We have an old black-and-white photograph of my mother dancing on a stage, captured mid-twirl. She does not know who took it. Someone just sent it to her. But she remembers the venue clearly. New Empire. For someone like her the old theatres were not just picture palaces and playhouses. The relationship was more personal, each theatre occupying its own corner in memory. New Empire was where she danced. Talkie Show House, with its tin roof through which you could see patches of sky, was where my grandfather went to watch English movies. Basusree was where they never had to buy a ticket. If it was sold out the manager pulled a couch into the theatre for my parents. You know, Phani-babu’s daughter was married to Peni-dada’s son, my mother says, as if that web of shadowy connections via in-laws and in-laws of in-laws explains it all. On Shivaratri, when my grandmother and the other wives of their big, sprawling extended family stayed up all night, Rupbani was where they went for night-long shows.

Those old theatres of Kolkata are disappearing, just as those in many other cities around the world. Some have turned into office buildings. Some are mouldering under lock and key. Some are gaping holes in the ground. Once a theatre like Pradeep had slides advising people to put their legs up as tidal water seeped into the hall. Now people like me frequent cinemas in multiplexes in plush malls. They have reclining seats, caramel popcorn, and fancy sound systems. But names like Inox, Cinepolis carry no hint of romance. These names do not invite intimacy like Radha or Purabi or Uttara.

The theatres that screened English films saw themselves as competing with international houses in London and Paris. They accordingly called themselves New Empire or Globe or Elphinstone Picture Palace. The early Bengali ones were also more self-conscious, reaching for something grand and artistic in their names, says Madhuja Mukherjee, professor of film studies at Jadavpur University.

Rabindranath Tagore named one Rupbani — fusing together beauty and speech. Chhabighar was literally a house of pictures. New Cinema from BN Sircar’s New Theatres had modernity in its very name. Subhas Bose came to inaugurate Sircar’s Chitra (from chitra or image). Sircar had come back from England and asked for land to build a cinema. “My grandfather asked if bioscope will run?” says Dipen Mitra, the current owner of Chitra, now renamed Mitra. “Sircar said, ‘Yes, I have seen people line up for it in England’.” And they did run, remembers Mitra with a smile.

“I remember people queuing up 48 hours in advance for Shalimar with Rex Harrison. We had to hire people in those days just to maintain the lines.”

Those lines are gone though. Mitra, which has upgraded over the years, is one of the few survivors. “All my blackmarketeers are now hawkers outside,” laughs Mitra. “I recognise them all.” The blackmarketeers have reinvented themselves and survived, but Minar theatre across the street is shuttered. The notice says it’s closed for renovation but there are no signs of it. The kiosk belonging to the woman selling brightly coloured bras next door is slowly creeping into Minar’s space.

Some of the first movie halls of Kolkata were owned by Madan Theatres. Jamshedji Framji Madan used to show films in tents. Later he opened two theatres — Crown and Cornwallis, which turned into Uttara and Sree. When the Maitras of Calcutta Chemicals opened Rasa theatre (later known as Purna) in 1921, it was one of the first Bengali-built theatres and a cause for much pride. The first film it screened was advertised as completely Bengali-produced and Bengali-acted without “any foreign assistance”. The film ironically was called Bilat Ferat or England Returned .

While the great cinema halls of central Kolkata had colonial aspirations, those of the south and north were more modest affairs, bastions of Bengali sense and sensibility. Films had become family businesses and the theatre names reflected that familial connection. Bina became Ripon became Taj Mahal before finally settling on Jawahar in 1963, says Kedarnath Jaiswal, as he rummages for old records in a shoebox. Jawahar, he says, was the name of a son of the family.

Kalika in Kalighat was set up by Kali Chowdhury. Tapan Theatre was named after a son who died in an Indo-Pak war. Khanna belonged to Khanna Saheb. Basusree was owned by the Basus. Arijit Dutta, the owner of Priya Cinema, says his theatre was named after his great-grandmother Priyamvada.

