Ciné-club

The new bypass was supposed to bring progress, they said. Now my shop sees fewer tourists, and the monsoon leak in the back storeroom gets a little worse each year. Still, the nut-and-bolt drawers stay in order—arey wah, some things you can trust.

My elder cousin was a radio operator up near Dras in ‘99—he came back with a frostbitten ear and a habit of never talking about it. Every year on this day, I pour an extra cup of ginger tea and leave it on the windowsill before my morning walk, just for the ones who didn’t come home to Sikkim. Ramro, hajur.

Anouba French film-da "Les Glaneurs et la Glaneuse" kanu, television-da. Eina makhada harvesting-gi marumda, prabhidha macha asida, kanaga tengtha leirap? Leiriba vegetables thokchaba, oina faringe nungshiba, houjikki tractor-gi diesel gi mannaba matam....the film-na asida sagai charaga loinana, quiet sense of freedom ama pibiyu.

अरे, काल रात्री त्या जुन्या 'मदर इंडिया'चं चित्रपट टीव्हरवर आलं होतं. मी माझ्या मुलीबरोबर बसून पाहिलं — तिला शास्त्राच्या स्पर्धेचं तयारी करायचं होतं, पण तीही थांबली. राधाचं तेलाच्या कुपीवरचं हाताचं बळ बघून मला वाटलं, आपल्या आईच्या हातातलं तेच बळ — अगदी कोरड्या भाजीतूनही चव काढायचं. पण हे चित्रपट आता मुलांना दाखवायचे का? सगळंच खूप पटकन बदललंय, हळूहळू पचवायला वेळ लागतो.

Aiyo, my cousin’s tailor shop next door—every week some startup boy comes with a glossy brochure promising to revolutionise tailoring with an app, then disappears when the power cuts for three hours straight. Meanwhile, I’m still waiting for that streetlight they’ve been promising since 2019, and the kuppam’s waste truck comes only when it feels like it. Give me the people who actually fix the pothole, not the ones who form a Janta Party over chai and a hashtag—show me the numbers, show me the tar.

Bro, last Sunday I put on 'Sholay' on the TV for my evening chai break. Listen yaar, Gabbar Singh's scenes still give that full goosebumps, like a perfect heavy set to failure. Those old filmmakers, they knew the secret—strong story, strong characters, no need for all that flying in the sky.

Last week in literacy class, sir showed us a film about a small village in Bihar where the women saved the seed bank themselves when the company stopped coming. My granddaughter asked me later what I thought, and I said it reminded me of our own jala situation — when the pump broke in 2019, no government officer came for three months, we had to collect from every household. That film was right: the ones who wait for help from outside often wait too long, and the chaula suffers.

Last week I saw that new film about the baul singers of Bengal, and my mind went straight to my bhapang sitting on the balcony — these digital mixing boards can never catch the *sawal-jawab* between a singer and his instrument. My son says I should watch more movies to understand "young generation," but all I see is rich people crying in big cars while my neighbour's chaiwala boy hasn't had a proper meal in two days. Maybe the French directors are right — some stories deserve a slow hand, not a fast cut.

Arre bhai, I saw that new French film about the wrestler last night — my daughter sent the link from Ahmedabad. These young boys pushing pills and powders for strength, it makes my old joints ache more than our morning squats in the garden. In my mill days, we had one iron rod and a tub of water, and we built real grit — no shortcuts, no big company telling us what to swallow. Shows here in Gujarat still play Raj Kapoor classics, that is the art we need, dikra, the one that teaches patience, not quick fixes.

ಚಿತ್ರದ ಹೊಸ ಚಿತ್ರಗಳ ಬಗ್ಗೆ ನನಗೆ ಗೊತ್ತಿಲ್ಲ, ನಿಜ ಹೇಳ್ತಾ. ಆದರೆ ನನಗೆ ಈಗ ಬಿಡುಗಡೆಯಾಗಿದ "ಕಾಮೆಡಿ-ಎಕ್ಷನ್ ಸೂಪರ್ ಹಿಟ್" ಹಾಡುಗಳ ಸೌಂಡ್ ಟ್ರ್ಯಾಕ್ ಸಾಕು. ನಮ್ಮ ಪಕ್ಕದ ಥಿಯೇಟರಿನಲ್ಲಿ ಗತ ವರ್ಷ "ಬ್ಲಾಕ್ಬಸ್ಟರ್" ಬಂದಾಗ, ಸ್ನೇಹಿತರು ಕೂಡಿಸಿ ಕರೆದಿದ್ರು. ಆ ಮೂರು ತಾಸು ಮತ್ತು ಖರ್ಚು ಮಾಡಿದ ನೂರು ರೂಪಾಯಿಗಳಿಂದ ನನಗೆ ಬಂದದ್ದು ಕೇವಲ ತಲೆನೋವು ಮತ್ತು ನನ್ನ ತಂಗಿಗೆ ಚಿತ್ರಕಲೆ ಖರೀದಿ ಮಾಡಲು ಸಾಕಾಗ್ತಿತ್ತು. ಈಗ ನಾನು ಹಳೇ ಕನ್ನಡ ಚಿತ್ರಗಳ ಡಿಜಿಟಲ್ ಪೋಸ್ಟರ್ಗಳನ್ನು ರೀಡಿಸೈನ್ ಮಾಡುವ ಕೆಲಸದಲ್ಲಿ ನಿಮಗೆನ್ನುವಷ್ಟು ಸಮಯ ಇಲ್ಲ.

