Rumjhum Biswas
Missing the Movie
“There is no life here, brother!” Sanat chewed on his paan, before expertly squirting the red juice upon the road, at a neat forty five degree angle. “Saala, India is shining, but we are still burning. Why my brothers, I am asking you, why? Our country is shining because rich Indians are diamonds? Brothers we are also diamonds. So why are we burning?” He looked at his friends bitterly and continued without waiting for any of them to reply. “Because we are the black diamonds, brothers. We are the coals. Coal is black diamond, no? We are the fuel of India. If we don’t burn, how will India shine?”
This speech invariably brought on nodded and murmured agreements and political comments from the gang. But Girish kept quiet. Even though he secretly agreed with Sanat that Dubki-Talliya had no life. For Girish was after all, the pampered younger son, who had passed his school final examination and acquired a wife who had studied up to class eight, unlike most of his friends and Barre Bhai Saab - his elder brother, who was a simple, thumb-signature peasant and Bhabiji, Barre Bhai Saab’s equally illiterate wife.
Girish pitied his brother and sister-in-law. How basic and boring their existence was. The thought irritated him. They were like a pair of buffaloes, content to chew cud and get kicked around by life’s circumstances. If it weren’t for their existence and continued presence, which was as good as interference, Girish would have sold the land and taken his wife and his mother to Delhi to try his luck, a long time ago.
Sanat, at least had tried. His bitterness and dissatisfaction with life at Dubki-Talliya, a barely visible-on-the-map town on the border of Bihar and UP was well known. Sanat was Dilli Wapas and his ruminations on life at the Capital which were endless and wistful at the start, grew more and more desperate as the days went by, and his chances of returning to Delhi diminished. For Pandit Maharaaj, the Town Vaid had given Sanat his ultimatum – his leg could not get better, but if they were lucky, it could be kept from getting worse. Since Dubki-Talliya’s most respected Vaid was all Sanat and his family could afford, his ultimatum was the end of the road. Well, almost. For Sanat was a dreamer. And, nowadays, he spun his dreams around the tales he told his cronies.
Girish and his friends liked listening to Sanat’s stories, especially the ones that were hardest to believe. They always crowded around Sanat after finishing work at the kiln. They gathered at Hanumanji’s Peepul tree, where Sanat recited his Delhi anecdotes like a mantra, and Girish and the rest listened and laughed and nodded and egged him on, while the red stone statue of Hanumanji grinned from behind the gnarled trunks of the ancient Peepul. Perhaps Sanat understood their need to listen to something fantastic and bold, not unlike the heroics displayed in Hindi movies. Girish and his friends, on their part empathized with Sanat’s need to amuse and instruct, as much as they enjoyed his stories.
New Delhi was a whole new world away from Dubki-Talliya. New Delhi was where all the airplanes of the world - especially the jets that left chalky white lines on the sky - swooped down; it was the city where smartly dressed young people sat before computers with attached phones and talked to people at the other end of the world in the wonderful English spoken by the movie stars of the English phillums that were shown once a month in Dubki-Talliya’s solitary cinema hall. Delhi was the place for and by the rich. Delhi meant silently cruising phoren cars that never belched even a wisp of smoke, and it conjured images of shimmering shopping malls spilling over with unimaginable luxuries and sparkling buildings as tall as mountains. Delhi was also the mighty confluence where the beautiful people among the politicians and other most powerful and most high mai-baaps, though not as glamorous as the Bombay phillum people, lived out their beautiful and powerful lives.
Sanat told them about houses that were made entirely of glass; he spoke rapturously of frothy fountains inside apartments, fifteen stories above ground; He told them about malls that were as big as towns and even housed air-conditioned cinema houses that could run six movies at the same time in different halls; he waxed eloquent on the hundreds of bejeweled people who ate and drank at snow white cloth covered tables and where gentlemen who looked like maharajas themselves served these rich customers with grace and pomp.
Sanat didn’t speak much about himself and the life that he had spent during those few years in New Delhi. He didn’t tell them of the precarious bamboo ladders he had to climb up in order to clean the glass fronts of tall buildings and the private welding and cleaning jobs that he did on Sundays and other public holidays, just to earn that little extra cash that he sent by money order to his mother. He never referred to the limp in his left leg. His friends never learned how lucky he considered himself, just to be alive. After that fateful day when he fell on his colleague’s broken body during a window cleaning session, because the rotted coconut fiber chord around his waist and the other around his unlucky co-worker’s waist had unraveled suddenly, plummeting the two men three stories down. Sanat sustained an injury that left him permanently lame and unfit for further work in New Delhi. He was given 5000 rupees as compensation because some of the men in their group knew someone who was on good terms with a union leader somewhere with political connections. And, Sanat had returned to Dubki-Talliya, unfit for any labor that a rural life demanded, but full of stories and his Dilli Wapas swagger, albeit with a limp. Girish and his cronies never laughed at Sanat. Lame or not, he was a heroic figure. And, his stories filled them with hopes and dreams.
