Ahoy there, my dear readers, gather around and let me regale you with the tale of my first encounter with the bewitching world of cinema. It was a sweltering summer day, the kind where even your sweat sweats, and I found myself being herded by my good mother into a dark hall which reeked of human sweat and stale tobacco. A set of noisily whirring wall-mounted fans were unsuccessfully trying to dispel the stuffy ambience inside. I was but a wee lad of about five summers then, not yet ready to face the world on my own, and so, like many other youths of my age and station, I clung to my parent’s skirts for dear life.
As we plopped ourselves down onto our seats, my imagination ran wild with thoughts of dashing heroes and fair maidens in distress, of swashbuckling adventure and sizzling romance. And what did we get? A paltry provincial flick that was as perplexing for a five-year-old as someone studying in the 5th standard trying to grasp the laws of quantum physics.
It purportedly bore some resemblance to the tale of Romeo and Juliet, although I can confidently declare that the Bard himself would have been scratching his head trying to figure out what the hullabaloo was about. From what I could gather, the movie was an incomprehensible cacophony of adults bawling in some alien tongue. And yet, a few scenes still stick in my noggin to this day.
For instance, there was one where the protagonist (or at least, I think he was ‘the one’) was getting pummeled by a bunch of goons, crying like a banshee. I couldn’t help but wonder why the fella didn’t just give them a good thrashing like a bona fide English gentleman – and then it dawned on me that he was probably too busy wailing like a newborn babe to do anything else. He would have done well to undergo a crash course in martial arts under someone like Roderick Spode.
Then came another scene where the leading lady was being implored to partake in some grub, and exasperated with the incessant pestering, she chucked the plate across the room like a discus thrower. I must admit, even at my tender age, I was mightily impressed by her spunk in the face of such adversity. She sounded like Minna Nordstrom throwing tantrums and insisting upon being offered some meatier roles on the screen in the days to come.
Needless to say, the film might as well have been the first production of the Perfecto-Zizz-baum Corporation, the leading movie studio headed by Mr. Schnellenhamer, envisaged at a time when he might have been having an odd disagreeable feeling, caused by what Roget’s Thesaurus would describe as agitation, fury, violent anger, wrath and similar emotions listed under the heading ‘Rage’, that too of an impotent kind. Discussions with his team of directors, script writers, music composers, yes-persons, deputy yes-persons, junior yes-persons, nodders, and trainee nodders might have led to a rather patchy outline of the movie.
What was on offer was a mere collection of moving images on a screen. However, despite my befuddlement and general indifference, I maintained a stiff upper lip and remained mum throughout the entire affair – a feat that earned me many a pat on the head and back from those around me. I suppose I had already honed my cinema etiquette from my prior dalliances with the proverbial idiot box, where I had already been spending quite a few jolly hours watching Mickey Mouse and Donald Duck.
But fret not, my companions, for the yarn doesn’t conclude just there. As soon as the film rolled to a halt and the lights flickered on, my dear old ma and I trudged along the sunny byways of Kolkata in search of refreshment for our weary souls. And lo and behold, we chanced upon a confectionery – Kamola Sweets, it was named – that promised to satiate our whims.
Picture my rapture, dear chums, when I first laid eyes upon the wondrous delicacies being served at this place. There were samosas as colossal as my noggin, chock-full of spiced potatoes and peas and dripping with oil – the kind of fare that’s more precarious than a boomerang sharpened to a razor’s edge. And then, there were the gulab jamuns, those pillowy globes of khoya (highly condensed milk) soaked in syrup and served piping hot – a dessert worthy of gods alone.
Needless to say, I was smitten with those toothsome delights, and I fancy that my ardour for cinema would have been just as fervent if only that rascal of a movie had been a tad more intelligible. But that’s life for you, my dearest bosom pals – brimming with twists and turns and the occasional sweet surprise.
In any case, it was like love at first sight. This is how my enchantment with movies began. As the lights dim and the images start rolling on the silver screen, I would sit wide-eyed, lapping up the juicy goings on with a single-minded devotion which would have put someone like Chaitanya Mahaprabhu to shame. The thrill of a car chase, the sheer pleasure of listening to some uplifting lyrics set to soulful music, the excitement of seeing a villain and his sidekicks getting brow-beaten by a smart hero, the gravity-defying stunts which would make someone like Newton squirm in his grave, and the rush of hormones when a comely heroine eventually fell into the arms of a dashing hero!
As the couple walked hand in hand into a sunset and the credits started rolling by, one had no other option but to snap out of yet another phase of escapism. The thoughts quickly turned to satiating the needs of a stomach which suddenly started demanding its quota of nourishment.
I can go on and on, dear comrades, but have no intentions of boring you any further with the apparent frivolity of my first cinematic encounter which led to a lifetime bondage of sorts.
(Reviewed and somewhat spruced up by yours truly!)
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