*
And in just a month, Chetan had come up with an arrangement for watching films for free.
*
In those days, Chetan, under the name of Chanda Devi ‘Kumud’, was in regular correspondence with the editors of several film magazines. G.R. Oberoi, the editor of a Lahore magazine, not only sent him free magazines, but had also given him a book on film scenarios, and several times had expressed a desire to meet (which Chetan put off quite clearly). He’d also begun to receive a magazine by the name of Movie Mirror, and he was engaged in serious correspondence with a film writer who had got the scenario of a short story by Chanda Devi ‘Kumud’ published . . . Chetan continued to engage in all this letter writing, but his attention was focused on another problem twenty-four hours a day: how to find a way to watch movies without paying for a ticket. In those days, there was an inter-college poetry reading competition at Government College, Hoshiarpur. A professor from Chetan’s college had gone, and he’d also had an invitation to participate sent to Chetan. Hunar Sahib was asked to chair the event. Although a Muslim student at Government College had come first, Chetan had come second and won a five-rupee prize. In a conversation at the event, Hunar Sahib had urged him to get his stories published in a collection and told him he would write the introduction in verse. When Chetan had asked where the money would come from, he had told him he’d have to arrange for the paper, but the printing could be done at Shyam Press.
Although Hunar Sahib was a resident of a village near Hoshiarpur, his maternal uncle lived in Chetan’s neighbourhood in Jalandhar. Hunar Sahib had come back home with Chetan. He promised to get the paper for Chetan and arrange for the printing with the owners of Shyam Press, and then he also told him how letter after letter was coming to him from Lahore asking him to submit short stories, but these days he was just writing poems on Gora and Badal and the history of Rajputana, as well as other ‘golden tales’ . . .
Chetan got what he was hinting at. He told him he’d write not one but two stories for him. Since Hunar Sahib was doing so much for him, why couldn’t he do him this small favour in return?
When they arrived in Jalandhar, the first thing Chetan did was to use those five rupees to get a suit stitched for himself. Then he wrote a short story for Hunar Sahib. Hunar Sahib talked to the chairman of the City Congress Committee, Lala Govindaram, and got him to donate twenty-five rupees’ worth of paper, which Chetan brought to Shyam Press himself. The two owners of Shyam Press had a great fondness for Urdu poetry because they were in the printing business, and Hunar Sahib spent hours reciting poetry to them. He introduced Chetan to them, and told them Chetan was an up-and-coming writer who would bring fame to Jalandhar. ‘He’s got a short book ready for printing,’ he added. ‘I’m writing the introduction in verse. You must print it.’
‘What, you give a command and we not obey it?’ asked Small Shyam Babu, and he invited them to see a movie with him that very evening. Chetan had expressed his interest in films and said that his wife was always writing articles about them (he’d told the whole story to Hunar Sahib), and he mentioned his friend Hamid, adding that he knew absolutely everything about films, and asked if he could bring him along as well. ‘By all means!’ Shyam Babu had cried. ‘And you should bring Chanda Devi ji as well.’
‘She’s in Lahore these days,’ Chetan said, putting him off. ‘But this friend of mine has a great interest in films. He’s the son of the Divan of Khairpur. He plans to go into films as soon as he passes his BA. One day he’ll become a famous hero for sure.’
And that evening, he arrived at Shyam Press with Hamid and Hunar Sahib, wearing a new suit, and carrying a thin cane in his hand. From there, they proceeded to the cinema hall and went to watch the movie from the gallery in great style. Chetan saw that Lala Mohan Lal had observed him entering the gallery with the younger owner of Shyam Press.
After the movie, Hunar Sahib and Shyam Babu had both warmly praised Chetan’s stories to Lala Mohan Lal. Hunar Sahib also said that Chetan and his wife knew a great deal about films (Chetan had told him to do this beforehand). ‘Get him to help you design some handbills and advertisements for films,’ he suggested to Lala Mohan Lal.