Girish lived with his wife Seema, widowed mother, his elder brother, sister-in-law and their two boys in a lime washed little house, among a row of similar houses with shingled roofs, in a dusty lane, scattered with pie dogs and goats, roaming cows and their pats, the tring-tring of bicycles and shouts of half naked children that were as dusty as the other lanes crisscrossing Dubki-Talliya. Girish’s life was a gridlock of work, family and religious holidays. Hanging out with Sanat and going to the occasional cinema were virtually the only modes of relaxation available, unless you counted watching serials on their second hand TV which though enjoyable was not an outing, because one could only watch the Doodarshan broadcast programs since cable connections were too expensive. Girish’s dreams took on the cellophane colours of Hindi movies. His yearnings stretching further North towards the smooth pucca roads of New Delhi needed the larger than life celluloid heroes and heroines to provide succor to his glamour and excitement starved soul.
Girish wished his wife Seema could also hang out with him and his friends. He wished he could buy skirts and dresses for her to wear. And shiny high heeled shoes. But Seema could not ‘hang out’, since she was the ghar ki bahu, and the cinema was too expensive an option to make it a regular outing. So Seema felt as much left out as Girish wanted her in. That was not good for Girish’s marital happiness. So Girish saved from his paan-bidi allowance and promised Seema that they would not just go to the cinema, but they would go to see an English film and have Coca-cola afterwards. She had never seen an Angrazi-phillum in her life. This would be a treat she would never forget.
Dubki-Talliya’s cinema hall was located in the main bazaar, where it attracted a motley crowd of loiterers, who often came in just to escape the blazing sun. The Cinema was housed in a brick building with an asbestos roof. An old Mahogany tree extended its gnarled arms over the roof which was pockmarked by last year's hail. Hairline cracks
poured sly shafts of sunlight into the hall below. The loiterers were not unwelcome, and old Mahadeo Pandey the security guard-cum-usher-cum-ticket-checker never shooed them away. They provided company when the shows were on, and tea and gossip during other times.
Nobody bought the tickets in advance. Those that were rich or desperate enough bought their tickets in black. Most men dressed up in fine clothes and swaggered up to the queue. Tickets for Angrezi movies were rarely sold by the ticket-blackers, unless they had explicit scenes and lots of bare flesh. In that case the news would travel fast and far and every pipsqueak worth the pip in his pants would line up and the blackers would have a field day. These days the Hindi films were no better, but old ideas die hard and the once a month Angrezi Phillum continued to be screened successfully, albeit without the ticket blackers making any profit.
Girish and others of his ilk never bought tickets from the blackers, even for the greatest of Hindi film hits. It was too expensive; he preferred to take his chances at the ticket counter. Besides, why should he pay that extra money, hard earned money mind you, to a bunch of no-good ruffians when he could buy Seema snacks and even pretty plastic bangles with the money saved? So he usually stuck to the queue and prayed to Hanumanji of the Peepul tree to ensure the tickets lasted till at least his turn was over. The really lucky ones were those who went with their women-folk, because the ladies had a separate queue, which was considerably shorter. Many louts would request the ladies, "Behenji or Maji (depending on the perceived age or status of the lady). Please get me one ticket, only one, no make it two, please, we are standing for one hour and I have weak heart."
This would prompt some of the ladies to jeer: "Will your weak heart withstand all the dhishum dhishum of the fighting scenes in the cinema?" Titters and laughter would follow. But if the fellow was persistent, one kind soul would buy his ticket for him. The lout would accept it with much cringing show of gratitude and turn triumphantly to his friends and enemies in the line and bequeath his place to the next man with a flourish.
But tickets were not Girish's problem today. He hummed a tune as he stroked attar on his moustache and gave a side long glance at his biwi. Seema was covered by her ghungat and he did not catch the expression on her face. Although she was a modern girl and did not keep her face covered when she went out with him minus the rest of the family as chaperon, out of respect for the elders she followed the rules at home. Girish liked that, modern but not too modern, though he often whispered his fantasy of seeing her in a Mem-style dress in the privacy of their room, and she would giggle shyly as she traced the hair growing in a straight line up to his naval.
