By Malangba Bangormayum
I like people who like people whom I like. I like specially those people who like my son and tell things like, `he is so cute`, `he is so talented`… `he is very intelligent`. I like them anyways even if I know that what they say might not be true. Is it just me or is it a common phenomenon? My wife says it is common enough.
I like people who like Manipur. I met two such people on the same day last week. The first person`™s father was an IAS officer posted in different parts of Manipur – Chandel, Churachandpur, Ukhrul and Imphal. She grew up in Manipur. And more importantly she talks of Manipur with a certain unmistakable nostalgia. She conducts a children`™s choir. Her brother is none other than the conductor of The Shillong Chamber Choir. Circumstances had somehow brought the two of us together to adjudge very talented singers and instrumentalists from the NER. In fact, the talent and stature of one in particular put the two of us in a very discomforting position. We had to judge, one of the most identifiable singers from our region, who has attained iconic status. He was part of the Great Society and has a penchant for wearing really tight and really short jeans pants while performing. There are some people who are beyond any kind of formal judging `“ they have made a mark, they have contributed their bit. He is one of them. How do one judge persons like him? Simply because I happen to have a formal degree in the domain in which he functions, I am made a judge of him.
The director of the government agency where this business transpired, it so happens, was throwing a luncheon to celebrate his retirement in a few days. When I was making an exit from the premises, I was introduced to him. He was in high spirits. He smelled of fine spirits – literally. As soon as he came to know that I am from Manipur, he started to move his well-oiled wheels of eloquence. His father was the proprietor of Imphal Talkies. He grew up in Imphal. He talked of Imphal Talkies with pride and joy `“ even though Imphal Talkies is no longer theirs. His father made it a point that the finest Hollywood productions had its premiere shows, in the country, in Imphal Talkies. This was a big gamble. Distributors charge disproportionate fees for premieres. Though this made him lose money he didn`™t mind. Such was his passion to make Imphal Talkies a Cinema to talk about.
My Fair Lady, I was told by this gentleman, made its premier in India at Imphal Talkies. When one of the Warner Brothers came to Bombay as part of a victory lap for the phenomenal success, especially in terms of returns of this film, he was greeted by a bouquet of flowers with the card `For My Fair Lady from Imphal Talkies`. When the producer returned home, he sent a thank you card with the words – `To Imphal Talkies from My Fair Lady. No one had sent a lovelier gift`. These stories from another generation sounded fantastic. They enervated my tired nerves after a daylong affair of judging artistes`™s talents and capabilities, some of which were atrocious. The stories reaffirmed my belief about the part passions play in carving the world.
When I was about to leave, I asked the name of his father. The gentleman came close to my ears and whispered a name which sounded like an Islamic name. But the spirits had done its work by then. I could not get the name. Afraid that I might offend such a nice person, I did not have the courage to ask him to repeat the name. I thought `what`™s the point?` I know the person without knowing the name, without having seen his face. I felt I knew him, someone separated by time. What`™s in a name anyways?
I remember the big long fans inside Imphal Talkies. Who can forget the languorous whirring synchronicity they performed in those warm Imphal summer holidays. As a kid, I loved to look at them, more than the movies sometimes. Now, everyone knows the condition of Imphal Talkies. It has had its day. And what an amazing day it must have been.
On my way home, I silently reflected on whether the state`™s creative output in the area of films had anything to do with the passion of that gentleman. Perhaps, it might have. Some Manipuri friends of the gentleman`™s father jokingly told him that his father whetted the insurgency movements by bringing in films about rebellion, films about freedom and films about the wild, wild-west. Perhaps, this too might have some truth under the veneer of a joke. A far-fetched possibility in any case.
Every time I go by Imphal Talkies, I shall smile, knowing that it had a past, a wonderful past. I might also sigh at the condition that it has come to. Perhaps, I would then reflect on the transitory illusoriness of things. This reflection too, no doubt, shall be transitory.