This man was clearly an extraordinary visionary. Because by the time I was a teenager in Bombay, as far as I was concerned, reality was for bozos who couldn’t handle movies. For eight or nine years at a stretch, I must have seen at least two films every single week. I bunked classes to see films, I wrote exams in a hurry so I could make it to the matinee show on time, I cycled 10 km one-way to watch the first day first show, I made tedious rail journeys from Kharagpur to Calcutta so I could catch three films in a row and take the 3 am train back. I was indiscriminate. I needed to watch films like some other people need to mainline heroin.
I am cured now. I have survived, though there must be some parts of my brain which have been permanently addled, some tissues which have turned Eastmancolor. Today I watch films in moderation, mostly on CDs in the safety of my home, though I still demand no distractions, no small talk, all activity to stop while the images flicker on the screen. I look back today at my addiction with mild interest and some mystification.
Why would someone watch Shatranj Ke Khilari four times, yet enjoy Paanch Qaidi hugely (This obscure rip-off of Magnificent Seven and Dirty Dozen starred Mahendra Sandhu, Amjad Khan, and of all people, Girish Karnad, and the funniest thing about the film was that the qaidis or convicts did not even number paanch, there were about a dozen of them!)? How could a sane human being cycle 20 km to and fro to watch a matinee show of Bobby, and then go back again to catch the night show? Why would a man watch Mithun Chakrabarty in Mrigaya, and then buy tickets in black to see him in Suraksha, Disco Dancer and Kasam Paida Karne Wale Ki? Why?
What made an upper middle class student from one of India’s truly elite institutes happily participate in a near-riot to buy film tickets? In a small town in Assam, my cousin and I were waiting in queue with another 50 or so young men for the advance booking counter to open. The film was, I think, Besharam, with Amitabh, which was not only directed very badly by the comedian Deven Verma but also had him playing three or four roles. As soon as the counter opened, everyone abandoned the queue and got into serious hand-to-hand combat. My cousin waded into the melee, fists and feet flailing. Then a couple of young men ran up from a distance and launched themselves into the air, landing on the heads of the mob, and started literally swimming through the crowd, five feet above the ground, towards the counter, where the man behind the grill sat watching the mayhem with studied boredom. All this was clearly business as usual. So I too joined in the skirmish with full rabidity. Then some young men took off their belts and started whipping random people with total abandon. At this point my cousin and I quit the action, bought tickets in black and went home.
The hall was in a delirium of grief, drowning the dialogues.