Farewell to Anjanda in the ocean of memories

The news of Anjanda’s passing came as a shock. Unbelievable. It’s hard to accept that filmmaker Zahidur Rahim Anjan, our beloved Anjanda, is no longer with us. We will no longer see him at Aziz Market, Shahbagh, or at various film festivals and seminars.

My relationship with Anjanda revolved solely around cinema. We watched countless films together and engaged in endless debates about them. Our conversations rarely strayed beyond movies. For over two decades, we had sporadic yet deep discussions—sometimes at Aziz Super Market, sometimes at Paribagh, sometimes at Banglamotor, sometimes at Shahbagh, and other times at Chobir Haat or Charukala.

We would talk for hours—about the movies we watched, the characters, the craftsmanship, the aesthetics, the cinematography, the sound design, the locations, and the narrative structure. When more people joined, our private discussions would turn into lively debates. Anjanda often recommended classic films to me.

One day, Anjanda told me, “Listen, somehow release Haribol.”
I asked, “How did you manage to get Meghmallar past the censor board?”
Anjanda laughed and said, “You won’t be able to do it like I did. I pulled off a trick with a document from the Short Film Forum. If you want, I can get you a letter from them. See if it works.”

I replied, “I don’t understand what you’re saying. Explain clearly—what exactly did you do?”
He said, “Listen, back then, Piyushda was at the FDC. I showed him that Short Film Forum document and asked him to issue an NOC on FDC’s letterhead. He didn’t dig too deep. That’s it—problem solved! You should give it a try too.”

I said, “Piyushda was a poet; he trusted you and helped. But he’s no longer at the FDC. This trick won’t work anymore, for sure!”
Anjanda laughed, “Then what will you do? At least give it a shot!”
I replied, “No, I don’t like this method, dada. Let’s forget about Haribol—tell me where you disappeared last week instead!”

He said, “I realized that I couldn’t finalize my script while staying in Dhaka, so I escaped to the hills to work on it.”
— “Did you finish it?”
— “Mostly. A few corrections left, which I’ll do on location.”
— “When are you starting the shoot?”
— “Very soon.”

That conversation was about Chander Amabasya. After that, whenever we met, our discussions revolved around the film’s technical aspects. Anjanda always addressed me informally as “tui,” while I used the more respectful “tumi” for him. He treated me with great affection and encouraged me in filmmaking. From the outside, one might not notice his eccentricity, but when talking about cinema, his passion, dedication, and dreams became evident.

He once held a secret technical screening of Chander Amabasya. When I found out the next day, I scolded him. He simply asked, “Where are you headed now?”
— “Shahbagh.”
— “Will it be a problem if you go two hours later?”
— “No, not really.”
— “Then come, let’s escape this heat and enjoy some AC at Shale.”

We sat at Shale and talked about Chander Amabasya for nearly two hours. When we left, he took a rickshaw to Dhanmondi, and I walked towards TSC.

Our spontaneous conversations were so intense that outsiders often struggled to grasp what we were discussing. One moment, we would be talking about Tarkovsky or Kurosawa, and the next, about Kim Ki-duk or Mohsen Makhmalbaf. Sometimes it was Satyajit, Mrinal, or Ritwik; other times, Iñárritu or Abbas Kiarostami. We debated Koushik-Srijit, and at times, Almagir Kabir and Amjad Hossain’s works.

Those deep cinema discussions with Anjanda will never happen again. Just thinking about it feels suffocating. Wherever you are, may you be at peace, dada.

Reza Ghatak: Writer and Filmmaker.