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Vijaysree Venkatraman

 


A couple of years ago I saw a news item titled 'Hollywood moguls target South India'.

It ran thus: "...these days, English films like Godzilla and Anaconda run house full in towns like Palani, Kanchipuram, Yanam, Periyakulam and Anthiyur in Tamil Nadu, Machilipatnam and Anackapally in Andhra Pradesh, Coorg and Udipi in Karnataka and Alwaye, Pala, Thiruvalla and Kanjirapally in Kerala."

Though the reporter did not add exclamation marks at the end of any sentence, his sense of surprise at the unexpectedness of this rang right through. People in small-town South India watching English movies? Wasn't this a purely metro phenomenon? When did they catch on?

I wish I could have joined in with raised eyebrows, but this was sort of old hat to me. Why didn't they mention Madurai though? That was all I wondered.

Not so long ago, no matter which city we were in, we would board the first train to go visit our grandparents in that temple town soon after our annual exams. The school I went to played a Cliff Richard's number on the public address system on the last day of every year:

Everybody has a summer holiday,
Doing things they always wanted to,
Fun and laughter on a summer holiday,
No more worries for me and you.

My mother was the only one beset with any sort of anxiety about our exams. Our grades would be mailed to the address of visit and she hoped we would not disgrace her with low marks in front of her in-laws.

I don't think our grades mattered that much to anyone at that point of time. That would come afterwards. Who doesn't know of this insidious rivalry between siblings about their offspring (which finally gets transferred to the children themselves)? It is as old as the Mahabharata.

But this was way before that. We still had not protested about going to such an 'uncool' place for two months. Back then cousins were friends, not rivals. Partners in petty crimes around the neighbourhood. But I never joined in all the rough games with my three older cousins, all boys. I found my own friends next door.

A special vacation treat was going to the movies with my uncle on weekends. I got a ride on the scooter with him, our Periappa. My brother and cousins had to take a bus to the theatre.

We never bothered to book our tickets in advance. It was always a spontaneous outing. This meant that sometimes we got fewer than the required six seats. In that case my cousins had to return home; my brother and I got to stay.

My first movie in Madurai was Mackenna's Gold. Periappa introduced me to the other kind of Indians too -- Apache Indians. He kept up a steady narration in Tamil because my cousins went to a vernacular school.

He was addicted to Perry Mason novels and would read them with the aid of the Little Oxford dictionary. Even when we could understand the dialogues ourselves, we never really asked him to stop because his interpretation was very interesting -- a parallel story line almost.

We had to be educated on the finer aspects of theatre behaviour. For instance, how did you let people know a seat was taken? You had to leave your handkerchief on it. It was a code all theatre-goers in Madurai understood. Even the ones who whistled lewdly at the family planning ads. Or the neo-literates who read everything on the screen aloud for the benefit of their less fortunate brethren.

As we grew up, our visits became shorter and less frequent. My cousins went away to live on campuses. Even if they were home, only my brother was invited to join them to see a "night show". Of course there was no question of my going along. Once I remember, seeing my crestfallen look Perippa who was chewing paan said something incomprehensible about "waiting". The two of us went to a movie that weekend.

The arrogant Italian ruler Mussolini had invaded Libya. Omar Mukhtar, a teacher by profession, organised the fight against them. The screen came alive with this barely armed patriotic bunch confronting the mighty Italian forces. Their primitive weaponry was no match for the mechanised army. The tanks rumbled on. The sight of the desert sands made me horribly thirsty. Perippa came back with goli soda.

After 20 long years of struggle the Libyan forces lost. Omar Mukhtar was captured and hung by Italian fascists. I sobbed uncontrollably. A little boy stooped to pick up his glasses.

"He is the next leader. The boy will grow up and lead them to victory," Periappa assured me.

I have seen several Anthony Quinn-starrers since. Lawrence Of Arabia. The famous ouzo-drinking Zorba the Greek, Ulysees, and more recently, The Greek Tycoon. None of his other performances have moved me the same way. When I saw his obituary, that was the first thought that occurred to me.

Omar Mukhtar is dead.

Now based in the US, Vijaysree Venkatraman has her fill of 'English' movies.

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