‘I already asked him,’ said Lala Mohan Lal. ‘But I’m seeing him now for the first time after many months.’
‘I’ll come by here more often now. Now that my book is being printed, I’ll have time to come by to see you as well,’ Chetan had said nonchalantly.
And he showed up the very next evening, spinning his cane. In the midst of this, he’d collected several handbills he’d seen being distributed for Lala Mohan Lal. He’d marked up all the errors in grammar, language and idiom. Lala Mohan Lal asked him to watch the movie, but a stunt film was showing that day. Chetan remarked dismissively that it wasn’t a very good film and he offered a critique of its strengths and weaknesses based on the reviews he’d read in the papers. Then, over the course of the conversation, he enumerated the errors in spelling and grammar in the handbills, and mentioned that he came this way every day. He’d show him a draft of a handbill and he could take a look.
And thus he began coming by every evening. But even though he wanted to, he didn’t watch any movies. He corrected the handbills, said something favourable about some films and criticized others, then left. In the midst of this, he came once again to watch a film with Shyam Babu in the gallery. Then an Imperial Company film was released, about which he had read great praise in the Bombay magazine Movie Mirror. He made an excellent handbill for it, and that evening he sat in first class with Lala Mohan Lal.
After this, he got into an evening routine of coming home from college, eating dinner, putting on his suit, taking up his cane and strolling off to the cinema hall. The people at the gate had grown so accustomed to him that even if Lala Mohan Lal wasn’t there, no one asked him for a ticket and he’d just go and sit inside. Sometimes, when the gatekeeper had to go somewhere, Chetan even stood at the gate himself as though he were the owner.
*
As soon as he entered the passageway, Chetan recollected that incident from fourth year when the first talkie had come to Jalandhar—Alam Ara! It was advertised for months beforehand and pictures of the heroine, Alam Ara (played by Zubeida), in the attire of a nomad reclining on a cliff, were pasted in every gali and bazaar of the city—her long hair floated in the breeze and her sleeveless dress exposed her pale thin arms and her legs up to the thighs.
There was the possibility of such a great rush for the film that three sections had been divided off by thick poles in the gallery, and Mohan Lal ji had told Chetan a few days beforehand that there would be absolutely no free passes that day.
But Chetan’s desire to watch this film was so strong that he couldn’t help himself, and he did get to see it the very first day . . . he smiled at the recollection.
*
What had happened was that Zubeida had taken her place in his heart alongside Sulochna after he’d seen her in a couple of movies. Zubeida might not have been as beautiful as Sulochna—Sulochna was Anglo-Indian: tall as a cypress, with a curvaceous figure, large, round eyes, a sharp nose and a pointed chin. Savita Devi, another heroine of the screen in those days, was also beautiful, but she could not compare to Sulochna. Next to Sulochna, Zubeida was a skinny young lady with a round face, delicate features, and a flirtatious manner. She danced so well that Chetan couldn’t take his eyes off her. It was this Zubeida who would speak in Alam Ara; she would dance and sing . . . whatever happened, Chetan needed to see that film . . . and Mohan Lal ji had indicated that he wouldn’t be able to see it on the first day.
Chetan knew that if he went in the evening he might not even be allowed in. So that day he went to the cinema hall in the afternoon. There was no one in the passageway. He went back into the office. Lala Mohan Lal was sitting there. When he saw Chetan, he frowned slightly and said, ‘Let the picture run a few days, then you can see it.’
‘Yes, yes,’ replied Chetan, carelessly. ‘I came because th
ere’d be a rush today—in case you needed me if there was a fight or something.’ And he helped the gatekeepers throughout the matinee show. He worked just as diligently at the five-thirty show as well. At the nine-thirty show, though the four, eight- and twelve-anna seats were packed, there were some empty seats in the one-rupee section. When the gates closed, he went quietly and sat in a first-class seat. When the lights came up at the interval, he saw that Mohan Lal ji was seated in the seat right next to him. He looked over at him and smiled faintly.
