, the Bengali ethos remain just as integral to his cinematic voice. Without its physical anchor, how will that story be told to future generations?
The centenary thus becomes a turning point. Will the remains of Ghatak’s home finally be recognised as heritage? Will local and national agencies act to stabilise what is left, or will the site continue to fade into anonymity? Given the state of Ghatak’s ancestral residence, preservation now is overdue.
Beyond one filmmaker’s biography, the story draws attention to broader faults in heritage protection: how structures tied to art, culture and memory often fall through bureaucratic cracks.
For a figure like Ghatak whose work emerged from a fractured Bengal and whose own life was shaped by displacement, the neglect of his childhood home resonates deeply. His films visualised themes of uprootedness, identity and belonging; which now has become the fate of his home.
As the world marks Ghatak’s 100th birthday, perhaps the most fitting tribute is not only watching his films but restoring the ground where he first imagined them.