They left shortly afterwards. Girish sitting upright on the scooter, his open button Terylene kurta showing off the silver chain and pendant resting on his chest, and Seema seated behind, a striking picture in her peacock bright Nylon sari, a coy hand on her husband’s shoulder. If she was aware of the sneaky stares behind jerked curtains, her
posture certainly did not betray it. They arrived a good half an hour before the show. Girish counted the notes and handed them to Seema. She smiled as she took them, her head uncovered for the entire world to admire her dark coy eyes, the dimple on her left cheek and the side locks that she had oiled and curled into stiff upside down question marks lying pat against her cheeks. Seema was a wise girl; she kept up to date on the gossip and latest trends, but she also kept her mother-in-law happy. Girish’s mother was all praise for her younger bahurani, her favorite son’s bride. The other reason for her good opinion of course rested on the fact that Seema’s father had provided not one but two scooters as dowry, one for Girish and one for his elder brother.
“We didn’t even ask,” Girish’s mother had gushed later. “I only said in passing that neither of my sons rode scooters, and it’s so hot traveling by bus all the time.” She looked around her to observe the effects of this statement, and her listeners dutifully nodded their heads in approval, their khaini stuffed mouths moving in rhythm. What the elder daughter-in-law thought about this generosity, nobody knew, for she was a silent woman, as silent as her stolid farmer husband. But she and Seema seemed to share a good relationship. Seema never overlooked her status as the elder bahurani and the mother of Chunnu and Munnu, the only heirs of that family. Girish was modern (too modern according to his fond but worried mother and some elderly relatives who loudly disapproved) and took the precautions extolled by the government. He had decided that he and Seema would have at least three years of bliss before they went for the Government endorsed chhota pariwar, sukhi pariwar policy of one and only one child.
Seema, being the ever tactful sister-in-law, had earlier invited the elder bahurani to join her, but the latter declined graciously, much to Seema’s relief. They wouldn’t have been able to watch the movie freely, and besides what would didi possibly make of an Angrezi phillum? Duty done, Seema hurried away to wear her bright new plastic bangles and matching plastic slippers.
Girish looked around the cinema hall to see if there were any familiar faces around. Sanat was there, and the two men exchanged cursory greetings, which would have been longer if Seema had not been around. There were some more familiar faces as well. One or two had even brought their wives and children along. The children were free up to twelve years of age. That meant you could pass off for twelve if you were short and thin. Many parents fiercely crusaded for their children's right to remain children and enjoy the half price for a cinema ticket; the ticket seller knew better than to argue with an aggressive mother.
Girish and Seema slipped in past Mahadeo Pandey who grinned at everyone as if he knew their worst secrets. Girish had his hand possessively placed around Seema’s waist. Seated in the darkened hall, (split in places by the afternoon sun’s needle thin rays poking in through the pin sized holes in the roof, so one could see clearly, but also enjoy the comfort of cool privacy) Girish stretched his arm around Seema's shoulder. Seema squirmed a little, giggled softly, and then settled down to enjoy this public display of romance. One of the female patrons commented not too softly on how forward some
couples had become these days. A wag from the semi-darkness beyond advised the lady to get her own husband to follow suit. Titters followed, but were soon hushed by the advertisements that were shown before the actual movie began.
Girish and Seema watched the advertisements intently; they devoured the fabulous settings as well as the antics and postures of the models that endorsed the products. The Cinema hall owner made sure there was a long series of advertisements preceding the actual movie, especially on Angrezi movie days, since these films were much shorter than the Hindi film sagas. The advertisements ended and the interval began. This was the cue for all the vendors to enter and start plying their wares. Peanut vendors, bhel-puri wallahs, ice-cream vendors, masala chai wallahs, candy floss vendors with their shocking pink clouds of spun sugar. They all trooped into the hall presenting the movie-goers with all sorts of colors and flavors. The movie hall became a medley of legs, as people went to the bathroom, stretched their legs, scurried after vendors and vice versa or just stood on the aisles to see which familiar faces could be spotted.
Girish stretched his legs and beckoned the cool drinks man. The man turned towards him and then motioned him to wait as he turned to attend to a customer who was closer. Girish was annoyed. He stood up to see who had usurped his vendor, and gaped. Seated four rows ahead of him were Barre Bhai Saab and Bhabi, with neither Chunnu nor Munnu in sight. The vendor was handing two freshly opened bottles of Thanda Coca-
Cola to Barre Bhai Saab. Girish sat down and nudged Seema. She craned her neck to see and immediately collapsed into her seat giggling.
