Features: Magazine | Literary Review | Life | Metro Plus | Open Page | Education Plus | Book Review | Business | SciTech | Friday Review | Cinema Plus | Young World | Property Plus | Quest |

A nostalgic trip

Year after year, when school reopened, English teachers gave us the same assignment – write a composition on “How I spent my Summer Vacation.” Some classmates visited hill stations; the luckiest went abroad. I went to sweltering hot Madurai. Not much to write about, I thought.

True, there was precious little for a bookish city kid like me to do in small town, South India. But perippa, my father’s elder brother, did take us to the theatre to watch Hollywood films – a rare treat back then.

While I got a ride on the trusty Chetak, my cousins took the rickety town bus; we met up at the entrance to the cinema.

Back in the eighties, watching Hollywood movies in Madurai called for more than suspension of disbelief – it demanded a child-like credulity.

Years after their original release, American films were screened here undubbed and without subtitles. Spoken English, however, was practically a foreign language in this town.

Perippa, who loved films, had mastered the language after a fashion; the Oxford English Dictionary was his bedside companion.

At the theatre, someone in the audience read the ads on the slides aloud for their less-literate brethren. As a ten-year-old, I joined young men in hooting at the government-sponsored family planning ad.

The patrons greeted Hollywood actors with applause even if they saved their adulation for Tamil movie stars.

Once, a paper rocket meant for Omar Sharif — Colorado, the villain of McKenna’s Gold — almost hit me in the eye. Perippa glared at the abashed thrower.

Thrillers, Westerns and documentaries, we saw them all.

If the film had been reviewed in The Hindu, we got briefed on the story, otherwise, we took things as they came.

When the plot got thicker, people in the nearby rows turned to my uncle for clarification. As a narrator, he was never at a loss, not for one minute. The kung-fu flicks from Honk Kong were straightforward plot-wise but here too, the training sequence called for interpretation.

“See, it is like this. If you lift a calf everyday — as it grows, so will your strength. One day you will effortlessly lift the cow off the ground,” Perippa had said after a sequel to The 36th Chamber of Shaolin.

For the longest time — before some knowledge of physics spoiled it all — I believed that it was possible for me to carry a cow.

One of the last times I saw a movie in Madurai, we had reached the theatre late.

A temple procession on the main road made it impossible for our scooter to pass. Clever shortcuts brought us to the cinema minutes after the show had started.

The usher turned on his flashlight and solicitously led us to our seats. After all, perippa was an old regular.

On screen, Mussolini had invaded Libya.

A schoolteacher, played by Anthony Quinn, led the resistance. Tanks rolled in the Sahara; the warm sands made me thirsty.

After years of struggle – two hours in movie time – the Libyan forces lost.

The Lion of the Desert was hanged in the town square. As a little boy bent down to pick up the fallen hero’s glasses, I blinked back tears. “That boy is their next leader. He leads his people to victory,” perippa said reassuringly.

Looking back, it is strange how that interpreter of foreign films in Madurai was unfazed by the dialogue in Hollywood movies.

After years in the U.S, I find the actors incomprehensible at times — it happens rarely, but it does happen. In the privacy of my own home, I furtively hit the subtitle button to catch the elusive words.

Perhaps, perippa did not always translate verbatim – maybe, he even added a twist or three where the director intended none – but who can find fault with a good story teller?

If I had half his imagination, at the very least, I could have written better essays for the English class about what I did during school break.

Printer friendly page  
Send this article to Friends by E-Mail