Oct 31, 2011

“Rush son... Rush,” the old lady sitting three seats next to me pleaded earnestly.

I turned my head to see whom she was addressing. She was talking to Ambarish on the big silver screen, who was already speeding at full throttle in his open Jeep. He was rushing to the place where villain Vajramuni, the great exponent of “Art of Raping” in Kannada cinema of the eighties, was tugging violently the corner of a young and defenseless lady’s Saree.

To my great astonishment and to the old lady’s relief, Ambarish just did what she advised him. He reached in time to deny Vajramuni the next feather to his crowded cap.

Thus, on my very first day at the movie hall as a second grader, I was awestruck by its magical features.

Mind you, back in the eighties, for the rest of the world the concept of interactive cinema hardly existed even in their dreams. But, at Ashoka Talkies Kinnigoli, these things were just possible.

Those were the elegant eighties, an era in which human life was yet to be afflicted by Idiot box, internet and cell phones. A Cinema Theater glowed like a star in Mangalore’s rural landscape then, my native Kinnigoli too wasn’t an exception. Ashoka Talkies, the sole Cinema Theater for the surrounding dozen villages was literally, the heart of the place. I feel blessed to have had my share of entertainment and also the enlightenment about Kannada cinema in particular and life in general, within its four tall white walls.

Thanks to the successive onslaughts from TV, VCP, CD and Internet, today, the hall is gone and has transfigured itself into a marriage hall. But, even today, it’s sweet and magical impressions stand with unshakable and delightful firmness on the highest place in my heart’s territory.

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Ashoka Talkies was an easily noticeable building standing besides the main road with a wide open front yard. It was the biggest structure in Kinnigoli, was also the liveliest. Every afternoon and evening , half an hour before the show, the raucous loud speaker mounted on its top yelled out a series of Kannada songs to make every living being in the vicinity know, it was time for the movie. In moments, Kinnigoli stirred to life. Long lines of people started moving from all directions. All roads lead to Ashoka Talkies.

On Saturday and Sunday evenings, entire who’s who of the village collided in its narrow alleys of the side entries. If you had to pass on a message to anyone in the village, be the Panchayath president, milk vendor or Postman Vasanna, there was no better place than Ashoka Talkies on Sunday evening. If someone owed you money, all you had to do was to go to Sunday evening show and just wait near the ticket counter.

 Every time my Mom forced my thin frame into a “chaddi” and a shirt the loudspeaker sung “Gajamukhane Ganapthiye ninage vandane” each time we crossed the bus stand it shouted “Naa ninna mareyalare” and every time Mama and I scrambled for some place inside the theater near another bunch of ladies, it screamed “papa ennale , punya ennale”. This sequence never changed from my first day in the hall to my last visit to it in my ninth class.

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Just before the show, there played a slideshow of about a dozen advertisements. A jumpy background song shouted “nagu nagutha nee baruve” while the slides requested solemnly “Smoke only Vivek Beedies” or “Use only 555 bar soap” or buy only from “ Kulyadikars Nuthan Silk “ (This song and advertisements remained unchanged for years). The last slide solemnly suggested to use condoms for family planning.

After the ads, sudden darkness would befall triggering shrill whistles (Mom told me that these whistles were blown by dropouts, who never did their homework and ended up being stone cutters, masons, or bus conductors). Then a white beam would project from behind with a creaking sound of a ill greased projector wheel and soon after a little Bajan , and short display of picture of a Hindhu deity, the movie would start.

All of a sudden colorful lights splashed out with a rhythmic music that rose and lowered with colors. Environment inside the hall turned jubilant, lively and expectant and when the name Dr RajKumar appeared on screen there was a mild clamor of approval for a few seconds.

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But, there was much more than the movie itself.

Apart from the old lady who guided the course of Cinema, there were other prominent villagers who made their own contributions.

 Chennappa Mestri, a migrant mason from Belthangadi, often dictated the moral code for the entire bunch of Kinnigolian movie watchers. When a dozen rowdies beat Vishnuvardhan or Shankar Nag ruthlessly, he would stir up the people’s conscience by shouting “Is this right?” or “This is absolutely wrong!” and sometimes, “ They are going to pay for this, let me tell you” in his excited Tulu. But when the same hero, despite being injured to near death, somehow manages to stand up and deliver and beat each of the dozen goons in the most violent of the manners, he didn’t found much fault. Instead, he would instigate the hero into further violence by saying “Break his leg” or “ kill him” like a Roman general in a Colosseum.

Ashoka talkies even defied climate conditions. It showered and flooded inside it even in peak summer. All one had to do was to show a cinema featuring Leelavathi or Kalpana. When the old lady cried for a dying son or pleaded a daughter in law not to throw her out, tears from Kinnigolian women’s eyes flowed, bucketful.

