No Malls! No Movies Halls! What do you all do to entertain yourselves?’ the Johnny-come-to-town-lately asks. ‘Ever try a walk among the deodars?’ Cheekily I venture. For my efforts, all I get is a withering glance.
But if truth were to be told, one thing old timers do miss is the premature demise of our cinema halls which came in all shapes and sizes.
Among five of them, the king was the Electric Picture Palace – opened in 1912—three years after electricity came to the hill station on May 24 (Empire Day) 1909.
We have Jas Little, the owner who wrote: It is 71 feet by 30 feet with floor on incline giving a clear view for each person; well-ventilated with electric exhaust-fans… it is on par with the best of London Theatres. There are two shows daily 5 and 9 pm with the latest projectors which allow a continuous show without a wait between parts.’
Time tarnished its glory. Lost was the spit and polish; the seats were torn and lumpy and occasionally, taking on a life of their own, they sprang clear of their sockets to land on the floor with a thud. While in the monsoon, the tattoo of the on the tin roof drowned out the sound track.
Years later, in the basement was born the Jubilee Cinema. But someone forgot to fix the leaky roof as the rust-stained water trickled down covering bits of the screen it in shades of brown. Result? Half the film was in black and white while the rest was in sepia tone!
Meanwhile at the plush Rialto, the drunk projectionist would get the reels mixed up. And the Vikings, slain in battle a minute ago, would arise, as if from the dead, mount their horses and do battle one more time!
But I admit, no fumbling occurred when I saw Madhubala in Mughal-e-Azam. That once-grand-theatre now stank with the stench of spilt alcohol, cigarette butts and body odour as Anarkali gyrated to Pyar Kiya Toh Darna Kya in the Hall of Mirrors.
Mirroring the end of the silver screen was the old Basant Cinema, later renamed La Anjuman. But it made no difference to the stink of overflowing sewage from the abutting hotels.
At Library, the Majestic was reborn as Vasu. A great place, no doubt, if you ignored the bed-bugs that crawled out of the seats, the moment the lights were switched off. Further afield, the
Capital, below Grand Hakman’s Hotel, stood like the mouth of a dried out swimming pool, where the racket from the ancient projectors drowned out the sound, taking you back to the era of the silent films. At day’s end, some turned to dust. Others to memories of stardust.
