I was disconsolate when father took a new job and we moved to a new house, albeit in the same town. I loved the old house, my sunlit room, the spacious grounds, the friends I played soccer with.
Wrenching as the move was, I slowly began to find some advantages. 86 College Street – even the name had some elegance to it – was a huge building, at the junction of two major thoroughfares, a bustling, lively corner, next to a big market and an impressive array of shops selling from saris to shoes, books to bed-sheets, harmoniums to hashish. It was a colorful, lively and exciting place to be.
Wrenching as the move was, I slowly began to find some advantages. 86 College Street – even the name had some elegance to it – was a huge building, at the junction of two major thoroughfares, a bustling, lively corner, next to a big market and an impressive array of shops selling from saris to shoes, books to bed-sheets, harmoniums to hashish. It was a colorful, lively and exciting place to be.
The most exciting thing lay right by the side of our building, between a restaurant and a famous pastry shop. While I craved the delicacies the restaurant and the pastry shop offered – which I got to taste only when mother bought them for special visitors – my eternal longing was reserved for the edifice between them, a movie house. It had a graceful name: Grace. It looked most enticing, with posters pasted on its walls outside, showing handsome heroes with flashing swords, buxom heroines coyly striking suggestive poses, and mustachioed villains looking ominous on horseback.
On the upper-story balcony there were huge placards and banners that had even more vivid pictures of the protagonists, along with names of the stars, the director and (in India as important as the director) music director. All I had to do was to open the window of my room to be regaled by a larger-than-life Raj Kapoor ogling at Nargis, or Pran pointing a huge Colt directly at me. Mother frowned when she found me mesmerized by a giant cutout of Madhubala that emphasized her impressive endowments.
On the upper-story balcony there were huge placards and banners that had even more vivid pictures of the protagonists, along with names of the stars, the director and (in India as important as the director) music director. All I had to do was to open the window of my room to be regaled by a larger-than-life Raj Kapoor ogling at Nargis, or Pran pointing a huge Colt directly at me. Mother frowned when she found me mesmerized by a giant cutout of Madhubala that emphasized her impressive endowments.
Then came an extraordinary development. Among the stream of friends and visitors who passed through our living room, there appeared a trim, well-groomed man, in a beige seersucker suit, a cigarette dangling stylishly from his lips, whom I heard father introduce as the new manager of the movie house. Manager! Of a movie house! In my eyes, as well as those of my brother, he was no less a star than Pran or Raj Kapoor, and I imagined him sitting in a plush seat watching every show and thrilling to every derring-do of the heroes and villains.
Joao DeSilva was from the coastal city of Panjim, and spoke Portuguese and English and a smattering of Hindi. He twirled his tiny goatee and graciously invited our whole family to come and watch the blockbuster to hit the screen the following week. He said he had refurbished the cinema and, to cater to the hoi polloi, decided to rename it Deepak, meaning light in Asian languages. To my great disappointment, our father, apparently impervious to the charms of Madhubala and her ilk, said that he could not spare the time for the movie, though he greatly appreciated the offer. Then, no doubt to please DeSilva, he added that the children, however, would be delighted to see the film if that suited him. I couldn’t believe my ears. DeSilva instantly said that he would be delighted to have the children come as his guests, and that he hoped our parents also could join us for another show.
There it was, the windfall of a fantastic movie for my brother and me. That Saturday, dressed in our modest finery, we crossed the street and entered the refurbished Deepak. It seemed quite dazzling to our naïve eyes, and DeSilva came out of his office to personally guide us to two front row seats on the balcony.
There it was, the windfall of a fantastic movie for my brother and me. That Saturday, dressed in our modest finery, we crossed the street and entered the refurbished Deepak. It seemed quite dazzling to our naïve eyes, and DeSilva came out of his office to personally guide us to two front row seats on the balcony.
We were spellbound when the movie started. It was essentially a love story, somewhat akin to Romeo and Juliet, where the hero, the leader of a tribe, falls madly in love with the chief’s daughter of a hostile tribe. The hero was daring and determined; he went to all kinds of trouble to go round the furious father and make passes at the charming daughter. He finally succeeded in maneuvering the girl into a secluded boat and was just about to do something exciting and romantic, when up popped the disgusting father with a loud snarl, “What! My worst enemy with my best child!” Poor Dilip Kumar, who was all set to hug or kiss the winsome Kamini Kaushal, had to engage in a furious mano-a-mano with the odious chief who would rather be a wrestling champion rather than a decent father-in-law. Sad to say I have forgotten the outcome of the epic battle. Probably the villain won, to give Dilip Kumar the chance to gain the tragic aura for which he was so famous.
What I remember better is this: During the interval of the long film, DeSilva appeared with a tray of the choicest delicacies from the two adjacent establishments, the restaurant and the pastry shop. If the strength of my relative recollection is any guide, the stomach certainly is closer to the heart than the eyes or the brain.
What I remember better is this: During the interval of the long film, DeSilva appeared with a tray of the choicest delicacies from the two adjacent establishments, the restaurant and the pastry shop. If the strength of my relative recollection is any guide, the stomach certainly is closer to the heart than the eyes or the brain.
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