*
Mohan Lal ji wasn’t there. The gatekeeper was an old acquaintance of Chetan’s. Chetan shook his hand, asked how he was, told him his own news, and turned to leave.
‘Please come in; won’t you see a movie?’ asked the gate man.
‘No, I’m not in the mood!’
And truly, in that one year, he’d seen so many films it had put a strain on his eyes. When his exams drew near, he completely stopped watching movies. After that, he lost interest in films for some reason. Although he had free passes from the newspapers, he rarely went to the movies, and even then, only when his wife insisted.
As he came outside, he turned to the left, lost in those same memories. Just then someone came up behind him and placed both their hands on his waist, lifted him up, and spun him round. As soon as his feet touched the ground again, he turned to see who it was, and cried out enthusiastically:
‘Hey, Laloo!’
The two of them embraced.
‘Listen, yaar, how are things?’ asked Chetan. ‘Last time I was here, I heard you were wandering around Jammu somewhere with a cigarette agency.’
‘Not just Jammu-Kashmir, I’ve been all over India, and now I’ve come back and settled down. Look over there, right across the way—that’s my store! The company gave me the Jalandhar, Hoshiarpur and Kapurthala agencies.’
He slung his arm around Chetan’s neck, led him across the street and brought him into his shop.
11 A famous actor in the era of silent films.
30
Anyone looking at Laloo Baniya would never dream that this man had just toured all of India: he was of medium height with a dark complexion and plump features, and was untidily dressed. He had been a classmate of Chetan’s. His parents’ only son, he’d been raised with great affection and was thus a laggard in studies. But since his parents had sufficient funds, he brought all his comrades from the mohalla to his rooftop room in Patphera Bazaar (where his father worked as a broker) and entertained them handsomely. Although his clothing was expensive, his right eye was always a bit rheumy and his nose runny. The one he wiped with the hem of his kameez and the other with his sleeve.
Chetan looked up. There was still rheum collected in Laloo’s right eye and, as he spoke, he wiped his nose with his right sleeve as was his custom. Chetan had heard that Laloo had taken a cigarette agency and made quite a bit of money—but from his appearance and behaviour, he was still the same old Blockhead.
His friends had stuck him with the nickname ‘Blockhead’ when he’d gone to bring his wife home for the first time after marriage, and lost not just her jewellery and clothing, but also his wife herself.
The mere sight of his face made it impossible to forget that incident. Chetan always thought of the entire story the moment he heard Laloo’s name. What had happened was that Laloo had run away from home after failing Class Eight, and there had been quite an uproar, not just in Baniya Gali but as far off as Kallowani Mohalla, and he’d been scolded roundly by his father. His father, Harnarayan Gupta, had been gaining in prominence in those days. There were great feasts at his home on the days of Shraddha. He usually sent something or other for the Brahmins of the gali and mohalla on various festival days, such as those marking the eleventh and twelfth days of the lunar cycle, so the Brahmins of the mohalla all pitched in, each in their own manner, to help bring Laloo back. Pandit Daulat Ram looked at his horoscope and told Laloo’s father that it was nothing to worry about; Ketu was just looking a bit off, Mars was in the fifth house, which is the house of mental activity, in an unfavourable sign, and this had thrown off his mental speed. But that Laloo would definitely return within three days, three weeks, or three years. When Lala ji said that Laloo had failed his exam, and he worried about him committing suicide, Pandit ji assured him there was nothing to fear. For suicide, one must have Ketu and the moon in the eighth house and that wasn’t the case here. Thus, Laloo would definitely come home. He had gone astray and was in the company of some person of low repute. ‘I’ll start the recitation for Mars and Ketu today,’ he promised.
Pandit Shivnarayan initiated a puja for the peace of the planets. In order to strengthen the strong planets, he organized a lagnesh puja. ‘The lagnesh, or the lord of the ascendant, is in the eleventh house,’ he’d said. ‘There are two auspicious planets aspecting it, and the lagnesh is in transit. Thus there is no possibility of any harm. I shall strengthen the hand of the lagnesh which is sowing disunity between Mars and Ketu.’
