The forgotten art of Bengali advertising

Part 1 The forgotten art of Bengali advertising miftahul@theda… Sun, 05/17/2026 - 14:05 .full-viewport-wrapper img { width: 100%; object-fit: cover; object-position: center; height: 100%; max-height: calc(100vh - 71px); } Image Part 1 The forgotten art of Bengali advertising I have never seen someone at a rustic village market, anklets jingling, shouting slogans for "Khol Company’s Ringworm Ointment." No smooth-talker has ever leaned in, fanning out thin booklets like a deck of cards, whispering rhythmically, "Here are the mysteries of Gopal Bhar, and here—the secret love letters." I never hid colourful advertisements of a reclining Gauhar Jaan, cigarette in hand, between the folds of shirts in my drawer. I did indeed rummage through my grandfather’s pockets to collect old tram tickets, but none of them bore that curious notice for "Ashtavakra Toothpowder." Perhaps the elders of the house witnessed a tram tearing through the heart of a half-awake city, bearing the Khadi Pratisthan’s pledge for cow protection—but there was no question of me witnessing such a sight. An iconic early 20th-century advertisement for Bukhsh Ellahie & Co., featuring classical maestro Gauhar Jaan holding a cigarette to promote their brand Someone’s great-grandfather might have known which drummers came beating the kara and nakara to announce, "Tonight at seven, the Chaitanya-lila folk play commences." I never heard the name of a young "lad" like Dhiren Bal, who reportedly painted the advertisement for "Himkalyan Hair Oil" at a three-way junction in Dinajpur. While searching the Panjika (almanac) for the auspicious moment of a wedding, I never had the chance to chuckle at the suggestive illustrations for "Libido-Enhancing Tablets." On a morning shortly after Mahatma Gandhi’s assassination, I didn't sit with a newspaper wondering which artist, known only as "Munshi," had used swirling brushstrokes to sketch a portrait as a final tribute on behalf of some bankrupt cotton mill. I saw none of this because I hadn't been born yet. Most of those who witnessed it are now gone forever. Yet, even without being born in that era, I have managed to 'see' it all. The old, withered newspapers and digital archives acted like Alibaba’s cave, revealing to me a lost jewelry box. To me, those vintage advertisements were not just pages of history; they were the precious Sita-har, the Jhumko, and the Nak-chabi themselves. I saw those 'ornaments'—the lost illustrations—and through them, I glimpsed a world that has otherwise vanished. Actually, on a sudden whim, I spent a long time digging through ancient newspapers and periodicals. My eyes kept getting stuck on the bizarre advertisements still surviving on the faded, brownish-yellow newsprint of yore. I was looking, most of all, at the illustrations. As I tasted this history, I remembered a book I read long ago: The Lost Tribes of Israel by Tudor Parfitt. Many believe that since the foreign invasions of Israel in the 8th century BC, at least twelve tribes went missing. Mr. Parfitt scoured the planet in search of them—a search that reportedly continues today. Some even believe the signs of those lost people are visible in the Afghans. Looking at the drawings for old advertisements, I felt I found a resemblance between those legendary lost tribes and these forgotten illustrators. That is why the book came to mind. It also felt as though there was no such mismatch that could prevent us from linking these unknown artists’ ghosts to their successors, even without a DNA test! The connection might be clear, but can we not grant them even a small corner in the history of Bengal's illustrative arts? Renowned figures like the artist Raghunath Goswami continue to say—no, those advertisement drawings or ideas are not even worth considering. They claim it is a "mindless and indiscriminate simplification of art objects." They say the expression has neither grace nor form. Artistic value? Far from it! For some reason, despite respecting the scholars' verdict, I grew stubborn. As I weighed the pros and cons, even the "ugly" artworks of those who drew advertisements for ringworm cures or hair-growth tonics began to pull at my eyes. I saw in them plenty of humour, and plenty of heartache too. Nevertheless, I began looking for a way to have a long conversation with those early advertising artists. A representative of a "vanishing species" like O.C. Ganguly (Arun Kumar Gangopadhyay) introduced me to a certain "madman." He had a crow's nest of hair. His lower garment was draped over his chest like a shawl. He wore a striped vest. His hands were shackled in massive iron rings. It is precisely these kinds of advertisements that art critics have referred to as brainless and ugly art. The advertisement regarding the cure for insanity, however, dates back to 1952. Yet, long before that, a group of young artists from agencies had comp