Pandit

Pandit

Tathagata Mukhopadhyay

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.

 

******

 

 A couple of months passed.

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