Satyajit Ray’s Mahapurush depicts spiritual charlatanism and middle-class vulnerability by film critic Lalit Rao (FIPRESCI)

 

Satyajit Ray’s Mahapurush (1965), a sharp social satire adapted from Bengali writer Rajshekhar Basu’s short story Birinchibaba, remains one of the most incisive explorations of religious imposters in Indian cinema. Coming five years after Devi (1960), where Ray offered a chilling depiction of blind faith and its tragic consequences, Mahapurush takes a lighter, comedic route to unveil the manipulations of a fake holy man. With wit, intelligence, and a profound understanding of middle-class vulnerabilities, Ray exposes how religion, when filtered through opportunistic charlatans, becomes a tool of deception rather than enlightenment.

 

At its heart, Mahapurush is not merely a comedy about a self-styled guru who fools the gullible. It is a layered commentary on society—on the loneliness of the bereaved, the aspirations of the middle class, and the enduring human tendency to surrender reason in the face of charismatic authority. Through the character of Birinchibaba, Ray crafts a portrait of a con man so audacious that his absurd claims—of being present with Plato, having guided Einstein, or conversing with Buddha—are lapped up by his followers without question. In Ray’s hands, this narrative becomes both specific and universal, deeply rooted in the Bengali milieu yet resonant across religions and cultures worldwide.

The story unfolds when lawyer Gurupada Mitter, grieving the recent loss of his wife, encounters Birinchibaba and his disciple while traveling by train with his daughter Buchki. Emotionally vulnerable and desperately seeking solace, Gurupada finds in the so-called guru a promise of transcendence. Birinchi, played with extraordinary conviction by Charuprakash Ghosh, instantly captivates him with lofty references to philosophy, science, and religion—references that are more ridiculous than profound, but impressive enough to dazzle a man in mourning.

 

Buchki, Gurupada’s young daughter, is less enthusiastic, though she is caught between loyalty to her father and skepticism of the Baba. Her fiancé Satya, however, immediately distrusts Birinchi. Sensing danger in this new intrusion into their lives, Satya enlists the help of friends to expose the impostor. What follows is a delightful mix of suspense, comedy, and satire, as the youth plot to rescue Buchki’s family from falling deeper into the clutches of the self-styled prophet.

The narrative also carries a romantic subplot, as Satya woos Buchki while simultaneously hatching schemes against Birinchi. Alongside, Ray offers glimpses into the texture of Bengali middle-class life—the chess games, the poetry readings, the discussions around faith and rationality—all woven seamlessly into the larger satire.

One of Ray’s sharpest insights in Mahapurush lies in his dissection of class and faith. The rich, Ray suggests, are largely indifferent to religion. They have wealth as their security and rarely seek miracles from wandering holy men. The poor, on the other hand, are too burdened by survival to indulge in the luxuries of philosophical speculation or patronizing a guru. It is the middle class—educated enough to know of Plato or Einstein but not critical enough to question Birinchi’s preposterous claims—that becomes the perfect prey.

 

Ray’s satire is merciless in this regard. He shows how the middle class, with its anxieties, aspirations, and vulnerabilities, is most susceptible to the psychological games played by false prophets. Birinchi thrives precisely because his audience wants to believe in him. Gurupada’s grief makes him gullible, Buchki’s sense of filial duty silences her doubts, and the larger community of followers revels in the fantasy that they are in the presence of a divine being.

 

This dynamic is far from restricted to Bengal or Hinduism. Ray’s genius lies in elevating the story to universal significance. Every culture, every religion has its share of godmen, mystics, and miracle workers—many of them more interested in material gain than spiritual truth. By anchoring his narrative in humor and irony, Ray avoids preaching, instead allowing audiences across the world to see their own societies reflected in the antics of Birinchibaba.

 

Unlike Devi, where Ray used the weight of tragedy to show how blind devotion could destroy a young woman’s life, Mahapurush chooses laughter as its weapon. But this laughter is never shallow; it is edged with the sting of recognition.

Scenes in which Birinchi claims to have guided Einstein in his theory of relativity, or to have conversed with Plato, are not merely absurd—they are a mirror to the credulity of his followers. The audience laughs, but uncomfortably, because the exaggeration underscores a real truth: how often do people accept fantastical claims simply because they come from an authoritative voice?

 

Ray’s satire is gentle but devastating. He never vilifies religion itself; instead, he isolates the imposters who exploit it. In doing so, he preserves the dignity of faith while attacking the corruption of its practice. The laughter he evokes is cathartic, a reminder that reason and skepticism remain the best defenses against exploitation.

