Rupali and Kairi.
No, they are not a couple of
beautiful young damsels. rather one could call them the two grand old ladies of
my birthplace, Chinsurah. They are the twin movie halls in the sleepy town of
Chinsurah that have managed to last through the sands of time and are still very
much a huge landmark and the chief entertainment hub of the town.
In this age, movies are synonymous with
multiplexes. Stand-alone halls are inevitably gobbled up by either multiplexes
or shopping malls. Therefore, the sustainability of the two grand old ladies,
Rupali and Kairi, is indeed a small wonder.
Rupali and Kairi were a part of my
daily life as I grew up in Chinsurah.
The two movie halls were separated by
a wall. One could easily cross the wall - it also had a gaping hole - and move to and fro between the two talkies. In a sense, this too was an early concept
of a twin-screen multiplex. And within the compounds of the two halls, like
modern multiplexes, there were eateries, sweet shops, chemists and the
omnipresent paan-cigarette
stalls.
This is the place where I slowly got
inducted into the so-called ‘bad’ world.
This is where I first bunked school
and saw an Uttam-Suchitra matinee.
This is where I had my first drag on
a cigarette.
This is where I saw many a
relationship culminate and sublimate. Mine inclusive.
This was the first place of my adda where
I had befriended
a huge bandwidth of friends ranging from scholars, who managed to secure State
ranks in School Leaving Exams, to garage mechanics, to hall ushers and even
those who sold movie tickets illegally with a premium – commonly known as
ticket-blackers or
black-marketeers
– for a living.
The Police Station (for some reason
it was known as the Police-Line in Chinsurah) was just across the road on which
these twin halls were located. We were even pally with Jagadish-da, Utpal-da,
Poran-da and a few others who were cops in that Police Station. On packed
shows, they often had bandobast (surveillance-management) duties at the hall
premises to manage the law and order. Despite that, illegal black-marketing of
movie tickets went on unabated under a unique example of the peaceful coexistence
of the hunter and the prey!
Those days, after radios, movies
(also colloquially referred to as ‘pictures’) were the chief source of
entertainment. We waited eagerly for a new Hindi or Bengali release. Dev Anand,
Dilip Kumar, Saira Banu, Vyjayantimala, Uttam Kumar, Soumitra Chatterjee,
Supriya Chowdhury, Dharmendra, and Suchitra Sen – were big stars. Their movies
inevitably opened with packed halls. There was no advance booking in either
Rupali or Kairi. So there were long queues for tickets. The queue for the two PM
matinee show started as early as ten, sometimes nine AM. Crowds thinned out
within a week if the movie was a flop, but inevitably, the first-day-first-show
used to be a sell-out.
First-day-first-show had its craze!
The first-hand review of a movie provided one an opportunity for
one-upmanship in one’s friend circle. And that was a field day for my black-marketeer friends!
A 45 paisa ticket could fetch a price as high as rupees 10 and a ‘First Class’
ticket, costing 2.10 rupees could even fetch rupees 40-50. Rupees 50, in those
days, was a princely sum, when compared to the fact that my school tuition
fees were only rupees 5.50 per month, a cup of tea at Sen-Cabin cost 10 paise,
a packet of ten Charminar – 30 paisa and four yummy sandeshes (sweetmeats
made of fresh cottage cheese) from Sandhyashree Sweets for a rupee!
Pandit was the star black marketeer in
the movie complex.
He was a wiry person with thinning hairline
and surprisingly calm and sleepy eyes. His lips were perpetually red with his
continuous paan-chewing.
He hailed from Bihar or Uttar Pradesh but spoke passable Bengali. But
his skills in maintaining good public relations were outstanding. He always had
a friendly curl-of-a-smile and befriended everybody with equal ease. He was
friends even with the local cops, so much so that he continued his business of
selling tickets at a premium right under the eyes of the cops.
Pandit was a friend. I do not remember
when or how our friendship developed, but we became thick of friends. Having
Pandit as a friend had its obvious benefits. For example, after befriending
Pandit, I never had to bother with the first-day-first-show entry to either
Rupali or Kairi. He gave me a ticket at a very low premium – but never at
actuals. After all, it was his dhanda (business).