Ah, so many big stars announcing 2026 projects, na? But from my little shop window, I hear the real stories from the bhaiya who delivers film magazines—he says most of those dates will shift like a loose watch hand. For me, the only 'release' I'm sure of is the gentle tick of a repaired HMT restored to time, a small triumph over haste. These big screens promise magic, but my father's old radio, with its crackling film songs, teaches more about lasting rhythm.

Yaar, main toh single-screen waale cheap matinee dekhta hoon, 2026 ke teasers se zyada meri chinta agle saal ki leaking chhat ki hai! Big-budget filmon ka pata nahi, par mera ek client ne bola ki bahut si remakes aane waali hain – uski training ke dauran bata raha tha. Sirf isliye jaanta hoon ki mere gym waale dost promotions ke liye posters lagate hain, warna ticket ke paise protein powder mein jaate hain, bhai!

Ah, those new Bollywood movies for 2026... I hear the buzz from the young lads at the factory about flying cars and robot love stories. To be honest, I don't keep much track. My old DVD player and Maa's evening pakhal feel more real than those shiny new films. You see, my father and I still laugh at the same jokes in 'Sholay' we've seen a hundred times—a story that feels like home is better than a spectacle that feels like a stranger's dream.

Bhai, main Bollywood toh sunta nahin, South ki dubbed action picture jyada maza deti hain! Mere gym ke TV pe humesha Telugu heroes ki entry scene chal rahi hoti hai... woh energy, yaar! Uncles bhi kehte hain, "Rohan, yeh Salman se zyada punch maarta hai.

Ah, my grandson was just chattering about some big robot film next year—"Robot 3.0" or something—but what do I know about 2026’s Bollywood? Our real plan is to finally take the elders' club to see that old Jyoti Prasad Agarwala biopic at the Guwahati film festival, if our centre's roof holds through the rains. These new releases are for the young ones; for us, any movie is just a sweet excuse for a shared outing and some会后 chai.

Last week, our little TV was showing a very old French film, The Red Balloon, on that late-night channel. Watching that boy and his balloon in the streets, it reminded me so much of the children here running with their kites—that same quiet magic in an ordinary day. Makes you think, yaar, some stories don't need any translation at all.

আজ সন্ধ্যেবেলা নিউ মার্কেটের কাছে গল্পের দোকানের সামনে দাঁড়িয়ে একটা পুরনো বেঙ্গলি ফিল্মের পোস্টার দেখলাম—'নাগরিক'। পোস্টারটা রোদে ফ্যাকাশে হয়ে গেছে, কিন্তু উৎপল দত্তের চোখের দৃষ্টি এখনো ঝলসে উঠছে। ইদানীং সিনেমা হলে 'আর্ট এন্ড এসাই' বলে যেসব ছবি আসে, সেগুলো দেখে মনে হয় যেন শহুরে বুদ্ধিজীবীরা নিজেদের মধ্যেই গল্প সাজিয়ে ফেলছে। ওই পোস্টারের লোকটার মতো কেউ যদি আজ আমাদের রাস্তায় দাঁড়িয়ে থাকত, তাহলে হয়তো সিনেমাটা বোঝাতে পারত যে দারিদ্র্য আর পেটের দায় কেমন করে ভালোবাসাকেও মচকিয়ে ফেলে।

बच्चे को स्कूल भेजने का मतलब उसे दुनिया के लिए तैयार करना है। कल रात जब वापस आ रहा था, तो सोच रहा था कि ये 'वैभव सूर्यवंशी' वाली फिल्में तो बस नाम की हैं—असली सूर्यवंश तो वो है जो अपनी बेटी के लिए रात रात भर जागता है। जोया को अंग्रेज़ी स्कूल में डालूँगा, तो वो भी कभी ऐसी फिल्मों को देखकर हँसेगी, शायद। पर यार, ये फिल्म वाला तड़का देखकर लगता है कि चाहे कितनी भी अंग्रेज़ी आ जाए, देसी मसाला तो खून में है।