I remember a string of theatres near our house in south Kolkata. Indira, Bharati, Ujjala. A friend swears his mother had three friends with exactly those names. It’s apocryphal but entirely plausible. “They were built by men but named after women, wives and mothers, I presume,” says journalist Amay Deb Roy. But with one great exception he adds.

In north Kolkata’s Hatibagan was a theatre that was supposed to be named after Nati Binodini, one of the superstars of Bengali theatre in the 19th century. Her passionate admirer Gurmukh Rai built it for her. But at the last minute, the babus of the city balked. They could not accept a theatre in the name of a patita , a fallen woman. Even playwright Girish Chandra Ghosh, Binodini’s mentor, could not change their minds. He named it Star Theatre instead. Binodini had rued, “Even you could not stand up for me.” Ghosh replied, “It is in your name. You are the star. Who is a bigger star in Bengal now?”

The cinema halls became family businesses of solid respectability, showing not just films but staging a certain performance of Bengali culture. Basusree, for example, became famous for its Bengali new year jalshas or soirées since 1950, with the who’s who of popular culture attending. Montu Bose of Basusree presided over them in style. His brother Debjiban hauls out photographs of soirées past. Ravi Shankar sitting cross-legged. Lata Mangeshkar with her pigtails. Singers Hemanta Mukherjee and Shyamal Mitra in white kurtas. He remembers the tarpaulin tent outside for the overflow crowd, the water tankers from Kashi Biswanath Manch, and the attendants spraying rosewater.

The nostalgia is pointless now. The economics are against the theatre. The electricity bill alone is stupendous. While some cling on, it’s more dogged sentiment than business sense. Dutta claims Priya is an exception. It’s carved out a niche as a venue for Bengali film premières. More importantly, he says, it’s slowly renovated over the years. “We established the hall with Saajan and Dilwala Dulhaniya Le Jayenge . We renovated with Karan Arjun .” Now he says he has a loyal audience. “They could afford a multiplex but I don’t think they like that jhin chak (razzmatazz). They like it homely.”

In the heart of the old south Kolkata movie district, Indira is trying to reinvent itself not just as a cinema hall but also a cultural hub. Sheetal Bagaria and her husband bought the theatre from RD Bansal, who has produced many of Satyajit Ray’s films. “We are fighting against all odds to preserve this as heritage,” says Bagaria, showing me around the theatre. There are workmen busily cutting marble pieces for the flooring. “Our café will be called Flashback. We don’t want another Café Coffee Day,” says Bagaria, listing her plans, seated in a room filled with giant-sized black-and-white posters of old film stars. Perhaps even an Airbnb where the cinema hall is part of the “experience”. “This is a happy story of Indira among all the sad stories,” she insists. Unlike most theatre owners, Bagaria sounds excited about the future.

Other single-screen structures have given up. Their names, like Bina and Purabi, exude genteel domesticity but many just screen C-grade films like Dirty Boss – Romantic, Naughty and Extremely Dirty . Ashok Garai has been working at Darpana, up the street from Mitra, since 1973 — “one week before Bobby .” The name Darpana, the lettering formed by light bulbs, has not been lit up in years. “I think someone threw stones when actor Chhabi Biswas died and the theatre remained open,” says Garai. “And no one has fixed it since. What’s the point?” Darpana has no air conditioning, no Dolby sound. As I chat with Garai, a young couple comes up and asks for a box, “ ekdum top corner.” As they leave, Garai smiles. “A box has four seats,” he explains. “Sometimes they buy all four. At ₹80 each. And another 20 for the usher to not shine the light on them. It’s still not a bad deal.” Garai shrugs half-apologetically, but somehow it’s heartening to know that in their twilight years, the great cinema halls of old are still good for something, even if it’s just a few hours’ worth of amorous dark. And in this instance, their emptiness is actually what’s worth the price of the ticket.

Sandip Roy is the author of Don’t Let Him Know

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