It’s not just the entry-pass, Pandit could also manage the seat of one’s choice.
Sen-Cabin - a small eatery in
Rupali’s compound, which served delicious devil-chops and tea, was a popular
tryst for couples. Sen-Cabin had a partitioned row of four or five ‘cabins’ –
which were supposed to provide ‘privacy’ behind translucent plastic curtains. They were meant
for ‘family’ – but were mostly used by truant school and college-going couples.
In those days, dating meant viewing matinee shows and then snacking in joints
like Sen-Cabin, before calling it a day before dusk. Like many couples, Urmi
and I were occasional visitors, but more about that later.
Pandit arranged for premium seats for
young couples, of course at an extra price!
Bilu-da was a multi-tasking employee
of Rupali. He was tall and well-built with an angular and very serious face. He
rarely smiled. He always wore an un-tucked full-sleeved shirt with the sleeves
rolled up to display his sinewy biceps. I saw him selling tickets at the
booking counter, ushering patrons and helping them to find their seats with the
beam of his flashlight. Usually, in the mornings (the first show was always at
2 pm) he patrolled the streets of Chinsurah on a cycle rickshaw distributing
hand-bills for the current movie as well as the forthcoming releases – all the
while shouting through a battery-operated microphone, extolling the movie with
its star-cast and other attractions. He managed to modulate his voice so
dramatically that even the ladies, young and old, peeked through their windows
and verandahs, fully attentive to his announcements. In between announcements,
he would play soundtracks of the very movie. Bilu-da mastered the art of
presenting superb audio-trailers of the movies. His mobile movie advertisement
campaigns went something like this:
Music…music…music…
(Music fades out and Bilu-da’s voice
blurts out)
Come one…come all…releasing next
Fridaaaaaaay….
Superstar Utttttam Kumaaar and his
favourite romantic heroine…….
Yeah…yeah…yeah…you guessed it
right….Mahanaikaa Supriyaaaaa…..
In the best musical sooooper-hit of
the yeaaar…..
CHIRODINER……
Next Friday, 23
August……Rupaaaaaliiiiiii
(Music…music…mucsic….)
Three shows every day… two, five and
eight pm….
You cannot afford to miss….You won’t
want to miss… Mahanayak Uttamkumaaaar romancing Mahanaika Supriyaaaaa……in the
biggest musical extravaganza of the decade…..
CHIRODINER….Rupaaaaliiii…Friday
next….23 August…..
(Music…music…music…)
Haunting music by Nachiketaaaa
Ghooooose….which will not allow you to sleeeeep…..
CHIRODINER…
(Music music music)
Bilu-da would single-handedly
announce, control the volume of the music played on a record player on his lap
wired to his microphone and also stick the handbills on the proffered palms of
bystanders and the urchins running behind his cycle rickshaw. Amazing talent!
Sometimes the proprietor of Kairi
Talkies would also hire Bilu-da’s service for publicity.
Rupali and Kairi had different
owners, so in a way they were competitors. But strangely, there was no
animosity between the two. In fact, they made it a point to release movies of
different genres, so that they cover the same mass twice over. If Rupali came up
with a Bengali family drama starring Uttam-Suchitra, Kairi aimed for a
Dharmendra-Waheeda-starred Hindi action flick. Entertainment starved the public
of Hooghly-Chinsurah lapped up both!
Pandit, using his extraordinary
public relations skills, befriended Bilu-da. As a result, he always managed
to stock up the choicest seats for special patrons.
Pandit, too, had his own style in
selling tickets. The moment the House-Full board was hung (which again was
Bilu-da’s job, more for his height I suppose, for he could reach the hook fixed
at the hall entry door with ease), Pandit swung into action. He mingled with
the crowd and traded his wares with steady but subdued commentaries…
“…First Class – 20 rupees…first-class
– 20 rupees….Second Class – 15 rupees….second class – 15 rupees… Inter-Class –
10 Rupees….Inter-Class only 10 Rupees… Third Class 5 Rupees...hurry, hurry…
only a few tickets left….20 – 15 – 10 – 5 …. Throwaway price…just throwaway
price…don’t let the full house disappoint you… few tickets…only 20 minutes to
main show….”
Soon he would be surrounded by
customers like bees around a hive. Demand-dependent bargaining would follow.
