Every frame in journalist Rakesh Rekhi¡¯s memory of youth is about Krishna Talkies. It didn¡¯t matter that the visuals were hazy. That the sound was so muffled that he and others in the audience had to guess the dialogues. That the fans seemed to move in a drunken stupor, often forcing the gatekeepers to open the doors in late-night summer shows to let the cool air in. Krishna Talkies was his theatre of dreams, and Rekhi would save every five paise so that he could buy the cheapest 85-paise, front-row ticket. And sometimes, he would plead with the ushers to allow him to watch a movie in two halves over two days to avoid arousing suspicion back home. ¡°I braved a police lathicharge to watch Dharmendra¡¯s superhit Ankhen (1968),¡± says Rekhi, now 57.
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That was then. Krishna Talkies, which came up before Independence, is history. Along with Rose Cinema, Krishna Talkies called it curtains in 2004-05. For the past decade and a half, this Punjab town has had no theatre.
Batala isn¡¯t really an isolated case. According to industry estimates, India had 11,000-12,000 cinema halls in the late 1980s. By December 2017, the numbers had dipped to less than 5,000 single-screen theatres, partly compensated by the advent of more than 3,000 multiplex screens.
For Batala¡¯s theatres, the hard times began in the early 1980s when pirated video cassettes began luring family audiences away. The rise of insurgency in Punjab made it worse. Krishna Swarup, its former co-owner, recalls: ¡°During 1983-84, militants twice tried to set fire to Krishna Talkies. A desi bomb was also hurled once. People became too scared to visit theatres.¡±
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With the state government imposing a fixed high entertainment tax, losses mounted. ¡°It was difficult to pay salaries to the staff,¡± Swarup adds. Blockbusters such as Hum Aapke Hain Koun, Dilwale Dulhania Le Jayenge and Border ran for months in the 1990s but those were the last high notes. For a few years, the theatres survived on a diet of ¡°sex movies¡± before the end credits rolled.
Thanks to satellite TV, pirated CDs, and streaming sites, viewers have many more options today. But everyone admits that nothing quite equals the experience of watching a movie in the darkness of a theatre ¡ª where belly buttons always had silver dust, and fantasy overwhelmed reality. For the tea-stall boys, rickshawpullers and daily wagers, it was the only escape from the ordinariness of life. As Santokh Singh, a resident of Kotli Bhan Singh village nearby, says succinctly, ¡°TV majboori hai.¡±
A generation of boys and girls in Batala and its surrounding villages has grown up without going to the movies. Shopkeeper Deepak Mahajan did travel once with his wife to Amritsar, about 35km away, to watch the Punjabi hit Channa Mereya. But such occasions are rare as they cost money ¡ª for toll, petrol, multiplex ticket, lunch ¡ª and require planning. ¡°We spent more than Rs 1,000, while a trip to the local theatre would have cost less than Rs 200 for the entire family,¡± says Mahajan.
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The absence of a movie theatre is particularly hard for those who can¡¯t afford smartphones. For some undergraduate students at R R Bawa DAV girls¡¯ college, going to Amritsar for a movie is a once-a-year kind of thing. One of them said she borrows her brother¡¯s smartphone to watch movies. A couple of years ago, the college treated the girls to the Sonam Kapoor starrer, Neerja. But they miss having a local theatre. ¡°Television has only increased our appetite for movies,¡± says Anureet Kaur, a student.
It¡¯s not going to change anytime soon. No theatres or multiplexes are coming up in Batala. Krishna Talkies, located in the heart of the town, was bought by a local businessman, Harvinder Singh. ¡°The area wasn¡¯t enough to construct a miniplex,¡± he says. Part of Krishna¡¯s compound has morphed into a food street where hawkers peddle dosa, chowmein, momos, tikki and burger. The Rose complex is overrun with wild undergrowth and dying trees. Barring the fading letters, R and S in iron, there is no evidence of its cinematic past.
What survives are memories. Singh talks about the time he could hear a film¡¯s dialogues from his roof. Rekhi remembers the time the Punjabi classic Nanak Naam Jahaz Hai, starring Prithviraj Kapoor and Vimi, celebrated a silver jubilee, and people thronged from villages to watch the mythological blockbuster Jai Santoshi Maa.
Raj Kumar, who worked for nearly 30 years as an usher in Rose, says the theatre staff were like celebrities because knowing them meant access to tickets for the first day, first show. ¡°Even a gatekeeper like me was in demand. They used to refer to me respectfully as paaji (elder brother),¡± says Kumar. After the theatre shut down, he was unemployed for months. Now, he sells eggs for a living.