A still from Silsila

W ho caught Silsila in the first month of its release? If anyone claims to have done that, a) he is old; b) he bought the tickets from a blacker; or c) both. It’s been over 25 years since the Rekha-Amitabh-Jaya starrer happened.

I remember sidling up one of the bylanes of Gem cinema, hand clutched by elder sister, who haggled with this dubious-looking fellow in a lungi and shirt, with a bidi dangling from his lips. “Pountallis er kome hobe na (It won’t be anything less than forty-five),” he said, and went on to hawk his tickets: “Fotty fa, fotty fa!”.

This was for a matinee show of the blockbuster, tickets for which were actually priced at Rs 10. Yes, cinema tickets could cost Rs 10 or less then. While I don’t remember how much my sister actually dished out, I do remember that we watched the movie three rows down from the front with more lungi-clad men who wolf-whistled every time Rekha made an appearance.

With Silsila I made that important crossover of watching a movie with tickets bought in the black market. “Black-e ticket kete dekhechi,” I would boast to my friends. It was almost a badge.

But not any more. As prices of tickets at the plexes have skyrocketed to Rs 280 and beyond, the crowd at an average movie seems to have thinned with none of the madness for tickets in evidence. Today, orderly queues at plexes lead up to sanitised counters with little screens beaming the availability of tickets, black-marketeers or scalpers or simply “blackers” are a thing of the past.

But they could be such a saviour.

The “blackers” instinctively knew which movie would be a hit. They would buy up all tickets from the counter right when it opened in the morning.

And then began the fun. Even for a critically acclaimed movie like Shyam Benegal’s Mandi — critical acclaim meaning uncertainty about the commercial prospect — black-marketeers were at play.

Metro cinema, 2.15 pm, a houseful board hung like a damp squib. Again my sister and I, partners in crime, had bunked school to watch Benegal’s masterpiece. We couldn’t go back to school nor could we go back home. So watch we must. A huge crowd had gathered in front of Metro. Some had tickets, some didn’t, others were just bystanders but all gaped at Mandi’s posters.

We hung around hopelessly. Among the crowd, my sister spotted the blacker with her experienced eye. He stood, rolling his bidi from one corner of his mouth to the other (like Sharmila Tagore in Mausam), eyes watchful. There were policemen around. My sister sidled up to him.

“Hobe?” she asked in undertones. “Kota chai?” he asked. “Two,” she answered. “One hundred,” he shot back. “No, fifty,” haggled my sister. The minute hand of the clock inched forward. The three o’ clock show would start any minute.

The deal was finally clinched for a princely Rs 70. Front row in the middle, the two of us sat. Smita Patil in a shiny bustier had begun her mujra, Chubhti hai, wiggling her bosom. Whistles blew, coins were flung. We were mesmerised.

This is not to get the blackers back. They were unlawful creatures. But could we have the good prices back, please?