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!