Pandit Gurdayal Jhaman didn’t know any of this astrology business. He had a paan shop in Chaurasti Atari. Instead, he offered the services of his pupils in finding Laloo and began coming by every day to ask after him.
The mohalla’s Khatris did business with Laloo’s father, so they alerted those they knew in business centres and markets. Finally, Laloo was found scrubbing pots at a sweet shop in Ludhiana. Then, on the auspicious advice of Pandit Daulat Ram, he was engaged to be married that very month; when his marriage took place he hadn’t even taken the Matric exam yet.
By the time he got to the Matric, he had failed three times, and three times he had run away from home. After the third time, his father ordered him to bring home his bride. So what happened then was that on their return to Jalandhar from his in-laws, the train stopped at the Adda Hoshiarpur Gate outside the big signal. Then something got into Laloo’s head: either he felt like getting out right there when he saw that familiar gate, or he thought they’d get home quicker from there, or he was bored of waiting for the signal to go down—whatever the case may be, he waited a few moments for the train to move, then suddenly told his bride to get off the train. He got her down, and handed her the box of jewellery. He was just going back to get the rest of the stuff when the engine whistled loudly and the train started to move.
Laloo’s bride must have been fifteen or sixteen. She’d never been to Jalandhar before. She just stood right where she was, veil up, clutching her jewellery chest. The poor thing didn’t even know the address of the gali or mohalla of her in-laws. A scoundrel was watching all this from the gate. It was evening, and the workers from Khem Chand Hansraj’s tin factory were walking along the line. This guy was one of them. He came forward and asked, ‘Bibi, which mohalla are you going to?’
She pulled her veil down further and shrank back, but he said, ‘Come, I’ll take you to the station.’ He picked up the chest and walked along the line.
Jalandhar station was probably about a mile or so from the gate. Nowadays, there’s not even a full yard of free space from there to the station, but in those days, the line passed through a complete wasteland between the two. There was a pool of standing water near the line that was thick with reeds. It was there that he threatened the bride with a knife, told her to remove her ornaments, ordered her to sit there quietly and not say a peep, then took the jewellery and chest and disappeared.
In the meantime, Laloo, who had suddenly begun to insist on being called Shri Lal Narayan Gupta, and always wrote out his entire name, got down at the station and instead of going back to the gate, calmly proceeded directly home. ‘So did Chinto get here yet?’ he asked on arriving home.
‘Chinto? Your bride, you mean?’ asked his mother with astonishment.
‘Yes, has she arrived?’
‘Was she coming with someone else?’ his mother asked.
Then Laloo explained what he’d done. As soon as she heard, his mother beat her head and rushed out, and a ruckus broke out from Baniya Gali to Kallowani Mo
halla. The people of Chowk Chaddhiyan, Khoslon ki Gali and Chowk Anandon went rushing pell-mell to Adda Hoshiarpur. There was no sign of the bride there whatsoever. Then they broke up into groups and fanned out. It was the group that went along the line that found her weeping near the rushes, head on her knees, right where that scoundrel had left her. Some people also claimed that the scoundrel had carried off her honour along with her jewels, but perhaps that story was spread by malicious neighbours. Despite all this, Laloo assured his friends that the thief (he didn’t call him the scoundrel) had not touched his bride. The bride had removed all her ornaments and given them to him and, he told them in whispers, he’d got proof of this on the wedding night—the bloodstains couldn’t be removed from the bedding despite repeated washings. But the neighbourhood boys had not only given him the nickname ‘Blockhead’ after this, they also teased him so much about his bride and the scoundrel that he ran away yet again.
When Chetan went to Lahore after passing the BA, he had seen Laloo one day on Railway Road—he rang a bell as he distributed handbills for Lal Badshah Cigarettes, followed by errand boys in top hats waving large posters for Lal Badshah Cigarettes, crying out the slogan:
In the City a Mirror Wandering Page 28