A horse-drawn tonga, fitted with a loudspeaker and a poster adorning its dome-shaped cover, traverses the alleys to herald the arrival of the tent cinema. This visual is etched deep in my mind as one of my cherished childhood memories. The high-decibel advertising, higher in scale than the grand and pompous jamboree of the tutelary deity of our small town, had a big impact.
The announcer would become louder and shriller as the curious onlookers’ number grew in size. His exceptionally well-curated rhetoric, peppered with anecdotes about the actors in lead roles in the movie to be screened on the first day was heard with rapt attention. His spicing up of the on-screen chemistry of the protagonists was incredibly creative, much to the embarrassment of older women listening from their verandahs.
The tent cinema “hall” had two sections separated by wooden barricades. The upper-class section was on an elevated platform furnished with portable metal chairs while the lower-class section, where the audience squatted on the floor, was a slope that almost went close to the screen.
Running two shows a day was an ordeal. During peak summer, the screening of movies stretched beyond the stipulated time because of the load-shedding, which used to be so frequent that people waiting outside for the next show would rush to the local office of the electricity department to complain.
A large section of the audience did not feel the need to observe etiquette. It indeed was a strange world in itself where the audience was at liberty to hoot, whistle and relish their kallu (toddy) sitting in one corner.
There were occasions when the tent owner would not give consent to begin the screening until the hall was packed to its capacity so that he boost the day’s collection. Some of the frustrated crowd incessantly whistled and yelled to vent their anger. Not to be left behind, a few drunk patrons would come up with a stream of expletives. A few men, getting carried away by the charged atmosphere, would crack jokes that mocked the owner, and the audience would burst into laughter. Sometimes, members of the audience would come up with witty retorts to lines in the movies.
Those were indeed halcyon days for both haves and have-nots.
The onset of the monsoon would bring the curtains down. One of the touching moments was when the staff (fondly called ‘company people’) of the tent cinema left the town waving from their truck. Their departure was like waking up from deep dreamy slumber to the reality of life.
The small laidback town has metamorphosed now into a much bigger town with better amenities. Although the town now boasts of a posh movie theatre, I do not think all people enjoy watching the shows as much as they or their elders once did in a tent cinema.
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