“Anyway, I’m in Grant Road East, standing at de spot where Minerva Teatter, Pride of Mahrashtra used to be.”
Illustration/Uday Mohite
My phone rang last Tuesday, a deep voice said—
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“Rishtey me tum humko tumka baap hota mangta hai…”
“Hi Lobo Lobo, all well?” I asked.
“Eh Dikuna men, how you knew it was me, eh?”
“A hunch,” I said.
“Anyway, I’m in Grant Road East, standing at de spot where Minerva Teatter, Pride of Mahrashtra used to be.”
“Why… uhm, are you there ?”
“Becoz, bossie, today is the Big B’s eightiett budday, and I’m returning to my hangout when I was a tingoo bugger, some big big Bachchan hit films ran here men, chhe... so I was getting nostalgic.”
“You hung out at Minerva Theatre as a kid, why?” Lobo Lobo’s high tenor lowered.
“See men, I’ll tell to you one secret, wen I was sishteen seventeen, our famlee was damn ‘kadka’, I had to earn some side mooolah… so I and my bigger bro, Ansel, we used to sell tickets in black outside Minerva, it was our sade bizness!”
I had to sit down to digest these revelations.
“You sold black market tickets outside Minerva Theatre? Why?”
“Many Bachchan pitccures released dere, no! All all solid golden jubilees, platinum jubilees, diamond jubilees… so socko dosh we made.”
“But why get into this shady dicey activity at such a young age?”
“Whaatoosay, my dad used to slog in de Mazagon Docks like Bachchan, in ‘Deewaar’, I prayed dat he would become a smuggler and bring home cash in a VIP brief case.
But he only rose to supervisor, he hit de bottle like dat DeSilva character in Zanjeer and we were still kadka.”
“And so you took to a life in crime, like Bachchan in the movie?”
“No men, black market ticket-giri is not a crime, off cuss, one two times dey put us in lock up for few hours. My grandpop was a usher in Minerva showing peepul to dere seats in de dark wid a torch, our neighbour Mushtaq chacha was de projectionist, so dey let us see movies, free only. I and Ansel would always slip in and watch Bachchan blockbusters, oh men wot wot hungama would happen wen his fillums would release, wot wot lines, Dikuna men... de queue would begin at booking counter… and extend two two miles. Ohohoh so I would walk up and down aksing people, ‘Dus ka tees, dus ka tees.’
When Sholay released, five years house full, five years we got our main earning from Sholay… but I made socko moolah from Amar Akbar Anthony at Opera House Tetarer, also and we made a killing few years later wid ‘Mukadda Ka Sikanda’.”
Lobo Lobo paused, “Arrey dat Bachchcan, he was one lamboo-sukdoo fellow, but ‘ow he would take on nine ten buggers and give dem good pasting, dishoom dishoom…uuf too good, even now dat Tiger chappie wid all dose bulging muscles can’t match. And wot dancing men… hahhah too much... today, all dose Hrithik Titik types have all dese Bosco Schosco moves, but Bachchan, bindaas. Wot to say, tied one number scarf round his head... and full on twinkle toes… ’Kaike paan and ras walla’.
I tell you men, Dikuna…in dose times na… ’74 to ’79... no one till date can match dat lambooji. I wanted to be like him, I was one angry Catlik man, I felt de world had dealt me some bad cards… but sitting dere in dat teatre, wotchhing him as Vijay or Anthony or Don or Jai, I was him men… wearing dose bell botts, dat hairdo—my mudder was a seamstress at one filmi tailor shop in Dongri… Glam Sham Tailors, I would tell her, to make all dose suits for me. Wen I fust wanted to date my wife, I woe one outfit dat he had worn in The Great Gambler, Arrey I pataoed her phuut like Zeenat Aman only. But so much opposition I had from her parents for marriage, her sister Magdalena had a hubby, damn rich bugger. So dey tell me…, ‘he has cars, bungalows, money, wot you have huh?’
And I tolded to dem, “Mere paas Myrtle hai!”
Rahul daCunha is an adman, theatre director/playwright, photographer and traveller. Reach him at rahul.dacunha@mid-day.com
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