On Valentine's Day this year, 85-year-old Deepak— one of the oldest cinemas in Mumbai—reopened after nine months, in a new avatar. In place of shutters that would let in a row of rickshaw drivers, construction workers and others for as low as Rs 30, it now boasts two huge black gates that open only slightly and tentatively for those who can pay at least Rs 110. On the gates is a set of rules and the picture of the new, red, reclining, cushioned chair. Inside, there are uniformed security guards who ask for your name in English, toilets with self-locking doors, popcorn that comes from Argentina and high-end amplifiers that make Shah's office floor shudder every time there's a thud in the movie.
"I want Deepak to cater to the elite class," says Punit, the third-generation owner of the theatre that was started by Kutchi land-owner Tokershi Jivraj Ganji in 1926. Besides sentiment, it was partly a 1981 law that says that even if the owner of a cinema theatre revamps it, he can only use it for the purpose of a cinema— that prompted Punit to refurbish the theatre. "I want to offer people a Prithvi theatre-like ambience where they can come in and play the guitar," says the 30-year-old, who has been careful to hold on to the colonial structure and its various welcoming elements— the long, roofed walk-in, ornate lamps, elegant benches, and most importantly, two huge white stone elephants that stand facing each other, a bit like the logo of this paper.
These are reminders of Deepak's inception as a circus venue. In the 1920s, the two rear entrances of this cinema would see lions and tigers from the Byculla zoo. Then, when the cinema projector arrived, films were screened chiefly for workers from nearby mills. As mills closed, crowds thinned. The cinema— that has seen everyone from actors Salman Khan to Govinda walk down its porch— soon became what theatre managers used to call "a shifting theatre". This means that some films would release here only after finishing their run elsewhere, "just to show a silver jubilee run".
"The ladies' toilets previously had open latrines, like the gents'," recalls Punit's wife, Mansi, amused. "Besides, the doors wouldn't close so there were people peeping in." An interior decorator, she took on the onus of redesigning the insides of this family heirloom. It wasn't easy. "When we broke the POP ceiling of the auditorium, I could see the sky," recalls Mansi. Nine months later, the theatre now has classy toilets with mirrors, a high-defintion screen, twelve amplifiers (in place of five) and a 2K digital projector. "Basically you will find everything that you find at a multiplex, at subsidized prices," says Punit.
Few days into reopening, however, it still had the aura of a circus venue. Punit had to deal with the wrath of its erstwhile patrons. Some protested its new richness by breaking its glass box office window while others avenged the loss of affordable entertainment by watching films here. "Local goons would bring tobacco packs and cigarettes inside," says Punit, one eye on the office TV which plays footage from nine CCTV cameras.
These teething troubles, thankfully, are now over. Corporates have now been requesting him to lend his space for seminars. Some of them promised group bookings for certain Hindi and English films. Last Sunday, a group of 60 Maharashtrian women turned up with their families to watch the Marathi film Fandri. "Their kids even pulled the elephant's tail," recalls Mansi. The Shahs are now planning to introduce a ladder so kids can mount the elephants. Just like circus artists once used to.
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