Once the price is negotiated, Pandit would produce the tickets from the folds
of his sleeve (for some reason he never used his pockets for storing his
merchandise) hand over the tickets and pocket the cash…
Rarely would Pandit compromise on the
price of his ware. The price, of course, depended on the popularity of the
movie. Pandit never saw a movie, but he had this uncanny ability to assess the
shelf life – or should we say the ‘house-full-life’ of the movies. Accordingly,
he set the prices, loaded with some ‘negotiation’ fat – which he would reduce
during bargaining, with a standard only-for-you laced submission.
“Only for you sir … I don’t want you
to go back disappointed…”
“Only for you Didi …
you came all the way from Hooghly, didn’t you?”
“Arre yaar, don’t spoil your evening
just for a few extra rupees…only for you”
“Hit picture, hit picture… see
Dharmendra flatten seven goons with a single punch…special price only for you,
bro”
Pandit surely knew a thing or two
about marketing. He took his business rather seriously. He would not budge on
his ‘negotiated’ price, even to his friends (me included) – but would gladly
treat the same friend later in Sen-Cabin for a cup of tea or devil chops. He
also had a sharp memory, and could generally recognize his patrons whom he had
served once. He created a data bank of his patrons in his mind and accordingly
mapped their preferences and exploited it craftily.
There was a concrete water tank at
the ground level just adjacent to Sen-Cabin which we used as our dhapi
. A dhapi is a platform, usually made of concrete that served as a
tryst for male friends, a place for gossiping, smoking and also, some eve-teasing.
Those days, very rarely would one find a girl in a dhapi-adda.
Things have changed now. Every evening we assembled there and discussed
virtually everything under the sun. However, the main topics were girls,
politics (Mainly Naxal-Police encounter stories), sports and movies – in that
order.
Pandit was a mobile encyclopedia on
the girls who resided in the Hooghly-Chinsurah Municipality area, who ventured to
Rupali and Kairi for their weekly quotas of pictures. Sometimes, he even kept a
tab on girls who came all the way from Bandel, Chandannagore or even Naihati.
“Tomorrow you will find that fair
girl from Kapasdanga in the evening show at Kairi – so Mamu be prepared” – he
would say to one of our friends Prasanta – popular as Mamu.
“Which girl?” – Mamu would feign
innocence.
“Arre
yaar, that girl with big bosoms, Mitul, her name, I guess. Lives in
Kapasdanga, Hooghly. Studies in Balika Bani Mandir. Class eleven. The one you have been eyeing for so long”
“Hmmm – and how are you so sure?”
“She is a Soumitra Chatterjee fan.
Without fail, she would be there on the first Saturday of every new release of
Soumitra. Watch out, for tomorrow, evening's show at Kairi. She would be accompanied
by her fat Boudi (sister-in-law)
– so better be on the lookout, Mamu.”
Mitul would inevitebly be there with her fat Boudi on
the following day for the evening show at Kairi…
Ninety out of a hundred times, Pandit
was correct in his predictions. And by chance, if he wasn’t, he came up with
incredible excuses like – “She must be having her periods” – a wicked grin
lacing his paan-stained
lips.
It was a troubled time. Political
unrest rocked the whole of Bengal big time. The Naxalites, a communist guerilla
group, supportive of Maoist political sentiments and ideologies, became very
potent in preaching their ideologies across West Bengal. The party targeted the
youth as their cadre. There were some erudite yet firebrand leaders, who could
successfully brainwash a large section of the youth – mostly kids from high
schools and colleges – into joining and working for the party. The Naxalites
chose a quick and radical way of reform. They believed in gunning down and
destroying any person or asset they considered supportive of bourgeoisism.
