Chapter 12 : Chudu chudu Cinema

 

I was just stepping into six or seven—the age when imagination slowly begins. At home, everyone was preparing to go out for a movie. I too was excited. They said that in this movie there were children like me, who sing beautifully. Amma was telling someone, “One of those kids looks exactly like my younger son.”

 

The moment I heard that, I felt a strong desire to see that child who looked like me on the screen. The movie’s name was Lava Kusha(Lord Rama’s twin sons) In Mangalagiri, there used to be one theatre at the end of Temple Road and another on the Trunk Road. But I don’t remember which theatre we finally went to.

 

By evening five o’clock, the whole house was in a hurry saying it’s getting late for the show. Along with Amma, we all set off. Nannagaru never came to movies so quickly. In fact, in those days, there were many such fathers who only minded their jobs and never thought of taking their families to movies or to parks for fun. My father was perhaps the leader of such a tribe! Sometimes I used to doubt if he was a cinema hater! We were even scared to talk about movies in front of him.

 

In his lifetime, he took us to a movie just once—that too I’ll tell you later. For now, let’s come back. We were going to watch Lava Kusha.

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Goodu Rickshaw to the Theatre:

 

In those days, I don’t remember seeing autos in Mangalagiri. Mostly there were goodu rickshaws and cycles moving about. Maybe Amma thought we children were too little to walk that far, so she stopped a  rickshaw passing by, bargained, and made us sit in it.

 

Our neighbouring women also accompanied us to the cinema. They said, “We’ll walk down, you go ahead. But after going inside, keep some place for us.” Saying so, they gave Amma two small towels to spread on the benches.

 

Back then, movie tickets didn’t have seat numbers. Especially for floor, bench or chair classes, there was nothing fixed. Everyone sat squeezed together. Amma took the towels and told the rickshaw puller, “Hurry up, the cinema is about to start!” urging him to pedal faster.

 

By the time we reached the theatre, there were long queues at the counters. Luckily, the women’s queue was shorter, so Amma and Akka quickly stood there and bought the tickets.

 

But just then Akka said, “Amma, we forgot to take a ticket for Thammudu!”

Amma replied, “Ayyo! I forgot! Let’s see what the gatekeeper says,” and suddenly she lifted me onto her hip.

 

I had already told you, by then I was looking like six or seven. I was not a baby anymore. In fact, if anyone called me Bujjaayi, I used to get angry. I wanted to shout, “I’m a big boy!” But depending on the situation, Amma would change my age.

 

Like in the bus—when the conductor came, she would quickly say, “My child hasn’t completed five years yet — am I telling a lie?”

Sometimes conductors believed her by looking at my small size, but some strict fellows made me stand near the metal pole inside the bus where height-marking lines were drawn. If the child crossed the line, they had to buy a ticket. I would go stand nervously, and since I didn’t cross the line, they’d let me sit.

But then the conductor would come back later and shout, “Amma, your boy has no ticket. Don’t let him sit, keep him on your lap!” Amma would reply sweetly, “It’s okay. The seat was empty so he sat. If anyone comes, he’ll sit on my lap.”

All this I still remember vividly - because I was not a Bujjaayi!

Amma’s Trick at the Gate:

When we reached the theatre gate, Amma again lifted me. She whispered in my ear, “Sleep, sleep!” I was confused—why come all the way to watch a movie and then be told to sleep?

Then I realised her mind. At the gate, she gave the tickets. The man counted them and asked, “Amma, but what about this boy? No ticket?” Amma at once said, “This fellow is just five years. He doesn’t need a ticket.”

Whenever I tried to lift my head, Amma would press it down, saying to the gatekeeper, “ He is just a kid. He is sleeping. Check!” Suspiciously, the man looked, but in the end, he let us through.

Inside, many people were already puffing clouds of smoke. Amma casually covered her nose with the edge of her saree and searched for a place to sit. This was bench class—rows of wooden benches without backrest. Better than sitting on the floor, at least.

We spread the towels given by our neighbours, reserving the places for them. If anyone tried to sit there, Amma would cleverly say, “They were here just now, went outside for a minute.” It was a trick, and now I was beginning to learn such tricks. After about a quarter hour, our neighbour’s people arrived, and Amma finally relaxed.

Waiting for Lava & Kusha:

The movie began. From the time I could understand stories, I had been hearing the Ramayana. But nowhere did they mention about Rama’s children. Amma had told me that in this movie, Rama’s kids would appear.

  So from the beginning, I kept tugging Amma, “Where are Rama’s children?” Each time, she would say, “Don’t disturb. Rama’s kids will come after some time. Watch the movie.”

After asking her at least ten times, suddenly Amma pointed, “Here, they are, Rama’s children!”

And there they were—two boys, almost my age, like my own friends. Except one was very fair in colour, the other bluish.

That was what surprised me the most. I kept asking, “Amma, why is that boy blue in colour? Just now even Rama was blue only, right?” Poor Amma didn’t know what to say, so she gave a knock on my head. These mothers are all the same — if they don’t know something, they will never admit it. Instead they either give you a knock or a pinch.

 Much later I came to know the truth. People in cinema and drama would apply blue colour to characters like Rama and Krishna. Actually, neelam also means black. But if they painted them in plain black, stage audience would get shocked. So they chose blue.

In black-and-white movies this issue never arose. But once colour movies started, the actors playing Lord Rama and Lord Krishna were painted in blue — exactly like in stage dramas. One of my friends explained all this in detail when we were in 10th class. He was an expert in cinema matters. He never missed movie titles. In fact, he once even gave me a whole “class” on how to properly watch a cinema!

