Fifty years ago, our sleepy little town of Bolarum was not very different from RK Narayan’s Malgudi – the kind of place where people recognised you by your walk, your cough, or your bicycle bell.
As I mentioned in an earlier article, our cinematic universe then had just three planets – Sri Sai Talkies and Select Talkies in Bolarum, and Satya Talkies in Alwal. Later, the constellation expanded: Nartaki Theatre opened in Lothkunta, with Dharmendra–Hema Malini starrer Maa as its maiden offering, and still later came Laxmi Kala Mandir, also in Lothkunta.
A new villain is born
Sri Sai screened mostly Hindi and English films, being surrounded by army quarters; Select showed mostly Telugu movies; Satya catered to both Telugu and Hindi audiences – a diplomatic policy that seemed to work.
You may ask, why am I dragging you back half a century? Good question. The answer is Sholay, which stormed into theatres in 1975 and is turning 50 this week.
Gabbar Singh, Jai, Veeru, Thakur, and the immortal Arey o Samba! had become part of everyday conversation. I was in the 8th standard then. I had seen the posters – bold colours, dusty action scenes, and Amitabh and Dharmendra standing as if posing for a national monument.
Slow reels, long waits
In those days, movie prints were rare commodities. The reels stacked in tin boxes travelled from one theatre to another – sometimes on scooters, mostly on bicycles. A delayed arrival of the reels meant a restless audience indulging in shouting, whistling and, occasionally, violent seat-thumping. This was considered part of the cinematic experience.
In Bolarum, the concept of ‘first day, first show’ was about as realistic as landing on the moon in a bullock cart. We had to wait a week or two for new films. By the time they reached us, the prints had scratches, lines, and occasional missing frames – like watching a film through a window in the rain.
Our own Gabbar Singh of storytelling
One of my schoolmates, who lived with his grandmother in Bolarum but visited his parents in the Old City every weekend, became our unofficial Sholay correspondent. He claimed to have watched it in Ramakrishna 70mm. On our two-kilometre trek to school in Yapral, and back, he would narrate the film frame by frame, complete with dialogues, sound effects, and dramatic pauses. The only thing he skipped was dancing to Mehbooba Mehbooba.
By the time he reached the climax in his storytelling, my eagerness to watch Sholay had reached Gabbar-level intensity.
The 70mm screen mission
When it finally came to our local theatre – on a 35mm print – the management helpfully stretched a wider screen. This still fell short of 70mm glory, and the soundtrack on the ageing sound system lacked the thunder. But beggars, as they say, cannot be choosers.
And then came our big plan – a few friends and I decided to head to the city to watch Sholay in all its 70mm splendour at Sangeet Theatre. We pooled our pocket money, mapped out our timings, and caught the bus like a bunch of commandos on a mission. The Ramesh Sippy magnum opus enjoyed a long and successful run at Sangeet, just as it did at most other major theatres in the city.
What an experience it was! The screen was gigantic, the sound hit you in the chest, and every bullet fired by Jai or Veeru felt like it whizzed past your ear. At the interval, the hot samosas and chai biskoot tasted like the finest gourmet treat on earth. That combination improved even Gabbar’s scenes.
Fifty years and counting
Since then, I have watched Sholay many times – on the big screen, on TV, and now on YouTube whenever I feel like. Fifty years on, Sholay still draws me in. I may forget anniversaries, bank PINs, and where I put my reading glasses, but never the exact moment when Gabbar snarled, ‘Kitne aadmi the?’ My wife claims it is the 99th time. ‘Aren’t you done yet?’ she asks, visibly exasperated. Perhaps I will be, one day. But not this week. Not when Sholay is fifty.