They supported the peasants and lower-class tribal groups and
overthrew the government and upper classes by force. Later, the Naxal movement
spread along the Eastern coast to Odisha, Andhra and Chattisgarh, but it all
started in Bengal. The name ‘Naxal’ is derived from ‘Naxalbari’ – a small
village in the north of West Bengal. Such was the wave of the movement that thousands
of students left schools and joined it, without caring for their lives or
careers. The aim was to annihilate individual "class enemies" such as
landlords, businessmen, university teachers, police officers, and politicians of
the right and left. The kids were trained to assemble and handle pipe guns (a
country-made rudimentary gun made of steel pipes, metal straps and bands for
trigger mechanism and fed on homemade 9 mm cartridges packed with gun-powder),
homemade bombs grenades and the like. Their movements were, naturally,
viewed as acts of insurgencies and often we heard of police encounters. Many a
young life was lost. The shocking news of deaths, loots and arsons – involving our
friends and acquaintances, came so regularly that after a while they lost the
element of surprise.
However, nobody in our adda was directly involved in this movement. Or so we thought! Our involvement was limited to the gossip and the rampant stories, and occasional reading of ‘red books’ – which preached theories of Mao Zedong – without much comprehending them.
My friendship
with Pandit took a curious turn when I was in my tenth standard at Hooghly
Collegiate School. I was taller than most boys in our class. I was, should I
say rather well-built, and also a natural athlete. I say this because I was an
automatic choice in my school teams for cricket, soccer and hockey. But life
was not all about cricket, football, adda or
movies. We had to study also. In those days, the market was not abuzz with
professional and specialized coaching centres like what we see today. It was
limited to school or college teachers providing private tuition at nominal
fees. The teaching fraternities still believed in the ideology of carving out
good students and doing their bit in building the nation. For the teachers, it was
less of business and more of pride. Teachers used to gloat over their pupil’s
glory – whenever some of their pupils got star marks in their school-leaving
exam.
I went to
Pradip-da’s place near to take private tuitions in Physics, Chemistry and
Maths. Pradip-da was a college lecturer and lived in Hooghly, near Binodini
Girls High School – which was about a couple of kilometres away from my home.
It was at Pradip-da’s where I first met Urmi – Urmimala, a tenth-standard
student of Binodini Girls’ High School. She was a fair and slightly plump lass
with twinkling eyes which betrayed her serious bespectacled countenance. At
some angles, she resembled the be-spectacled Indian version of Kate Winslet. She
was Pradip-da’s neighbour.
I took an
instant liking to Urmi, but saw nothing in her behaviour, even after three
months of taking tuitions together, that suggested even the slightest hint of reciprocation.
Girls have this
fantastic ability to conceal their emotions pre-relationships and over-expose
and exploit the same post-relationships.
I was trying
hard to impress Urmi, but all she had in her mind all the time were studies,
studies and only studies. I was not a bad student by any standards, but Urmi
was exceptionally good. Soon I realized that the only way to impress upon the Urmi-type girls was
by bonding physically, chemically and mathematically with them and becoming a nerd! And I was no nerd.
Urmi’s world
revolved around Physics, Chemistry and Mathematics. Even personalities like
Franz Beckenbauer, Bobby Simpson, Boris Spassky, Abebe-Bikila, Mao Zedong,
Satyajit Ray, Sean Connery etc failed to create any dents in her cocooned
world of Phy-Chem-Maths. The only exception – or should I say person
– that Urmi ever showed the slightest interest was for Dev Anand and his movies… I
guess all of us have childhood crushes. Dev Anand could have been Urmi’s secret
childhood crush!
In our adda at
the premises of Rupali talkies, soon Urmi became a popular subject of
discussion. It became increasingly difficult for me not to bring up her topic at
least once every evening – clear evidence of my falling head-over-heels for
her. But Urmi never reciprocated or hinted anything to suggest that she was
interested in a relationship with me. I was candid enough to admit that. My
friends teased me and also gave all kinds of advice on how to woo Urmi – even
though I knew for sure that none in the group had the remotest idea about
girls, romance and relationships.
Nikhil was a
years senior to us but studied in the same class for he had failed once in his
term exams. Also, he was the one who supplied us with soft-porn books in
Bengali. Books that seemingly taught ignorant readers the nuances of sex and
man-woman relationships! Nikhil came up with suggestions that were outright
gross and silly.
“Go, embrace her
tightly and plant a kiss on her cleavage when Pradip-da is not around – and she shall be
yours” – Nikhil advised.
“Don’t ever do
that, because if you do, you will lose her forever” – warned Pandit. “You must
wait for the opportune moment, or you must create a situation to improve your credibility and acceptance.”
