In Chapal Rani, the Last Queen of Bengal, writer Sandip Roy provides a fascinating portal into the Bengal of the early and mid-20th century when jatra, a massively popular travelling theatre tradition, staged stories of gods and goddesses, legends and epics. The stars of jatra, including those who played queens and goddesses, were men. In this excerpt, we find out, in his own words, how Chapal Bhaduri took his first steps towards becoming Chapal Rani, the future reigning queen of jatra.

At that time, my sister Ketaki was acting at Star Theatre. One day she said, ‘Why don’t you go and ask Chhorda—our brother who worked for the transport company—if he can find you some job, perhaps in the canteen?’

But it was my oldest brother-in-law Pankaj Niyogi who came to my rescue. I was 16, still young but flushed with adolescence. It’s a bit embarrassing to say this about myself, but I was quite beautiful, tall with a full head of hair. Goodness knows where the photographs from those days have gone. My voice was very sweet as well. Whenever I heard Lata Mangeshkar singing on the radio, I would sing along. From my childhood, I’d had an air of girlishness about me. My brother-in-law had obviously spotted that.

‘Do you want to work?’ he asked me.

‘Yes, Chhordi is saying I need to do something. But I don’t know what work I can do.’

‘Tui meyechhele sajte parbi?’ I will never forget that line: Can you dress like a girl?

And that is how my brotherin-law planted within me the seed of what I was to become.

‘A girl?’ I was taken aback. Even though I had girlish manners and a girlish voice and girlish everything, I thought of myself as a boy. How could a boy dress like a girl?

My brother-in-law worked in the engineering department of the Railways at Sealdah Station. He said, ‘If you can dress up as a girl and act, I might be able to help you out. Our recreation club is staging Alibaba. Will you be able to play the part of Morjina, the slave girl?’

I was terribly confused. How could I play the part of a woman?

‘But it happens all the time,’ my brother-in-law explained. ‘So many people do it. You have no idea how much money they make playing female parts. They are able to live off it and support their families as well. And most of them are practically illiterate. At least you have some schooling in you. But you have to decide if you want to do it.’

At that time, in jatra theatre, there were indeed many men who had become famous for playing women on stage—Chhabi Rani, Babli Rani, Nitai Rani and many others.

I went to ask Chhordi for her advice. She said, ‘All I can say is that when someone is floundering in deep waters, then if he finds even a straw in front of him, he holds on to that.’

My brother-in-law said, ‘If you can do it and they like you, then you might even get a job in the Railways.’

That sounded tempting. In those days, a job in the Railways was a golden job.

Still, I hesitated. ‘How can I dress as a girl? What about all the stuff that a woman has?’

‘You won’t have to worry. They will dress you. All you have to do is sing and dance and say your lines.’

I knew how to do that already. In fact, I loved dance so much that Ma [Prabha Devi, a leading Bengali theatre and film actress and poet] had arranged for a dance tutor for me after one of the theatre artistes noticed I had rhythm. The tutor was a student of the great Kathak dancer Gopi Kishan; she had even been to Mumbai to choreograph dances. The first time she tied those bells on my feet, they were so heavy I could barely lift my foot. But she really liked me. When she went to Benaras, she brought back an image of Lord Shiva for me. I still remember the bols, the recitations of rhythmic patterns. I know exactly when the tihai, the phrase repeated three times, was coming. I learnt for about three months. We had just started the bols when Ma died. Like many other things in my life, my dance lessons also came to an end.

But Alibaba was a different matter altogether. I had watched Alibaba so many times that I knew all the lines by heart. One of the great Morjinas I had seen had been played by Renubala, a friend of my mother’s. There were several Renubalas in theatre. The one I speak of was called Renubala Sukh, because she had become famous for her performance as Sukh or Joy in the play Atmadarshan. After Ma died, she had held me close and said: ‘Don’t cry. I am still here. To me you are another son, just like my Subrata and Satya. Let me know if you ever need anything.’ Subrata, Satya and I all played child roles and I called her Renuma. I knew she would help me with the part. So I told my brotherin-law I was willing to do it.

But first I had to go for an interview of sorts with Jyoti Kumar, the play’s director, and Prabhat Ghosh who used to play the female roles. I was supposed to replace him because he was getting too old for these parts. He was not impressed by me at all, and didn’t bother to hide his disdain: ‘Oh, who is this? He is so skinny, his voice is so thin. How will he play Morjina?’ At that time, my voice had not changed. Jyoti Kumar, on the other hand, simply asked me to sing Morijina’s song, which I knew by heart thanks to Renu-ma. When I was done, he clapped and cried out, ‘Wonderful! He’s totally ready for the stage!’ And just like that, I had the part.

I promptly ran to Renu-ma’s. Her house is still there, in a lane near the old-age home where I live now. She told me not to worry and showed me the right sing-song intonation to use when Morjina says ‘Baba Mustafa’ as she guides the blindfolded tailor home. She taught me the dance steps, the compositions, the mannerisms, everything that had made her Morjina so famous.

I already knew a bit from sitting on my little mat near pianomaster Ratan-babu’s piano at Srirangam. I knew how women acted, how they raised their eyebrows, how they made their eyes big, how they conveyed love, how they showed fear. But that was just by observing. Renu-ma gave me my first official lesson in how to actually play a woman on stage. I will always remain in her debt.

This is an excerpt from Chapal Rani, the Last Queen of Bengal: The Life and Times of a Female Impersonator by Sandip Roy, published in 2026. No part of this excerpt may be quoted or reproduced without prior written consent from its publisher, Seagull Books.

This article was originally published in the June 2026 issue of ON Stage.