In the Forest of Reflections: The Rediscovery of Aranyer Din Ratri

It asks for patience, nuance, attention. However, what it offers in return is rare: a cinema of temperament, not event; of silence, not sermon. Satyajit Ray’s Days and Nights in a Forest was not made to be liked. It was made to be remembered.

By Tathagata Chatterjee

It’s not every day that a 56-year-old Bengali film quietly walks back into the global spotlight. However, when Aranyer Din Ratri (Days and Nights in the Forest)—Satyajit Ray’s 1969 ensemble meditation on masculinity, escape, and self-delusion—was screened at the 2025 Cannes Film Festival in May this year, in its freshly restored 4K avatar, it didn’t feel like a rediscovery. It felt like a reckoning.

With renowned auteur Wes Anderson championing the film (and openly nodding to its memory game sequence in his 2023 film Asteroid City), and cast members, actors Sharmila Tagore and Simi Garewal in attendance, the revival was both a cinephile cloudburst and emotional homecoming.

Beyond his homage, Anderson also played a major role in restoring Aranyer Din Ratri, which had fallen into poor condition over the years. As a member of Martin Scorsese’s The Film Foundation, Anderson helped launch the restoration in 2019. The project, carried out by the Film Heritage Foundation, Janus Films, and The Criterion Collection, was funded by the Golden Globe Foundation and became part of the Cannes Classics line-up.

Clearly, Aranyer Din Ratri was never really forgotten. It was just quietly waiting for the world to catch up with its brilliance, and its rhythm.

The Escape That Became a Mirror

When four privileged young men from Calcutta—Ashim, a promising executive (Soumitra Chatterjee), Sanjoy, a Labour Officer in a jute mill (Subhendu Chatterjee), Hari, a sportsman (Samit Bhanja), and Shekhar, a jobless parasite with a yen for gambling (Rabi Ghosh) -- head off to the forests of Palamau for an impulsive holiday, what unfolds is not quite adventure, not quite introspection, and definitely not a coming-of-age drama in the Western sense. The shooting location was entirely outdoors at the Betla forests, now in Jharkhand (then Bihar).

Ray adapted Sunil Gangopadhyay’s semi-autobiographical novel into a film because he “liked the story”. He also drew the credit titles and wrote the music. But, beyond this surface, what emerges is something far more nuanced. Much later, he called it one of his most satisfying films.

“It’s a complex film with seven characters. People kept asking, ‘What is it about?’ But that’s the trouble—it’s about many things. And that’s precisely why I made it.”

Actor Dhritiman Chatterjee once said, “He ( Ray) took a novel that’s crammed with detail, and reduced it to a screenplay of remarkable simplicity. What I admired most about the film was the stark structuring of it”.

Indeed, Aranyer Din Ratri is less about the story and more about what happens when four urban men are removed from their familiar environments. What emerges are their insecurities, pretensions, blind spots, and fleeting moments of truth.

A Symphony in the Forest: Ray and Mozart

Days and Nights has a structure and mood that can again be described as musical, and Mozart springs to mind.

Ray, who was a trained composer and a lifelong aficionado of Western classical music, once said:

“Cinema has an obvious affinity with music in that both exist as fixed patterns in time. But film is concerned with subject matter, while music, at least in its instrumental form, is not...When I talk of Mozart as an influence, I am thinking more of his operas and his miraculous ability to have groups of characters maintain their individuality through elaborate ensembles.”

"When I talk of Mozart as an influence, I am thinking more of his operas and his miraculous ability to have groups of characters maintain their individuality through elaborate ensembles."

“The first half has the appearance of light comedy,” wrote Ray to Marie Seton while tackling the screenplay, “but there’s a steady modulation to a serious key.”

The influence of Mozart, particularly his ensemble scenes from operas like Don Giovanni, can be felt in how Ray choreographs group dynamics. The Memory Game scene—arguably the film’s centrepiece—is a cinematic ensemble in the Mozartian sense.

“The memory game in Aranyer Din Ratri attempts this. Here the game itself is the ground bass over which the six characters play out their individual roles in word, look, and gesture,” he said.