“Help her, help
her” – advised Poda – “help her with studies, notes, tutorials, whatever.”
“That’s the
problem” – I admitted – “She’s a far better student than I. In fact, it's her
who helps me at every step with those wicked problems that Pradip-da unleashes”
– I scratched my head in frustration.
“What are her other areas of interest
– apart from studies, that is” – Poda enquired innocuously.
“Correct. Pictures. Is she interested
in films? Find out” – Pandit jumped at the cue. Films, after all, were his
livelihood. “Find out about her favourite movie star and invite her to movies
at Rupali or Kairi.”
“Mmmm…interest in films … no, not
really. But she did talk once or twice about Dev Anand” – I mumbled.
“Great, Dev Anand. The king of
romance! I am sure he will help you consummate the romance of your life…. You
are in luck bro!” – yelled Pandit.
“Luck?”
“Yes. There is a new Dev Anand –
Waheeda Rehman release next Friday. Bilu-da told me Rupali managed a copy of
the print for release. Invite her to next Saturday's matinee. Tickets shouldn’t
be a problem, good old Pandit will manage that” – said Pandit with pride.
The next day at Pradip-da’s tuition, with
heart in my mouth I managed to put across my preposterous proposal to Urmimala.
Would she accompany me for the new Dev Anand – Waheeda Rahman flick for the
Saturday matinee? Urmi was stunned! She never expected such an audacious
proposal. She looked at me as if I had asked her to be my partner in
crime to bomb her school! I licked my lips and waited in pregnant silence for
Urmi to respond. Two moments – perhaps three… I heard Urmi reply – “But that’s
impossible. I have the school”.
“It’s a half-day. School gets over at
12 pm. The show is at 2. What’s the problem?”
“My parents won’t allow it. It’s not
a children’s movie”. Those days even a student of class ten or eleven was only
allowed to view patriotic and mythological movies. ‘Love’ was a cuss word.
“But you are not a child. And you
don’t have to tell your parents.”
Urmi looked at me as if I had just
committed the biggest sacrilege in the history of mankind!
“You like Dev Anand, right? Come on,
let’s enjoy one Saturday afternoon Urmi. The hell won’t break loose."
“But what do I tell at home?”
I could sense a hint of acceptance in
Urmi’s query. I pounced on it.
“Make up a story. Say Pradip-da wants
extra classes.”
“You are a fool. Pradip-da is our
neighbour. Mom will find out in no time.”
“Then say you have to go to your
friend’s place in Chinsurah to collect notes or discuss your project. Make up a
story, any story, will you?” I urged.
“Mmmmm….let me think.” Urmi was still
in two minds.
Urmi continued to keep me in suspense
for almost the whole of the week. Finally, on Thursday evening, she accepted my
proposal. She would take a rickshaw and come directly from the school.
On Friday itself I told Pandit about
my plans for Saturday. Pandit had once again assured me of the best two seats
for the show.
On that momentous Saturday, Poda,
Mamu and I arrived at Sen-Cabin directly after school at around
twelve-thirty. The Dev Anand movie had been released the previous day and was
running a packed house. Pandit and his gang were having a field day.
I was palpably nervous with
trepidation. Would Urmi eventually turn up? Also, the adventure of spending
three hours in a dark hall near the girl that mattered most
to me left me with fidgety and sweaty palms.
Urmi arrived at one-o-clock, in a
hooded rickshaw. She paid the fare and sauntered quickly in the relative safety
of Sen-Cabin as per my directives. That was the first time I introduced Urmi to two of my friends – Poda and Mamu. She, too, was clearly
nervous. The pink shades on her fair cheeks and tiny beads of perspiration
above her lips were not attributable to the heat and humidity alone…
Pandit saw us but chose not to walk
into Sen-Cabin. We saw him mingling with the crowd, busy selling tickets in
black. The house was full, and the tickets on this Saturday afternoon were in
very high demand. I tried to wave at him, but could not manage to establish eye
contact with him. He was busy, twirling in the crowd with muffled commentaries…
“…First Class – 30 rupees…first-class
– 30 rupees….Second Class – 25 rupees….second class – 25 rupees… Inter-Class –
15 Rupees….Inter-Class only 15 Rupees… Third Class 10 Rupees...hurry, hurry…
only a few tickets left….30 – 25 – 15 – 10 …. Throwaway price…you can’t afford
to miss Dev Anand’s actions…hurry, hurry…else you have to regret...”
