A Visit To A Cinema

It was a long time ago. One day, the examinations being over, Puja decided to see a really good film in a really good house. She had no difficulty in choosing the latter, for in our locality a new Cinema house had recently been opened. It was built on the latest designs and provided with all comforts. When she reached the house, a long queue had already formed, but she had not to take her place in it, for her seat had already been booked and the ticket purchased. So she had only to step in, show her ticket at the door, and take her allotted seat. The interior of the hall dazzled her. The seats were cushioned and one simply sank in one’s seat with a feeling of luxurious well being. The walls were pleasingly decorated with simplicity favored by modern taste. The colour-scheme soothed the eyes. The hall was air-conditioned; so there was a total absence of the stuffiness that one felt in crowded places. One could breathe lightly. The fluorescent lighting arrangements, deeply embedded in walls and niches, cast a soft and uniform glow all over the room which did not hurt the eyes; there was a pleasing moonlight effect that was soothing to the tired nerves. Slowly the audience filed in, - at first in twos and threes, and then in larger numbers. In a short time, the hall was full. There were men and women, chattering youth and older people talking in subdued undertones; here and there we had splashes of vulgarity and fashionable snobs. Some seemed to have come to make a display of their dress; others to parade their omniscience. She passed a happy five minutes surveying the scene when the bell tinkled, the rasping music ceased, and the certain rose. The film was a much-talked-of one – Bindur Chelle – “Bindu’s Son”. The story was the famous long story of that name by Saratchandra. It was the story of Bindu, a childless woman who came to take her sister-in-law’s son as her own, and to love him with something more than a mother’s love. It described how Bindu watched over her son from day to day, the misunderstandings that cropped up from time to time and led to bitter quarrels that finally broke up a happy joint family. It ended with Bindu’s realisation of her faults and the healing of old sores and a reunion of hearts. From the beginning to the end, the story gripped the heart as only a Saratchandra story could. She has seldom seen a more moving film, and sometimes one could hardly restrain tears. It was a heart-warming film. The two-hour illusion was soon over, but the magic spell remained. For a while, she felt herself in another world, and persons in that world were more real and true than those among whom she lived from day today. She felt a great admiration for the great author and for the artists who re-created the novelist’s conceptions on the silver screen. Saratchandra is never coarse, and the producers of the film must be congratulated for avoiding all temptation to earn cheap applause by catering to a vulgar taste.