In that iconic scene, the four men and two women sit cross-legged on picnic rugs in a clearing, playing a game of naming famous personalities. What begins as play quickly morphs into sub-textual theatre: flirtation, ego, social capital, and hidden vulnerabilities -- all erupt in glances and tone.

Beyond its elegance and ensemble chemistry, the Memory Game also demonstrates one of the most nuanced uses of cinematic ensemble structure in Ray’s work. Shot under the canopy of trees beside the forest rest house, the scene pulls together all of Ray’s directorial gifts—performance direction, editing, and psychological insight—into a seemingly light game that simmers with tension just beneath the surface.

Each character adds a famous name to a growing list: Jaya chooses Rabindranath, Aparna offers Cleopatra, Shekhar invokes Atulya Ghosh (a well-known Bengal Congress politician), Hari recalls Helen of Troy, Sanjoy names Mao Tse-tung, and Ashim chooses Shakespeare. Their selections aren’t just clever—they are revealing.

They chart personality, class anxiety, romantic subtext, and ideological alignment. By the end, only Ashim and Aparna remain. But, then, quietly, she lets him win.

Ray’s precision is astounding—dialogue, silence, and gaze fuse into psychological choreography. The scene is as much about what’s said as what’s held back.

For Bengali audiences, the names chosen carry layered significance, adding another cultural dimension. For global viewers, the emotional architecture of the moment still resonates: charm, defiance, retreat, concession. It is cinema doing what only cinema can do—showing multiple emotional trajectories within a single, deceptively simple sequence. Indeed, the sequence also shows the fragility and selectivity of cultural memory itself.

Which names get remembered, and by whom?

Who is left out?

In the act of recalling famous figures—both historical and contemporary—the characters unknowingly reveal their social aspirations, their ideological leanings, and their blind spots. It’s a moment of self-curation disguised as play, a gentle interrogation of privilege masquerading as a parlour game. Ray's brilliance lies in allowing a simple premise to expand into something sociologically expansive.

As Wes Anderson observed much later:

“A clash between castes and sexes. Urbans and rurals. Selfish men and their spectacular lack of wisdom. Women who see through them.”

A Memory Game Across Continents

There may have been many who missed the quirky mention of Sir Jagadish Chandra Bose in Wes Anderson’s Asteroid City, set in a fictional desert town in 1953 America. In a subtle twist of historical irony, a group of American teenage honorees at a youth astronomy convention play a memory game to pass the time. As the rules go, each participant must repeat a growing list of famous names and then add a new one. Among the names—Cleopatra, Gödel, Van Leeuwenhoek—comes the mention of Sir Jagadish Chandra Bose. The reference may seem fleeting, but it speaks volumes. It’s a tribute not just to one of India’s greatest scientists, but also to Ray’s influence on Anderson. The game itself is staged in a way that unmistakably mirrors the memory game scene from Aranyer Din Ratri. It’s a quiet cinematic bow: a tribute to Ray’s genius in capturing social dynamics through games, glances, and unspoken tensions.

What deepens the poignancy is the historical context. In the 1920s, American scientific elites had actively tried to undermine and discredit Bose’s groundbreaking work. That his name now appears in a fictional 1950s American setting in Asteroid City —spoken by a young mind eager to remember him—feels like a form of poetic justice.

To witness not one but two Indian figures—Ray and Bose—subtly honoured in the same moment of a Western film is not just a nod to influence. It’s a restoration of memory, a cinematic correction, and a reminder that cultural legacy often survives where formal recognition fails.

The Forest as Theatre of the Self

The Palamau forest in Aranyer Din Ratri isn’t just a setting. It’s an emotional and moral pressure cooker. Bankim Chandra Chatterjee had romanticised such spaces; Ray demystifies them. What emerges is a stripping of facades.

Ashim, the charmer with the new car and a history of flings, finds himself intellectually intimidated by Aparna (Sharmila Tagore). Sanjoy, the shy idealist, wavers in the face of romantic possibility. Hari, the macho cricketer, loses himself in a brief, uneasy encounter with Duli, a tribal Santhal woman played by Simi Garewal. Shekhar’s humour gives way to a poignant loneliness.