Time was ticking fast, and our
anxieties were increasing with every passing second. Pandit was supposed to
have handed me two first-class tickets, here, in Sen-Cabin. But the fellow
seemed to be too preoccupied with his wares today!
At one-thirty, I became a nervous
wreck. Urmi’s incessant pestering on the chances of getting the tickets in
hand, and mild threats on getting back home should this uncertainty persist for
a little more time, was also not helping.
Mamu and Poda also tried to draw
Pandit’s attention and call him aside for the tickets but without any success.
The bloke was behaving funnily. He was avoiding all our eye contact
and gesticulations. He was too busy selling tickets and bargaining with
customers. We could see his tickets were selling like hotcakes. Did Pandit keep
aside two tickets for Urmi and me, as promised?
Finally, at one-forty, I could wait no
longer. I trudged down the steps of Sen-Cabin and jostled through the crowd to
where Pandit was at business. Poda followed.
“Hey Pandit” – I yelled.
Pandit gave a vacant look. I
gesticulated with my upturned palm – where are the tickets, bro?
Pandit gesticulated back, what?
Seemingly, he was unable to understand.
I took a few forward steps with Poda
closely behind my heels. I went very close to Pandit and asked in a muffled
voice,
“Hey Pandit – where are my tickets”
“What tickets?” Pandit questioned
back.
“Come on, Pandit. I told you
yesterday, didn’t I? You were to deliver me two first-class tickets in
Sen-Cabin”.
“Oh, that!” – Pandit seemed to
remember. “You go there, I am coming” – he ordered.
We came back to Sen-Cabin.
“What happened, you got the tickets
or not?” – Urmi was very concerned now. She was glancing at her wristwatch;
fidgety and nervous.
“Hang on, we shall make some
arrangements” – I said even though I had no plan B in place in the event Pandit
did not hand over the promised tickets.
In a while, Pandit arrived,
perspiring heavily.
“Hey, buddy, where are my tickets?”
Pandit looked at Urmi for a moment.
She was visibly uncomfortable. Probably for the first time in her life, she was
seeing a film ticket blacker within close quarters.
“Look dear” – said Pandit in a
business-like tone – “Market is hot. I have only two first-class tickets left –
you will have to pay fifty rupees for each ticket – so that’s a hundred.
Agreed?”
“Come on Pandit – that’s too heavy
for me. You were selling it for thirty rupees there”
“That was some time back. Now rates
have gone up.”
“Hey, Pandit – what’s happened to
you? You can’t do this to a friend?” – Poda tried to protest.
“Friend? What Friend? You belong to
the upper class. And look at me. I am a ticket blacker – a third-class rascal
with no social status. And you call me a friend! Don’t I know our friendship
ends right at the boundary walls of this cinema hall. Saala. Now
come on, shell out a hundred rupees or I am going. Time is precious”
Urmi’s face contorted in disgust.
“I’m going” – she said. Visibly upset.
“No wait” – I screamed – and then
turned to Pandit and said - “Pandit – are you going to give me the tickets at a
fair price or not?”
“Rupees fifty is a very fair price
for today bro. This is my rozi-roti.
Pay, or buzz off.” Pandit was about to leave.
“Let’s go. I am not interested in the
film any more” – murmured Urmi.
“No, we will see the movie” – I
hissed. This, now, was a prestige issue. I could never have imagined that
Pandit would turn out to be such a turncoat. I was aghast - all these days I
have entrusted and befriended this scoundrel?
“Pandit – one last warning – are you
going to give me the tickets at a fair price or not?”
“Leave it. Let’s go” – I heard Urmi
squeal.
“Well, if I don’t what do you think
you will do bro? Big deal! Everybody tries a heropanthi (to
enact a hero) in the presence of a girlfriend, eh! Eff off.” – Pandit retorted
with a sneer.
That was too much for me to stomach.
Blind with rage, I pounced on Pandit and held him in a bear hug. Pandit’s lean
frame could not sustain the impact, and together we rolled down through the
three steps of Sen-Cabin. My right elbow and knee hurt, but I would not let go
of that bastard.
