Where lovers once met…

The Minerva Theatre.

Long ago in Madras, when even basic mobiles were yet to ring a bell, the young who had fallen in love head over heels, an act for which gravitation was not to be held responsible going by Albert Einstein’s witticism, theatres, libraries, ice cream parlours, beaches and such offered the opportunity for cooing and billing.

Arguably, three topped the list of popular trysting places: Minerva theatre in Broadway, Elphinstone cinema house on Mount Road, and Blue Diamond theatre near Gemini Circle. Elphinstone, rather, the New Elphinstone, offered, as bonus, Jafar’s ice cream parlour that served a mind-boggling variety of ice creams and sundaes. This was, I think, the first theatre in Madras that provided a balcony. Only those who could follow English dialogues spoken with a minimal opening of the lips patronised such theatres till James Bond films came along. “My name is Bond, James Bond. Call me James!” was an intro to all and sundry to see 007 in action, having the license to kill, thrill and bewitch bimbos.

Since most English films were of short duration, unlike Indian films that ran for hours (a critic of the Hindi film Aan that ran for 160 minutes with two intermissions wrote ‘it goes on and on’), the main film often started after the intermission, a blessing in disguise for the guys who had to wait for their dates to get ready looking at the mirror and not at the clock.

Old Minerva was a bijou, air-conditioned theatre, having limited seats, an aisle separating the rows like the sharp, straight central parting of a woman’s hair. It featured only quality, mainline English movies. This hall was indeed socialistic in that there was only one class, with no distinction like front stalls and balcony. The two-seaters brought lovers closer, but not with the nearness of the woman on a bike’s pillion nowadays, who remains stuck to her beau’s back as if with a glue stick. Romantic acts of togetherness were minimal, restricted to occasional holding of hands with ‘this far and no further’ control, even if a straight-laced chaperoning aunty was not keeping a sharp eye on them.

Since the theatre had limited seats, the manager, a person with crisp, milk white dhoti, a silk jibba and inimitable old world charm, would appear in the foyer. There was no separate queue for women. He would count the number in the queue and once the number reached the theatre’s seating capacity, he would politely tell the rest to go home. Or stay back for the next show, offering fresh copies of magazines without dog ears, invariably the Illustrated Weekly of India. This magazine used to publish glossy wedding photographs as a regular feature. It would give great pleasure for readers to pair off the couples differently, according to their judgement, as opposed to what fate had ordained.

A later addition was Blue Diamond near Gemini Circle, one of the triplets, Safire, Blue Diamond and Emerald, India’s first multiplex complex. Blue Diamond screened feature films, the same movie re-run from start to finish. One could enter at any time at his, her or their will, but exit only once. This system gave an opportunity to a puckish professor to pull up a student, who showed up very late to class, with the comment, “Gentleman! We are indeed honoured by your august but belated presence. But please remember this is your college, not Blue Diamond theatre!”

For the financially challenged couples, not having liberal pocket-money to splurge on cinema tickets, snacks and tall glasses of multi-coloured falooda in multiplexes, Mother Nature’s sandy beaches, primarily the Marina, would invite them with open arms. The parked kattumaram-s would provide cover from prying eyes, and the ozone in the salty air and the sundal on the beach would make two hearts beat like one.

J.S. Raghavan
jsraghavan@yahoo.com

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