Read Online And Then One Day: A Memoir by Naseeruddin Shah - Free Book Online
Authors: Naseeruddin Shah
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upright-cop roles. The two-hanky family and social dramas I gave a wide berth to, but I saw everything else I could, including, astonishingly, dubbed versions of Fellini’s
The Sweet Life,
a Brigitte Bardot starrer called
The Truth
and Clouzot’s
Wages of Fear
in the Sunday morning shows at New Majestic.
What I missed out on was an ‘extra-hot’ movie showing one weekend. It was in fact a World War II drama made by Vittorio De Sica, titled
Two Women,
and probably because it starred the buxom Sophia Loren it had this reputation. I would give anything to know Mr De Sica’s reaction if he were ever told that his dark harrowing film was being described as ‘hotter than hot’ on the billboards in a town of northern India, and that practically every lumpen guy there had turned up to see it.
Repeating Class 9 at St Anselm’s with me was Girish Tandon. When the new term began, we had quickly bonded over humble pie, and almost as quickly discovered each had as much of a movie bug as the other. Combining our creative juices, we worked out a strategy for seeing as many Hindi films as possible. Ticket prices for the cheaper seats were well affordable then. Oblivious to my secret film watching, Baba would still innocently give permission, and ticket money, for the Sunday morning English matinee. It was the weekday afternoon/evening Hindi ones that were a problem to catch. A brainwave hit. In summer, classes gave over at one thirty so we invented cricket matches in school in the afternoons and took off, ostensibly to play them. What probably persuaded my parents to swallow this story was their knowledge of my obsession with the game. The two of us would dress up in full cricket gear, except bat and pads of course and cycle off to imaginary cricket. Strangely both my parents were quite uncurious about the outcome of these matches.
But
Two Women
with a ‘Strictly for Adults’ certificate was showing come Sunday morning. Absolutely not to be missed. No question of asking for permission either. Wouldn’t get it. We decided there would be an all-important school match that day. The money for the tickets I helped myself to from Ammi’s little box and hid in my English textbook until Sunday dawned. Looking faintly ridiculous in our cricket gear we met at New Majestic a good hour prior to show time, parked our bikes, and joined the end of a serpentine queue extending into the street, and seeming to consist of every ruffian in town. Ducking sweaty armpits and elbows in our faces we advanced at a tortuously slow pace towards the ticket window, each of us clutching our precious and by now pretty moist Re 1/50p in palms dripping with sweat. Would we make it to the ticket window before the movie began? Would there still be tickets?? Our whites were in end-of-match condition by the time it was our turn. Summoning up my deepest baritone, I thrust the money through the grill only for it to be instantly returned with a ‘No! Pitcher not for you, only adult. ‘ I stood there appalled at the injustice of it, stuttering, ‘But... but I... I am adult!’ not for the first time cursing my youth, but in a matter of moments we were shoved aside by the drooling mob which would now get to ogle Sophia Loren’s mammaries. No cricket match was ever so ignominiously lost. The visits to these shrines however never stopped or decreased, but my regret at missing
Two Women
that day remained with me well after my teens and beyond.
I have a very keen memory of these movie theatres, my temples of learning, with their sometimes Victorian, sometimes art deco facades and almost identical baroque interiors. Flat glass cases full of movie stills, the winding staircases accompanied by very widely grooved wall panelling adorned with movie star photos. No Indian star ever featured. Inside, some had a contour curtain which rose to dramatic music and purple lights when the movie, after an interminable wait, was about to begin, and I could feed my distracted gaze upon
The Sweet Life,
a Brigitte Bardot starrer called
The Truth
and Clouzot’s
Wages of Fear
in the Sunday morning shows at New Majestic.
What I missed out on was an ‘extra-hot’ movie showing one weekend. It was in fact a World War II drama made by Vittorio De Sica, titled
Two Women,
and probably because it starred the buxom Sophia Loren it had this reputation. I would give anything to know Mr De Sica’s reaction if he were ever told that his dark harrowing film was being described as ‘hotter than hot’ on the billboards in a town of northern India, and that practically every lumpen guy there had turned up to see it.
Repeating Class 9 at St Anselm’s with me was Girish Tandon. When the new term began, we had quickly bonded over humble pie, and almost as quickly discovered each had as much of a movie bug as the other. Combining our creative juices, we worked out a strategy for seeing as many Hindi films as possible. Ticket prices for the cheaper seats were well affordable then. Oblivious to my secret film watching, Baba would still innocently give permission, and ticket money, for the Sunday morning English matinee. It was the weekday afternoon/evening Hindi ones that were a problem to catch. A brainwave hit. In summer, classes gave over at one thirty so we invented cricket matches in school in the afternoons and took off, ostensibly to play them. What probably persuaded my parents to swallow this story was their knowledge of my obsession with the game. The two of us would dress up in full cricket gear, except bat and pads of course and cycle off to imaginary cricket. Strangely both my parents were quite uncurious about the outcome of these matches.
But
Two Women
with a ‘Strictly for Adults’ certificate was showing come Sunday morning. Absolutely not to be missed. No question of asking for permission either. Wouldn’t get it. We decided there would be an all-important school match that day. The money for the tickets I helped myself to from Ammi’s little box and hid in my English textbook until Sunday dawned. Looking faintly ridiculous in our cricket gear we met at New Majestic a good hour prior to show time, parked our bikes, and joined the end of a serpentine queue extending into the street, and seeming to consist of every ruffian in town. Ducking sweaty armpits and elbows in our faces we advanced at a tortuously slow pace towards the ticket window, each of us clutching our precious and by now pretty moist Re 1/50p in palms dripping with sweat. Would we make it to the ticket window before the movie began? Would there still be tickets?? Our whites were in end-of-match condition by the time it was our turn. Summoning up my deepest baritone, I thrust the money through the grill only for it to be instantly returned with a ‘No! Pitcher not for you, only adult. ‘ I stood there appalled at the injustice of it, stuttering, ‘But... but I... I am adult!’ not for the first time cursing my youth, but in a matter of moments we were shoved aside by the drooling mob which would now get to ogle Sophia Loren’s mammaries. No cricket match was ever so ignominiously lost. The visits to these shrines however never stopped or decreased, but my regret at missing
Two Women
that day remained with me well after my teens and beyond.
I have a very keen memory of these movie theatres, my temples of learning, with their sometimes Victorian, sometimes art deco facades and almost identical baroque interiors. Flat glass cases full of movie stills, the winding staircases accompanied by very widely grooved wall panelling adorned with movie star photos. No Indian star ever featured. Inside, some had a contour curtain which rose to dramatic music and purple lights when the movie, after an interminable wait, was about to begin, and I could feed my distracted gaze upon
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