Each man is quietly exposed. And the camera stays close, not judging, just observing. As Ray said, “My films don’t provide solutions. They are attempts at understanding.”

Women Who Observe, Not Just Belong

Unlike many male-centric ensemble dramas, Aranyer Din Ratri gives its women space to watch and reflect.

Sharmila Tagore’s Aparna is composed and intellectually assured. Her exchanges with Ashim are dances of language and implication.

“This was one of the really good films of Manik-da,” Tagore recalled, as mentioned in Satyajit Ray’s Heroes and Heroines by author Amitava Nag. “Through it, he tried to understand the present generation... Soumitra played the character very well—he is confident yet vulnerable. In the beginning he is cocky, but then as the film progresses, the character becomes more human and I think he played it to perfection.”

Kaberi Bose’s Jaya brings gravitas to widowhood, infusing flirtation with quiet defiance.

And then there is Simi Garewal’s Duli. It is said that Ray first noticed Simi at a dinner party hosted by Raj Kapoor in Bombay, celebrating the preview of Mera Naam Joker.

In Simi’s own words:

“The first sighting took place at Raj Kapoor's house. Ray had seen a preview of Mera Naam Joker, and at the dinner that followed, I noticed him staring at me throughout the evening. Everybody else noticed it too. Within a month, I got a letter from him offering me ‘an important role’ in his new film. He wanted me to come to Calcutta for a screen test. He wrote, ‘It’s only a screen test for make-up. Not for your acting abilities—because I have no doubt whatsoever about that…’” (‘Simi Garewal remembers meeting Satyajit Ray and working with him on ‘Aranyer Din Ratri’, by Shantanu Ray Chaudhuri in The Telegraph, Kolkata, May 16, 2025).

“How could anyone envision that a ‘westernized and sophisticated’ girl like me could play an Adivasi tribal woman?” Simi once said. “But then, I guess that’s what sets a great director apart.”

Ray had her observe real tribal life before filming. She noted:

“For a week, Manik-da wouldn't let me shoot. He'd take me to the 'bhaati-khaana' (the liquor shop) where the Adivasis would gather at night to drink—and let me just observe… It took four hours to cover me with the black paint (even in my ears!)—and it took 3 hours to remove it later! And in the in-between, I became another being, rustic, uninhibited, untutored, and raw… It was a turning point in my life.”

Her performance is raw and instinctive. Duli becomes a symbol, not a person—beautiful, exotic, and voiceless. Ray neither condemns nor critiques this dynamic; he lets it unfold.

Why Bengal Didn’t Love It First

Despite Ray’s stature, the film failed to make waves in Bengal upon release. It won no major awards.

That structure—deceptively light, deceptively plotless—is what confused many viewers at the time. The film was panned by sections of the Bengali press for being “frivolous” and “unconcerned with politics” at a time when the Naxalite movement had turned Kolkata into a cauldron of violence and unrest.

Some argue it was "too Westernized" -- its chamber-like composition and Mozartian structure unfamiliar to local viewers expecting social realism or overt political commentary.

Ray later explained: “They completely missed the implications of the structure, which I think makes it one of my best pictures... It's rather a film about relationships, and very complex in structure, like a kind of fugue. People want just one theme, which they can hold in their hands.”

For the uninitiated, a fugue is a piece of music where multiple melodies are interwoven, all based on a single main idea. This was most popular during the Baroque Period (1600-1750) and was based on the imitative polyphony of the Renaissance, where singers would perform the same melody at different times.

The original author Sunil Gangopadhyay himself was reportedly upset by Ray’s changes to the story. He wasn’t happy with the outcome. “I felt that I didn’t know these characters,” he was quoted by Andrew Robinson in Inner Eye.

Ray well understood his feelings about the changes: “Days and Nights was based on his personal experiences,’ he pointed out. “Sunil didn’t resent the film’s changes – but he was sad about them.”

Bengali audiences knew what to expect from Ray. But here, they were surprised—perhaps even alienated. The inner disquiet of urban elites in a forest, exploring moral disarray without catharsis, felt indulgent to some.

Time, of course, proved otherwise.

