In an industry that loves to mythologise its stars, Beyond the Spotlight does something quietly revolutionary: it demystifies one of Bengal’s biggest myths without ever diminishing the man. Prosenjit Chatterjee – Bumba to millions – sits down with veteran journalist Roshmila Bhattacharya and, for perhaps the first time in his 55-year career, speaks not as the superstar but as the wide-eyed child who once sneaked into the projection room of a small-town cinema, the nervous newcomer trembling before Uttam Kumar, the restless 40-something who risked commercial suicide to work with Rituparno Ghosh, and the 60-year-old who still gets goosebumps watching a perfectly timed close-up.

Published by Rupa Publications the book is structured as a series of “between-takes” memories – those suspended moments on set when the camera stops rolling and real life seeps in. What emerges is less a conventional filmography and more an intimate oral history of Bengali cinema itself, filtered through the prism of one man who has lived every phase of it.

There are revelations that will delight cinephiles: the hilarious prank wars with Tapas Paul that once held up an entire shooting schedule; the heart-stopping moment when Soumitra Chatterjee forgot his lines during a crucial scene and simply improvised in a way that left the crew in tears; the quiet afternoons on the sets of Moner Manush where Buddhadeb Dasgupta and Lalon Fakir’s songs blurred into one another until no one quite knew where the film ended and life began.

But the book’s greatest strength is its refusal to sanitise struggle. Prosenjit speaks candidly about the wilderness years when commercial Bengali cinema hit rock bottom and he found himself making films “just to keep the lights on at home”. He talks about the terror of transitioning to serious cinema at an age when most stars are comfortably coasting on nostalgia.

The chapter on working with Rituparno Ghosh – particularly the making of Chokher Bali and Dosar – is worth the price of the book alone. Here was a superstar willingly surrendering his larger-than-life image to play flawed, vulnerable men, knowing full well that a section of his audience would feel betrayed.

Roshmila Bhattacharya’s role cannot be overstated. She is less an interviewer and more a skilled excavator, knowing exactly when to prod and when to let silence do the work. Her questions are never leading; instead, they create the space for Prosenjit to reveal himself in all his contradictory glory – the disciplined professional who could shoot 120 days a year, the mischievous prankster, the fiercely private man who cries while watching Amar Prem, the producer who gambles everything on new talent.

What surprised me most is how contemporary the book feels. This isn’t sepia-tinted nostalgia. When Prosenjit talks about discovering Vikramaditya Motwane’s Jubilee script and realising that OTT could be the new parallel cinema, or when he discusses the making of Khakee: The Bengal Chapter with Neeraj Pandey, you’re reminded that this is a star who has never stopped evolving. At 62, he’s still the hungriest person in the room.

For Bengali readers, this book will feel like discovering old family albums you never knew existed. For the rest of India, it’s a long-overdue introduction to a parallel universe of cinema where commercial success and artistic courage have, against all odds, frequently coexisted.

Beyond the Spotlight achieves something rare: it makes a superstar human without making him ordinary. By the time you turn the last page, you’ll realise that the real love story here isn’t between Prosenjit and his audience – it’s between a boy from Kolkata and the flickering magic of cinema that never quite let him go.

Essential reading. Not just for fans of Prosenjit Chatterjee, but for anyone who believes that some love affairs with the movies are meant to last a lifetime.