After three decades of trips to Bombay I finally plucked up my courage to go out, alone, behind the Taj at night to the cinema that sits on the corner beyond a block of dilapidated glory―a gothic revival (its beyond resuscitation) Methodist Church and indescribable nooks and crannies of debris and filth. Post terror attacks the beggars and the junky prostitutes have gone; even the hash-wallahs outside the Kashmir gift shops are better turned out. The cinema itself is an Art Deco gem, gazetted by the national trust but with a 'sports bar' in the basement. I lashed out and purchased a grubby little ticket for the dress circle which was all but empty, a relief as just before the film (appalling) there was a cavalcade of rules and warnings about ones neighbours in the dress circle. The warnings seemed to spell out some sort of inevitability about being mugged or kidnapped or worse before the film’s end (soviet era service tinged with police state paranoia is an Indian speciality). At interval (more warnings) which was spontaneous―inserted into the middle of a meteor shower as it was tea time for the projectionist no doubt―I braved the concession stand where mixed caramel and salted popcorn and “Austrian” fruit drinks were dispensed begrudgingly. I left way before the end and found all the exit doors bolted shut. “Babies on the hip count as one adult” said the sign.