The Ensemble Legacy

Ray always worked with a repertory of actors, but Aranyer Din Ratri represents perhaps his most musical ensemble. The film’s spirit flows into Kanchenjungha before it and Seemabaddha and Jana Aranya after it. In Seemabaddha, the characters may have swapped forests for corporate boardrooms, but the inner disquiet remained. However, while the latter two are more linear and narrative-driven, Aranyer and Kanchenjungha embrace simultaneity, chance, and mood. In that sense, Shakha Proshakha also shares the ensemble DNA.

In Aranyer Din Ratri we observe. We listen. We note how cinematic language is deployed for exploring fractured modernity through group psychology.

Wes Anderson, too, inherited this fascination with ensembles. His films bristle with distinct voices harmonising within stylised worlds. One sees the roots in Ray.

The film also echoes the ‘Back to Nature’ movement in European art. Like Gauguin and Rousseau, who left urban centres to explore primitivist aesthetics in natural settings, Ray crafts a space where civilised veneers are stripped by elemental encounters. That resonance, consciously or not, made Aranyer Din Ratri more popular abroad than in India. Western critics saw the forest as metaphor; local audiences perhaps saw it too literally.

The film also echoes the ‘Back to Nature’ movement in European art...Ray crafts a space where civilised veneers are stripped by elemental encounters.

Between Memory and Myth – A Circle Completed

There’s something almost mythic about how the narrative concludes. And it's the mythic we are left with after the ordinary has been (temporarily) resolved.

No lessons are declared. No endings are tied. The conclusion of the film is quietly perfect.

The foursome return to Calcutta in Ashim’s car, just as they had arrived three days earlier—but something has shifted. The light-hearted bravado with which they began their journey has dulled. Their laughter is quieter, their expressions more thoughtful.

No dramatic transformation occurs, yet the viewer senses a subtle reordering of their inner lives. They leave behind the forest, but not the truths it revealed. In Ray’s hands, even a return becomes a quiet revolution.

That’s what makes it feel modern. The film is less about change than about disruption. Less about love than about emotional exposure.

However, with time, its resonance has grown.

This is because today, its themes—urban alienation, performative masculinity, the inadequacy of language, the pull of nature, and the politics of leisure—are not dated. They are heightened.

The Behind-the-Scenes of a Quiet Masterpiece

Subhendu Chatterjee, who played Sanjoy, spoke of Ray’s unmatched precision: “The country liquor shop, which was shown in the film, was an original one. Most of the people who were there in the shop were local people unaware that they were being filmed.”

Pahari Sanyal was already a formidable actor who dabbled in both—the Bengali and Hindi film industries, when he first featured in a cameo role in Ray’s Paras Pathar. Sanyal’s last appearance in Ray’s oeuvre was in this film. Here, in a poignantly subdued role, he played a retired service man and father of Aparna. The most notable point about Sanyal’s contribution is the song, Sey Daake Aamare by Atul Prasad Sen, which he rendered in his voice.

Sharmila Tagore recalled the shoot fondly: “We did shooting for around two to three hours early in the morning and then again, later in the afternoon. It was so hot that it was humanly impossible to work in between. Samit (Bhanja), Subhendu (Chatterjee), Rabi-da and I stayed together in one dak-bungalow. It was continuous adda. Rabi-da made us laugh so much. Manik-da and Soumitra (Chatterjee) stayed in one dak bungalow and Kaberi-di (Bose) and Simi (Garewal) in another. In the evening, we would often visit tribal villages, interact with the inhabitants and also dance with them. It was great fun. I enjoyed every moment of it.”

This offscreen camaraderie subtly bleeds into the film. You feel it in the pauses, the casual grace, the lived-in ensemble dynamic.

A Few Gentle Criticisms

Ray himself was candid about the criticisms the film faced after its release. He once stated, “Aranyer Din Ratri provoked comments like: What does the film say? Where is the message? Why isn’t the director more articulate? Actually, the film says a lot, but not always in words, certainly not in those of rhetoric. But who bothers to read between the lines of a film?”