"Arre ji,” said Seema to her bemused husband. “What are didi and Barre Bhai Saab doing here?” Girish shook his head. He was too shocked to answer.
The cool drinks man came over, but Girish waved him away. Seema pouted, but Girish was too distracted to notice. Seema didn’t say anything, but inwardly seethed at the slyness her sister-in-law had shown. Barre Bhai Saab may be the elder but he did not earn as much as Girish. The difference in their status became obvious whenever Maji returned from the temple and rested her auspicious flame warmed hand on Seema’s head first, even before she blest her beloved Chunnu and Munnu. Didi was becoming competitive, Seema told herself.
The movie began, but neither Girish nor Seema felt as enthusiastic about it as before. Despite the scantily clad Gori-mems, their attention was constantly being drawn towards the two dark figures ahead. The movie was a thriller with a serial killer in it. Sexy actresses vied for attention with each other before they were turned into sexy corpses with eyes closed, laid out on steel trays that men wearing hats and suits ogled as they took notes. The movie took off at a fast pace. Bullets flew, minor actors died, the heroine got chased by the killer. The chase grew scarier as the movie progressed. The hero chased after the killer, but the latter kept escaping. The heroine escaped and then, when she finally felt safe and the hero and she were about to jump into bed, the killer turned up, and the excitement began all over again.
After a stressful time of darting their eyes to the screen and back to the couple ahead, till both their eyes felt ready to burst, Girish and Seema relaxed sufficiently to cuddle closer and watch with more attention, without understanding a single word. The sheer movement and colours of the movie carried them forward. Up ahead it seemed that the movie was having a similar effect on didi and Barre Bhai Saab. Girish could see their straight backs, their faces engrossed on the screen. From time to time Barre Bhai swayed towards his wife and she reciprocated without a shred of shyness. Seema made eye contact with Girish in the dim hall. They sat watching with bated breaths as the movie reached its finale, and the rescued heroine and chase weary hero came together at the end of their travails for the finally final tryst in bed, where you could see up to their naked shoulders and no more. When, suddenly Girish and Seema felt their eyes tear away from the screen. They stared transfixed as didi flung her arms around Barre Bhai Saab. There was a collective audible gasp from all quarters of the hall. Girish swallowed his paan spittle and clutched Seema’s hand. Seema’s jaw fell open. Oblivious of the jeering and some cheering in the hall, didi and Barre Bhai Saab were locked in a tight embrace, their lips sealed in an interminable kiss.
Girish did not wait for the lights to be switched on. Clutching Seema’s hand, almost pulling her along, he fled. Once outside they gulped mouthfuls of fresh air, but their relief was short lived. Sanat was standing right in front, a cigarette dangling in the classic filmy pose of Rajnikant, from his mouth.
“Arre guru! Bhai Saab and bahenji, waah! Kya kiss kiya yaar! ” Sanat slapped Girish on the shoulder, as if the “What a kiss they kissed” was all his credit, and leered at Seema cringing behind. But that was not all. The rest of Sanat’s gang materialized as if by magic, sealing off any chance of an escape. Sanat offered him a cigarette, which Girish reluctantly accepted. Seema stood quietly on one side, hoping the men’s bodies would hide her from the inquisitive and impertinent eyes of the women emerging from the hall. Everybody was discussing “the kiss”, as if that was all they had paid tickets to see, the movie having completely slipped from their minds. And, some of them who spied the little group that contained Girish and Seema, pointed and waved, laughing knowingly. Mahadeo Pandey materialized suddenly. He nudged Girish and winked at Seema. The wink was a deliberate affront, but Girish was not in any state of mind to challenge Mahadeo.
People streamed passed. Girish’s brother and bhabi were among them. Girish watched their serene faces as they looked through the staring crowd and gracefully made their exit. No one jeered or winked at them. There was a slight pause in the hubbub, but the people just let them pass. Stunned by their equanimity, Girish followed, with Seema in tow. Sanat slapped his back as a mark of understanding, but Girish had already caught the respectful look in Sanat’s his eyes as he stared after the retreating couple.
It seemed to Girish that his elder brother and sister-in-law had by that one act, become more dazzling than any thing they had ever seen on the silver screen. Wondering at this new facet in his life, Girish made the slow walk back to the side of the cinema hall where his scooter was parked. Seema walked demurely three feet behind him, her head bent, faced covered by her ghunghat.