Couples grew very romantic (by the standards of those times) the moment they stepped inside the hall and breathed its carbon dioxide rich air. When a young lady wearing a Ton of Gold and Glaring Silk Saree leaned like a Sumo wrestler against a man with Ironed shirt and well combed hair, we knew they were newlyweds. Mind you, nowhere else this display of courtship was acceptable in those days. Not in parks, bus stands, functions and anywhere else except their bedrooms, perhaps.

Intervals were great times. While ladies gossiped, we kids sipped on delicious “Ice candy” and “Bella candy” supplied by Mr. Sudha, who covered all 500 seats in record five minutes. By overhearing gossip we learnt some curious facts about fellow villagers like “vegetable seller Hussein’s wife looks his daughter in age” or “new school headmaster’s wife must be spending half his salary on make up” or “Albert’s daughter who everybody thought eloped , hadn’t really done so but was sitting three rows ahead”. Why would women buy “Charmuri” from the vendor when they had so much of spicy news around?

 Among the movie stars, Dr. Rajkumar commanded respect of every Kinnigolian. He was utterly graceful. Even while wooing women he moved with such demeanors, as if he had come to make a welcome speech on a Lions club function.

Vishnuvardhan acted either as a historical King or a college student in every other movie. He derived great pleasure in riding bikes and making women trip and fall. Anathnag was heart throb of the ladies and Shankar Nag was liked by all men sane and rash.

Heroines wore sarees and did almost everything wearing saree! They walked on the beaches, danced at parties and parks, climbed the mountains , went to colleges and even rode the horses in saree. I remember once an Eighty KG heroin Manjula dancing on a buffalo. I dread to think about his condition after the act.

Dwarakish and Musuri were great comedians. They brought joy and laughter every time they appeared. No one must have made my fellow villagers happier than these two people.

Once or twice a year the hall showed adult movies. The non-adult movie watchers strictly stayed away from the theater for a week after the show. Only people without acquaintances could watch those Malayalam (read adult) movies. If any of the Kinnigolian was seen coming out of the hall, he was assured to be branded a Malayalam Movie lover. There was a curious tale of an audacious boy, taking all the risk and slinking into the movie hall after the lights went off. It was widely rumored in Kinnigoli that, when lights came back, he found his elder brother next to him.

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Fat women with short clothes danced wildly and violently to songs which sounded almost similar movie after movie. Dazzling lights in the background and big fat men wearing makeup to look like an arab, a westerner or a black man was a common feature of these acts.

I was too young and naïve to comment on the sensuality index of these cabaret dances, but, I must confess it was bit scary. Jayamalini aunty or Anuradha Aunty danced as if they were bags of potatoes on a truck jumping over a potholed Mangalorean monsoon road. Our innocent souls never got the need for those meaningless rituals. Every time a rape scene or a cabaret dance came, most ladies and men accompanied by ladies diverted themselves, talked to each other or acted not watching. Every time Vajramuni sprang into action my Mama pushed a handful of salty popcorns to my mouth. She would ask me if I had finished my homework or needed water till the dance or rape ended. She fed me so much of pop corn during cabarets and rapes that even now when I eat popcorn, rape or cabaret are the first things that come to my mind!

It’s a shame that much before its closure, I quit going to Asoka talkies. Though I feel guilty about it, equal blame must fall on Ambarish.

Last half a dozen Ambarish - movies I saw had same role, same plot and exactly identical ending.

Ambarish was a loyal police officer who confiscates truckload of bootlegged drugs or shipload smuggled goods. Villains, often Vajramuni, Dinesh, Sunderkrishna Aras or Sudhir ask him to join them and offer him a share in the booty. He refuses to budge so they pressurize through a minister and quite often through chief minister. He still fights them, so they either rape his sister or sister- in- law or a close relative or kill a male relative. He soon learns that chief minister is the kingpin. He kills all the rowdies and almost every member of the cabinet who was hand in glove with them and danced to the title song with his heroine once he finished the killing act.

By my ninth standard, I started getting bored watching same tale in all movies and started skipping our tours.

Every time I pass “Rajangana Marriage Hall” (the new avatar of Ashoka Talkies), a nostalgia flashes in me. But recently, when I went inside it after decades, I felt overwhelmed by the fond memories of a happier past. I remembered all the nice time we had there. The community entertainment we were blessed with came to my mind foremost.

The marriage function was proceeding dully but my mind started missing Rajkumar, Dwarakish and trust me, even Ambarish!

Today our world is much more self -centered and our entertainment options are extremely personal. Hence we have lost the fun of community entertainment that we once derived from Ashoka Talkies and such places. The value of such lost treasures seems glaring evident only after losing them.

Loaded with nostalgia and melancholy, I stepped out of the marriage hall, sparing a thought for the soul of the old lady, who taught me that interactive cinema was possible, much before its times!