How to Watch a Cinema (Friend’s Lecture):

 He said, “If you want to watch a cinema properly, you must reach the theatre at least 15 minutes early. On the way, buy a packet of peanuts with four cashew pieces — that makes it even better. If you go early you can get seats under the fan. Don’t come late and end up suffocating in a corner seat without air.

When lights go off, first the curtain rises slowly. This is a must-watch. As the curtain rises, beautiful music plays, and the coloured lights at the bottom move upwards — what a thrill that is!

Halfway up, you’ll see a Welcome card on screen. Then comes ‘Smoking not allowed’ — here the meaning is different, if you have a cigarette, you can light it.  After that a ‘Silence please’ card. By then we should sit alert!

First comes the news reel. With a heavy voice some announcer says, ‘Floods in Bihar, thousands homeless… Landslides in Himachal Pradesh, hundreds dead…’ All frightening news. But at the end, they show ‘In sports, India won gold in hockey’ — that’s the only relief.

 Then another ‘Silence’ card. We think the cinema will start, but no — next come the trailers. They show fierce fights, romantic songs, thrilling dances, suspense scenes. Words flash — ‘Coming soon to your favourite theatre!’ Only after all this, the actual movie begins.

So don’t miss the titles. Carefully read which banner released it, who is the producer, director, actors, singers, lyricist, dialogue writer, cameraman, art director… everything must go into your brain. Then, watch the story closely. And remember — don’t rush out before ‘The End’ card falls.”

That was his lecture.

My Own Cinema Style

But honestly, I was never that serious. If a cinema was boring, my friend Vishnu and I would walk out mid-way. Of course, that led to trouble — gatekeepers wouldn’t open the doors immediately. We’d argue until finally they opened the gate and let us out.

There were also people who built up big stories just by looking at posters, or by reading the little story in booklets having lyrics. Such fellows would boast as if they had already watched the movie! Anyway, let’s return to Lava Kusha. The blue boy was Kusha. He was thin and lean — just like me. His brother Lava was a bit plump, like a Bala-Ramudu.

After watching the movie, for many days I imagined myself as Kusha. I even asked Amma four or five times, “Do we have blue colour powder at home?” If Amma had given me, I would have smeared it all over and recited ‘padyalu’ (verses) like Kusha! I kept wondering for long — why did cinema people have that blue powder but I didn’t?

Much later I learnt it was nothing but make-up kit magic!

 

“Jeevamu Neeve Kada…”( You are the life …)

After Lava Kusha, the next movie I really loved was Bhakta Prahlada (1967). By then I was ten years old — no longer a small child. I was already learning ‘padyalu’ (poems) from textbooks, and even cinema songs sometimes.

In Bhakta Prahlada, some padyalu(verses) became my favourite. I learnt a few by heart. Whenever we visited relatives, Amma would proudly say, “Our boy sings verses from Bhakta Prahlada wonderfully!” And I, of course, would get ready immediately.

One song was my top favourite — “Jeevamu neeve kada, broche bhaaramu neeve kada…” Whenever someone asked me to sing it, I’d first search for a rope or ribbon to tie around my neck like a snake! Then, with folded hands and closed eyes, I’d sing with devotion. People would clap and appreciate. That gave me huge confidence to sing and talk in front of others without fear.

Once, my younger maternal uncle praised me for my recital. Even today, I feel that moment helped me overcome stage fear.

 

Nanna’s First Cinema: “Nammina Bantu”(The Loyal Servant)

Now, after talking about Lava Kusha and Bhakta Prahlada, how can I not mention “Nammina Bantu” — the very first movie our Nanna took us to?

All my childhood I never heard him talk about cinemas. But one day, out of the blue, he gave an order: “Let’s go to a movie!” This shocked us. Inside we were thrilled, but outside we stayed silent because he was still serious.

Then he added, “We are also taking a photo. So get ready properly.” That was double happiness! That evening, sharp at five, Nanna returned from office, and we all set off in two rickshaws.

First stop was a photo studio near Radha Krishna Picture Palace, Guntur. There we took our first ever family group photo. From there, we were led like VIPs straight into the theatre. The owner, knowing Nanna’s position as temple EO, gave us five seats in the reserve class.

During interval, cool drinks were served — wah, that was a thrill! The movie was Nammina Bantu starring Akkineni and Savitri. At that age I couldn’t follow the story much, but I noticed Nanna kept going in and out. Later, Amma explained softly, “Don’t worry, the temple is close by. He is managing both office work and cinema at once.”

Now, thinking back, I realise — that day was very special.

My Solo Adventure:

Later, when we lived in Guntur, I gathered courage for a small adventure. By then, Rangamahal theatre was newly built. With pocket money secretly saved from Amma, I went alone, saying I was visiting a friend.

It was a Hindi film. Inside, the hall was almost empty — which scared me even more. 

 

 But The movie shifted between village and city scenes, fights, songs, shouting — I couldn’t understand anything. Midway, the matinee show made the hall dark again. I feared it was already night and Amma-Nanna would scold me. Luckily, the interval card came, lights came on, and gates opened. I ran out fast and begged the gatekeeper to let me go. Outside, it was still bright daylight! I never finished that film.

Back home, no one noticed my “adventure.” Good — because if they had, they surely wouldn’t have praised me!

Other Cinema Memories:

At Pedakakani Tirunallu, (temple fair) I once saw a movie on a small screen, projected on 16mm. It was strange — watching ‘Satya Harischandra’ and ‘Satyameva Jayate’ movies in the street instead of in a theatre. In school, they also showed educational movies like this.

Sometimes, students even got concession tickets. Once in Guntur Harihara Mahal, we watched ‘Nindu Samsaram’ for just 25 paise.(1/4th of a rupee)

Like this, I have many more cinema memories. For now, I will stop here. 

 

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