“Isn’t this a weird place for a date? I’ve heard there are rats crawling around,” complains a young girl as she walks up a winding staircase. She keeps her eyes firmly on the ground and hitches up her dress with both hands. This, I assume, is to be prepared for the infamous rodents. The young man accompanying her, and also the cause of her distress, plays it cool. “Just wait and watch,” he says mysteriously. “It’s going to be magical.”
It’s 11.30am on a Saturday and the couple is at Maratha Mandir, one of the few iconic single-screen theatres in Mumbai that has survived the multiplex invasion. The white marble staircase, polished golden trophies showcased in Burma teak cabinets, a three-tiered glistening chandelier and popcorn sealed in tiny plastic packets takes you back to a time when movie watching was simpler, yet more regal.
A Google search of the ‘Must-visit places in Mumbai’ will recommend that you catch an early morning show of the legendary Shah Rukh Khan and Kajol starrer
For 17-year-old Amrita Desai, this is the moment she’s been waiting for ever since her parents allowed her to watch movies by herself. She arrived at the theatre a good hour before the ticket window opened, leading the serpentine queue that formed behind her. After all, she had a large order to place — she was picking up tickets for her entire class of 30 students. “This is everybody’s favourite movie,” she shrieks. Like her friends, she’s seen
If normal decorum at a movie theatre demands that you switch off your phones and speak in hushed tones, then here you must do the exact opposite. There are selfies being taken at every step of the way; with the pink tickets in hand, around the life-size poster outside the theatre, against the backdrop of the screen, some even in the pitch dark theatre. The deafening cacophony of hooting, chanting, whistling and clapping begins as soon as the lights are dimmed. Even the national anthem is sung with much gusto. Imagine a crowd of 200 plus shouting ‘ Aao Aao ’ as the film opens with Amrish Puri feeding pigeons in London. Chances are, the voices of the actors on screen have been drowned out in the euphoria, so you’ll have to hear the dialogues from your neighbour, who probably can repeat every line verbatim, without missing a pause.
At no point do the energy levels drop. In fact, I caught myself in the middle of a heated debate between two families. They couldn’t decide which parts were funnier — the “London-wala romance” of the first half or the “ masti ” of the second half set in Punjab. Both parties made excellent points, but couldn’t come to a conclusion. “This film is just too good, yaar. Let’s come again tomorrow,” they decide. Sohini Sengupta, a media professional, says she has been planning this trip ever since she shifted to Mumbai but was afraid of the “ luccha-lafanga- type crowd” who come to watch it. “I did not expect to find so many well-heeled types driving in in their SUVs. A few minutes late and I wouldn’t have got tickets,” she says, in disbelief.
Interestingly, just a few weeks ago there were reports of DDLJ being pulled off the theatre. Considering the most expensive tickets are priced at ₹20, it makes little economic sense to run the film, which runs to rather empty halls much of the year. Old-time staffers explain that on weekends families still come with their children. But the film largely caters to bored tourists on weekdays who wish to kill time before catching a train from Mumbai Central Station, which is across the road. But for now, all one can hear is hundreds of fans chanting with Raj ‘Main aa raha hoon Simran’.