At the center of the film is Birinchibaba, brought to life with extraordinary nuance by Charuprakash Ghosh. Ghosh’s performance is nothing short of brilliant. His calm demeanor, theatrical pauses, and the sly twinkle in his eye make Birinchi both magnetic and ridiculous. He embodies the archetype of the guru who thrives on

ambiguity, never saying enough to be pinned down, but saying just enough to appear profound.

 

Opposite him is Gurupada Mitter, the lawyer desperate for consolation. His portrayal reflects the fragility of a grieving man, one who seeks in Birinchi not just spiritual guidance but a balm for his personal loss. Through him, Ray illustrates how tragedy often paves the way for exploitation.

 

Buchki, played by Gitali Roy, is both charming and conflicted. She serves as the emotional core caught between father and fiancé, embodying the generational tensions of a society in transition. While Ray casts her as the “eye candy” of the film, her role also signals the negotiation between tradition and modernity in Bengali middle-class households.

Satya, her fiancé, provides the rational counterpoint. His determination to expose Birinchi, aided by his friends, injects the narrative with youthful energy and optimism. In him lies Ray’s message: skepticism, reason, and courage are the antidotes to blind belief.The ensemble cast, playing friends and household members, add richness to the tapestry. Their chess games, poetry readings, and casual conversations capture the everyday life of Bengal, grounding the satire in a world that feels lived-in and familiar.

 

Mahapurush also reminds us that Satyajit Ray was not only a director but also a complete filmmaker—screenwriter, composer, and often designer of his films. In this work, he adapted Basu’s short story with a fidelity to spirit but an expansion of scope. His screenplay sharpens the satire while allowing for moments of romance and domestic realism.

The music, composed by Ray himself, punctuates the narrative without overwhelming it. Subtle, understated, and evocative, the score supports the humor and enhances the atmosphere of skepticism and revelation. His direction balances the tightrope between comedy and critique, ensuring the laughter never drowns out the message.

 

Seen in relation to Devi, Mahapurush reveals Ray’s evolving engagement with religion. In Devi, the young Doyamoyee is deified by her father-in-law, leading to a devastating loss of agency and eventual tragedy. The film is suffused with sorrow, highlighting how blind faith can destroy lives.

 

In Mahapurush, Ray turns his gaze to the imposters who perpetuate such blind faith. If Devi shows the consequences of belief, Mahapurush shows the mechanisms of deception. Both films critique the misuse of religion, but where Devi is a dirge, Mahapurush is a laugh—different tones, same message. Together, they form a diptych on faith, reason, and exploitation, testifying to Ray’s ability to interrogate religion with both gravitas and wit. Though set in 1960s Bengal, Mahapurush resonates globally. The phenomenon of false prophets, spiritual entrepreneurs, and self-styled mystics is not confined to one culture. From televangelists in the West to cult leaders in East Asia, from miracle-working sadhus in India to faith healers in Africa, the figure of Birinchibaba recurs endlessly.

 

Ray’s film, therefore, is not a critique of Hinduism alone but of the universal human weakness for easy answers, mystical authority, and the illusion of transcendence. It warns against the dangers of surrendering reason, a warning that remains as relevant today as it was in 1965. Mahapurush is, above all, a film that makes its audience laugh while asking them to think. It does not scold or preach, but gently, humorously, and incisively exposes the mechanisms of religious exploitation. By crafting Birinchibaba as both absurd and believable, Ray ensures that the satire is timeless.

 

The film also enriches Ray’s oeuvre, demonstrating his versatility. While known globally for humanist dramas like ‘‘Pather Panchali’’ and ‘‘Charulata’’, Ray’s comedic works like Mahapurush reveal another side of his genius—the ability to use humor as a scalpel, dissecting social hypocrisies with precision. Charuprakash Ghosh’s unforgettable performance, Gitali Roy’s charm, the lived-in authenticity of Bengali domestic life, and Ray’s seamless blending of script, music, and direction together make Mahapurush a masterclass in satire. Its laughter still echoes with relevance, reminding us that the Birinchibabas of the world are never far away—and that vigilance, reason, and skepticism are the only true antidotes.

 

More than half a century later, Mahapurush continues to entertain, enlighten, and caution. It remains a cinematic gem that unmasks not just a single fraud, but the very human tendency to seek solace in illusion. And in doing so, it upholds Satyajit Ray’s legacy as a filmmaker who could make us laugh, cry, and most importantly, think.