Even a masterpiece deserves scrutiny. Some critiques of Aranyer Din Ratri hold weight. The scenes relating to Hari (especially those dealing with Duli) feel very thin and unconvincing because they are conventional. Sure, sparks flew on the face of animal instincts. But there is no resonance with the intended rawness, and though this is surely deliberate, the contrast doesn't succeed.

Speaking of which, the representation of the tribal world, while not overtly patronizing, is still aestheticized. Duli, the tribal girl played by Simi Garewal, remains largely silent, framed as an exotic presence. Her gaze is not hostile, but her mannerisms appear stilted. Although Ray tried his best to make us believe that her responses were genuine and hence beautiful.

Also, the female characters, while memorable, are ultimately defined in relation to the men.

In the words of a fellow cinephile, across all her collaborations with Ray, Sharmila Tagore’s characters consistently encountered a familiar spectrum of Bengali male archetypes—the pompous filmstar, the romantic idealist, the suave yuppie, the confused macho man, and the cautious traditionalist. Meanwhile, she remained a constant presence: slightly sceptical, quietly probing, often aloof, and always a subtle mirror to the male psyche—evolving from innocence to quiet world-weariness.

In Aranyer Din Ratri, however, her portrayal of Aparna reveals a minor fissure. The character’s stylised appearance and slightly affected mannerisms seem out of step with her inner grief and emotional restraint, creating a rare lapse in tonal consistency by Ray’s usually impeccable standards.

To her credit, Sharmila Tagore’s shift to Hindi cinema was a deliberate and pragmatic decision—motivated by the need for economic independence and the limited prospects in Kolkata, where a prudish Bengali milieu often dismissed Hindi films as crass or commercial. Yet, she never hesitated to return for meaningful roles in Ray’s films, even if it meant managing hectic schedules, or risking the ire of her Mumbai producers.

Final Reflections

Aranyer Din Ratri is not an easy film.

It asks for patience, nuance, and attention. However, what it offers in return is rare: a cinema of temperament, not event; of silence, not sermon.

In 2025, the forest Ray conjured no longer needs trees. We find it in curated retreats, digital intimacy, and self-disclosure on reels. Our escapes are now mediated by technology, but the search remains the same.

Aranyer Din Ratri was not made to be liked. It was made to be remembered.

And in the long game of memory, indeed, it might be Ray’s quietest film that echoes the loudest.

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ARANYER DIN RATRI (Days and Nights in the Forest), 1969, 115 mins Production: Nepal Dutta and Asim Dutta for Purnima Pictures. Screenplay, Music and Direction: Satyajit Ray. Based on a novel by Sunil Gangopadhyay. Photography: Soumendu Roy. Art Direction: Bansi Chandragupta. Editing: Dulal Dutta. Sound: Sujit Sarkar. Date of release in India: January 16, 1970. Cast: Soumitra Chatterjee (Asim), Subhendu Chatterjee (Sanjoy), Samit Bhanja (Harinath), Rabi Ghosh (Sekhar), Pahari Sanyal (Sadasiv Tripathy), Sharmila Tagore (Aparna), Kaveri Bose (Jaya), Simi Garewal (Duli), Aparna Sen (Atasi).

Acknowledgements:

1. 14 Stories That Inspired Satyajit Ray – edited and translated by Bhaskar Chattopadhyay (Harper, 2014)

2. Satyajit Ray – An Anthology of Statements on Ray and by Ray -- edited by Chidananda Das Gupta (Ministry of Information and Broadcasting, Govt of India, 1981)

3. Satyajit Ray on Cinema – edited by Sandip Ray ( Columbia University Press, 2011)

4. Satyajit Ray’s Heroes and Heroines – Amitava Nag ( Rupa, 2019)

5. Satyajit Ray – The Inner Eye – Andrew Robinson ( IB Tauris, 2004)

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Tathagata Chatterjee is a Gurgaon-based marketing strategist who likes to say he’s “in a meeting” when he’s re-watching a film for the twelfth time. An alumnus of Presidency College, Calcutta, and JNU, Delhi, he claims to be extremely busy, but somehow has an enviable amount of free time for popular culture, books, music, and making ambitious promises about “starting a book this year”.