फ्रांसीसी फिल्म 'द लास्ट ब्लैक मैन इन सैन फ्रांसिस्को' देखी कल रात, हॉस्पिटल की रात की शिफ्ट से पहले। वो लड़का जो अपने दादा के बनाए घर को बचाने की कोशिश करता है — यहाँ पहाड़ों में भी ऐसे कितने घर बेच दिए गए, पत्थर-पत्थर पर किसी की मेहनत थी। मैंने सोचा, हिमाचल में भी यही कहानी है — जो सबसे कमज़ोर हैं, उनकी ज़मीन और स्मृतियाँ सबसे पहले बिकती हैं। डेटा बताता है कि पिछले दस सालों में राज्य में ज़मीन के सौदों में पहाड़ी परिवारों की हिस्सेदारी गिरी है, लेकिन बात सिर्फ नंबरों की नहीं, उस दर्द की भी है जो ठंडी रातों में अस्पताल की छत पर बैठकर याद आता है।

My son’s engineering books are piled on the dining table, and I think of Penelope — but in our version, the suitors are the tuition fees. I’ll be honest, yaar, I don’t have the patience for another grand spectacle; give me a good black-and-white Satyajit Ray any day, or even a rickshaw-puller’s story that doesn’t need a CGI cyclops. Still, if the film makes the babu

Last night after shift, daughter and I watched *La Haine* with the old TV nearly blocking the door. She asked why the boys were so angry — I told her about the curfew here, how we cannot just walk to the market if we feel like. French film hit closer than our own Meitei movies sometimes, but I wish they showed what happens a year later, when the news moves on and you still must buy rice.

Waah, Cleopatra. My wife’s eyes lit up when she saw the poster on the auto-rickshaw’s phone — “Mummy, she’s wearing *our* gold, na?” I said, “Haan, but her soil was different,” thinking how our jamun tree’s roots fight the builder’s concrete every day. In our village play as kids, we’d wrap bedsheets and pretend to be her, but the crows on the wall would just laugh — they knew the real power is in the monsoon’s first drop landing on a dry tomato leaf.

Abhijeet Dipke, saar? The moment I saw that name in the morning paper, my mind jumped to the climax of 'Gandhi Nagar Second Street'—where the police station becomes a stage for comedy and tragedy. But in our world, comedy is rarely served with Amma's filter coffee. The real stories are written on the streets, and the small man always wonders if justice will walk by.

अरे यार, कल रात टीवी पर पुरानी फिल्म 'दो बीघा ज़मीन' देखी — वो बलराज साहनी वाली। मेरे पापा बोले, "बस में टिकट काटते-काटते जान गया हूँ, ये फिल्म आज भी उतनी ही सच है जितनी तब थी।" एक सीन में खेत बिकने लगता है, तो अम्मा ने सिलाई मशीन पर से सिर उठाकर कहा, "हरियाली तो बस नक्शों में रह गई, असली ज़मीन तो अब पक्के मकानों के नीचे दबी है।" सोचती हूँ, काश कोई फिल्म हमारे चॉल के उस हैंडपंप पर बनती जो हर गर्मी में सूखने लगता है — असली कहानी तो वहीं हैं ना?

The accountant in me still flinches when the dates scroll past on the television, thinking of the sheer cost in ledgers beyond rupees. My cousin's son, a fine boy, still writes letters from his post in Dras; his mother's hands shake holding them. We argue here about the right film to capture such a thing, but I remember the silence in our colony that whole summer, broken only by Chiranjeevi's old songs on the radio, a fragile *bas* against the dread.

Only yesterday I was showing my tenth standard students a demonstration of leverage with a rusted iron rod—told them, "See, even a small force can lift a heavy weight if you know where to put the fulcrum." Mirabai Chanu lifting that barbell is the same principle, but with her own body as the fulcrum, and all the system's inertia against her. My daughter, doing her engineering in Kozhikode, sends me voice notes about the hostel mess food, and I think—that girl also lifts her own weight every day, just like Mirabai, except nobody gives her a medal. Maybe the real celebration is not just what she lifted, but the fact that she did it without a fancy coach or a state-of-the-art gym—only her own stubbornness, and perhaps a mother

Ah, I was watching *Sholay* again on Doordarshan the other evening — amma was humming "Yeh Dosti" while ironing. That film, no matter how many times, does not become old. They say now a remake is coming, but I ask, where is the data? The original had such soul in every dhoti's fall, every tear. If a new version cannot prove it will protect that feeling for the tailor's daughter who saves months for a single ticket, then why change what mends the heart perfectly?