Pandit had his gang. He and his boys
were quite used to such street brawls. I on my side had Poda and Mamu – and
collectively between all of us, we have not fought a single serious fight in
our entire lives. Mamu never left the safe shelter of Sen-Cabin, while Poda
followed me tentatively, fervently hoping that things do not go out of control.
I could see Jagadish-da, the cop, at some distance.
Surprisingly, it was I who had the
upper hand in that brawl that day. No sooner had we landed on the hard concrete
than I sprang up and yanked Pandit up by the collar. And before Pandit or any
of his boys could react, I punched him in the face. Pandit took evasive action,
but still, my punch landed in the corner of his lips and immediately I saw
blood spluttering out through an ugly gash.
Jagadish-da intervened. Furiously
wielding his bamboo stick he first tried to disperse the surrounding crowd and
then tried to catch hold of Pandit. But Pandit evaded his clasp and managed to
leap across the wall that separated the two movie halls – Rupali and Kairi –
and beat a hasty retreat.
Jagadish-da was sympathetic. He
provided some unsolicited advice on why an educated young lad like me should
not get entangled in street fights with lowly specimens like Pandit and
escorted me back to Sen-Cabin where Urmi and Mamu were waiting. I could detect
a cloud of anxiety on Urmi’s fair countenance, now a shade paler from the turn
of events.
I had some bruises on my elbows and
my trousers were torn near the right knee which was also bruised. Urmi
was clearly concerned. At her behest, Poda got a bottle of Dettol and wads of
cotton from an adjacent chemist’s shop. I was pleased that I could
overpower a ruffian like Pandit and manage to injure him. I could sense that
Urmi was also very pleased with my bravado. After all, I taught the urchin a
lesson or two on how to behave properly! And as she was applying antiseptics on
my wounds, I noticed the first sign of a relationship budding between me and
Urmi, easily overpowering the burn caused by the damned antiseptic on my raw
bruises!
We ordered for tea and chit-chatted
for a while, which centred around Pandit’s irrational behaviour, and my
heroics. After tea, as we were about to leave, Bilu-da came inside and handed
over two tickets to me.
We were stupefied!
How on earth did Bilu-da know that
Urmi and I came for the movie?
Jagadish-da trudged in immediately
after.
“Go boy – go, the main movie is about
to start” – said Bilu-da in his theatrical accent.
“But how did you know?” – I mumbled.
“Jagadish told me. He said you had
some altercation with Pandit?”
“Altercation is an understatement. He
had a fight. Don’t you see the tell-tale signs?” – boomed Jagadish-da.
“Actually it’s Jagadish who retrieved
these unsold tickets from Pandit” – said Bilu-da – “Now hurry boy, you wouldn’t
like to miss the beginning would you? After all in Hindi movies, the main story
is wrapped in the first ten minutes and the last ten minutes. The bulk of the
time is only songs, music and comedy, right? Now go.” – ordered Bilu-da.
Within a month after that momentous
day, Urmi and I entered a serious relationship. It became difficult
for us to pass a single day without seeing each other. The dark corners of
Rupali and Kairi provided us with the opportunities to get a little physical as
well.
******
One afternoon Urmi and I, with Mamu
and Poda in tow, came for yet another movie in Rupali. A Bengali detective
flick starring Uttam Kumar and Anjana Bhowmick. The movie was mediocre. The
denouement was unnecessarily long.
After the movie, we walked into
Sen-Cabin, where a profoundly more interesting denouement was waiting for us!
We found Bilu-da, Jagadish-da and
Pandit having tea and cutlets.
Now, this was the last thing we
expected. A cop, a ticket-blacker, and a multi-tasker hall employee having a
hearty time over evening tea, huh!
“Come, bro, have a cuppa. Namaste Behenji,
have some chai”
– Pandit was extremely courteous with folded hands and all!
Urmi was about to leave when Pandit
intervened,
“Arre, don’t go away Behenji – I may
earn my livelihood by selling tickets in black, but I am not that bad a person. Naru is my long time yaar –
no Naru?”
I was too flabbergasted to show any
kind of reaction. This was the height of shamelessness.
