Randeep Theatre and the ‘cinemawala’ of Nahan

Whenever I watch the 2016 Bengali movie ‘Cinemawala’, I think of my father; his myriad faces — laughing, playing, grimacing and, sometimes, sad or worried — flash across my mind. This superbly crafted movie is a tribute to the single-screen cinema houses that have nearly vanished in India. Parambendu Bose, the elderly protagonist, is the owner of a closed cinema hall. He has a deep passion for classic Bengali films and a fondness for alcohol. Neither of his indulgences is understood by the younger generation, including his son.

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My father also had a stint as the manager of a movie theatre, the Randeep Theatre, in the small, sleepy town of Nahan almost 70 years ago. Like the old Parambendu Babu in the movie, he had a passion for both quality films and booze. He managed that cinema with the zeal of a librarian who is also a lover of books. A widower at 39, he raised his four sons with the same energy on his meagre income. He never remarried because he didn’t want to impose a stepmother on his children. He was very protective of his offspring and ambitious about their future.

I remember him cooking for us on a makeshift angithi. After our evening meals, we would all sit huddled around the same angithi, and he would tell us about his dreams for each one of us. These dreams were infectious and ran through our blood long after his demise. At least one was fulfilled during his lifetime. My elder sibling cracked the IAS exams and later retired as the Chief Secretary of the state.

I was the youngest of the four brothers, and we attended almost every movie on the opening day as a family ritual, as if we owned the cinema. Thus, I was introduced to the world of Hindi movies during my early years. This world has run parallel to my life ever since. Film posters and scenes from movies adorned the walls of our home, often intermingling with our family photographs.

During our formative years, we particularly enjoyed movies with child actors in key roles because it was easy to connect with the characters. Films like ‘Hum Panchhi Ek Daal Ke’, ‘Jagriti’, and ‘Boot Polish’ are still etched in my memory.

I remember weeping profusely during the song “Chalo Chalen Maa” in ‘Jagriti’. I had recently lost my mother, and the touching song had a cathartic effect on my young mind. The action movies featuring some fight sequences were also our favourites. We eagerly awaited films starring our beloved action heroes such as Ranjan, Prem Nath, Ajit, Sheikh Mukhtiar and Mahipal. Sometimes we would ask our father to requisition such movies. More often than not, he obliged.

The cinema was an old bungalow-style structure, built from chiseled stones. It had a gallery with 15-20 seats, four box cabins below it, and a small main hall. It may seem strange to today’s moviegoers that men and women were seated separately in distinct sections of the hall, divided by a 4-foot-high curtain. As the movie began, a boy would run from the front to the back of the hall, holding the curtain as it slid along metal rings. Similarly, at the end of the film, just before the lights came on, he ran from the back to the front, closing the curtain. Even today, when I see a movie in a modern theatre, the sound of the curtain sliding on rings echoes in my subconscious mind at the interval or end of the movie.

Then there was the legendary projectionist, Banke — a right-hand man of my father, like Hari in the movie ‘Cinemawalla’. Few people had seen him, but almost every cinegoer was familiar with his name. Whenever there was a power failure, interruption or any flaw in the sound during the screening of the film, the whole hall reverberated with the vociferous cries of “Banke! Banke!” and abuses were hurled at him.

The cinematic experience was altogether different. No popcorn or Coca-Cola then. The aroma of moongphalis and chana prevailed. There used to be long queues for tickets, which more often than not were broken, resulting in some chaos. Sometimes, when a blockbuster was released, hushed calls could be heard — “teen ka paanch”, “paanch ka aath”, akin to the scenes of Dev Anand’s ‘Kala Bazar’.

My father died about 50 years ago. The Randeep Theatre building no longer stands. A residential colony has sprung up in its place. But the old cinema hall has become a part of the folklore of this sleepy heritage town. So has its shadowy projectionist, Banke. And so has my father, the starry-eyed ‘cinemawala’.

— The writer is based in Shimla