Of letters and last scenes.

It's been raining for days now in Calcutta. The weatherman reports depression over the Bay of Bengal. Today dawned like no other. The cool breeze entering through my window made me draw on the blanket over my lazy legs. That was when I heard my father exclaim: Rituporno Ghosh is no more. The news felt like a dull thud. The news channels kept on repeating his voice, his images, his achievements: like they do every time a star expired. Then the statuses and the tweets, making the news of his death veritable.
 The *radical* director of *parallel* Bengali cinema understood the language of relationships like no other. I am no critique to talk at length regarding his craft. The twelve National Awards and several International ones are also no yardsticks to measure his genius. And it would be quite foolish to debate over his cinema being the crowd-puller once again, post-Ray. Because they were.Period. He was the one to provoke the *moddhyobitto Bangali* sentiments all over again. Thanks to him, the *arty*, the *snooty*and the anglicized bought first day,first show tickets, queued outside standalones and multiplexes and came out praising the sensitive and brave script.
Perhaps he handled loneliness like no other because he himself experienced loneliness like no other. The letter which Romita writes to her elder sister in the last scene of Dahan used to haunt me as a child. It still does. More so because, perhaps we are all lonely at some point in life.