“What’s the meaning of this,
Jagadish-da?” I asked. “You are the cop, and you are having tea with this chap
here, who openly sells tickets illegally”
“I am off-duty now brother” – winked
Jagadish-da. “Besides, like you, Pandit too is a friend”. I could see Bilu-da
nodding ascent.
But my circumspection just won’t go.
Seeing this, Bilu-da very matter-of-factly said – “The whole thing that
happened that Saturday, was a set-up. All of it was Pandit’s drama.”
“Yes, the whole episode was scripted.
We had a meeting the previous evening, and luckily everything went as planned. “
“But that’s preposterous! You could
have hurt yourself, Pandit. That was too much!” – I was still not convinced. I
could see Urmi’s eyes almost popping out in wonder.
“Oh, that’s nothing. What’s
life without little risks? I risk myself every day. I have to, bro. I am not
educated like you, na?”
“But why did you have to do all
that?” – It was Urmi who asked softly.
“To create a situation Behenji,
so that you fall for my friend. I wanted you to discover the hero in Naru! He
was so madly in love with you. In our addas he
would only talk about you. It, kind of, became boring. We had to do something,
didn’t we? Hahahaha.” said Pandit with a wicked chuckle.
Thereafter, we all became friends
again. A year and a half passed. In the meantime, Urmi and I frequently visited
Rupali and Kairi for movies. And courtesy of Pandit and Bilu-da, we always managed
to get cosy corner seats. They were the only places where we enjoyed our
proximities and covert touches here and there. Why we even smooched and felt
each others' bodies in the cosy comforts of the dark halls.
Then, one day, Pandit stopped coming
to the hall complexes.
Thereafter, we too got busy with our
Higher Secondary Exams and the various entrance tests. I managed to get
admission to an Engineering College while Urmi chose to pursue a career in
Mathematics at Calcutta University. Our visits to Rupali and Kairi became few
and far between, maybe once or twice a month.
But not once did we see Pandit again. He
just seemed to have vanished in the thin air!
Many stories about his disappearance were
generated. Some said he went back to his village in UP and got married and is
busy farming in his ancestral lands. Some said he started his own business in
Dwarbhanga. Some said he’d become ascetic and left for the Himalayas in search
of Nirvana. But the strongest story which hush-hushed around was that he was
eliminated by the police in a covert encounter.
Apparently, selling tickets in black
was not Pandit’s only vocation. He also stocked pipe guns, hand grenades and
other arms as a middle-man in an arms-dealing racket. The arms supply came from
Nepal and Bangladesh and were used in the Naxal movement. He used his
exceptional PR skills in the dealings. Not even his closest friends had any
wind of his arm-dealing activities. However, once his cover blew, he too was
blown to smithereens by the police…
“I risk me every day…” Didn’t Pandit say that to me
once….
There were many such
here-today-gone-tomorrow stories in circulation. Pandit’s was just one another
of those. So for most, the incident of Pandit's disappearance was mundane and
commonplace. But it did create a huge impact on me. Typically of Pandit, he
made me realise my bonding with him through his disappearance...
I tried to corroborate the encounter
story on Pandit’s disappearance through Jagadish-da, but he neither agreed nor
denied it. Bilu-da, however, strongly believed that Pandit was encountered.
We never saw Pandit again…
Time passed. The political unrest in
Bengal settled with the insurgency tamed to a point where it lost all its
potency and firepower.
As we grew up and graduated, cracks
and fissures developed between Urmi and me.
We discovered we had problems with
compatibility. She had her own ideas while I had mine, and we both thought we
were right in our stands. Neither of us was ready to budge. It’s
funny but small comments that seemed like jokes when the relationship was up and
running, now appeared as caustic sarcasm.
We met at Sen-Cabin for one last time
with hopes of ironing out our problems. The meeting turned out to be a disaster.
We remained steadfast in our stands. We had tea, and then even went for a
movie, an Uttam-Sabitri family drama which was in its third week in an almost
empty house. But even the warm proximity in the near-empty hall failed to thaw
our relationship.
When we came out of the hall, we both
knew it was over. Forever...
This time Pandit was not there to
‘create a situation’ and mend ours!
22
April 2015; Gurgaon