Caught a Shammi Kapoor song on TV last night, then by chance saw a French film from the ‘60s, *Le Samouraï*. Both had the same cool, yaar, that lonely hero style. But my son asked, “Papa, which one had the better evidence for his philosophy?” and I realised—the Frenchman had only a notebook, while Shammi Kapoor had a whole song and dance number to prove his point. Data, my boy, data.

Ah, those big foreign film budgets could fund our whole factory's hostel repairs, lei. Just thinking how my sister pauses her application video every five seconds because our network can't upload properly – Cleopatra's silk robes could pay for a hundred students' broadband. Let the filmmakers come shoot here, give our local crew some charge.

Last week, I sat with Ma on the verandah and we watched the old Utpal Dutt noir *Jighansa* on a scratched DVD—her verdict was that the villain's alibi held up too easily. That set me thinking about *Le Samouraï* again. Costello walks out of the room, the police have their theory, and everyone in the theatre accepts it—but I kept looking at the payphone in the garage. The missed call slips past every inquiry because nobody stops to ask why a man who lives alone would bother to hang up the receiver with such care.

Last Sunday, while I was rewinding the antenna wire on my old Murphy radio, the news spoke about the Prime Minister's big announcement in Cuttack. Acha, my daughter asked if this means her school fees will come down—I had to tell her the truth, bhala, that promises from big stages are like the signal on this radio: clear only when the wind is right. The real work, like making perfect chai or fixing a bug in someone's pension file, happens far from the microphone.

Watched a French film last evening, something about a farmer who refuses to sell his land. My father was the same with his piece near the canal; stubbornness runs in the family, I suppose. The wrist gave me trouble while I sipped chai, but the film was worth the discomfort.

Watched a French film last week, *The Taste of Things*, in the back room of the tea shop after closing. The way the old cook stacked her copper pots—thik hai, it made me think of my own tins, the exact same clatter at the end of the day, though here a kilo of onions costs more than a man's wages. All that rich food on screen while my son in Dimapur eats rice and dal for every meal, asa.

You know, dada, I was cleaning an old Satyajit Ray poster — *Nayak* — when some college boys came debating Nolan’s time stuff. I told them, your hero makes a beautiful clock, but my hero makes the *chai* that runs the clock. For me, a film is like my aloo posto — if you add too many spices, the potato forgets it was ever a potato. Still, if Nolan’s new picture brings one extra

ముందు రోజు బండి ఛార్జ్ అయిపోయి రోడ్డు మధ్యలో ఆగిపోయాను, పక్కనే ఒక కూలీ కింద పడి ఉన్న కొబ్బరి చిప్పలు తడుముతూ "అందం ఏంటో ఈ సినిమా?" అన్నాడు. అతనికి కొత్త కథలు అర్థం కాక, పాత నాగార్జున సినిమాలే సుఖం. ఇప్పుడు అవే సినిమాలు తిరిగి థియేటర్స్ లో వేస్తున్నారు, ఒక వైపు అరవై రూపాయలు తగ్గించి — కానీ నాకు ఛార్జింగ్ స్టేషన్ దొరక్కుంటే పది పాటలు విన్నా ఫర్వాలేదు, ఆ తర్వాత బుట్టలో పాలు పుల్లనయ్యేదేమో అన్న ఖంగారు ఎప్పుడూ ఉం

Only. The old cashew trees near our school are being cut for a new commercial block. See, when I showed my students the photograph in the paper, little Aisha asked if the squirrels in her notebook drawing would now have no home. That decides it for me. The fix, if it comes, will be from the people making noise.

మా అబ్బాయి స్కూల్ ఫీజు కోసం ఆదా చేస్తూ, ఈ వారం 'పాకీజా' సినిమా చూశాము. ఆ పాటలు వినగానే మనసు తేలికవుతుంది – కొత్త సినిమాల కంటే పాతవే ఎందుకో ఎక్కువ మందికి నచ్చుతాయని మార్కెట్ చెప్పేది నిజమేననిపిస్తుంది.

Saw The 400 Blows again last night on the old television. Reminded me of the times we would slip past the curfew as young reporters, carrying our own reels to show in village halls. Cinema, like news, should have that *chaanbi* hunger—not this *thamoi* nibbling at trends for applause.

बुधवार को छुट्टी थी, बच्चों को लेकर पुराने रेलवे स्टेशन की चाय की दुकान पर बैठा था — वहीं पास के सिनेमाघर में 'दो बीघा ज़मीन' का री-रिलीज़ देख लिया। फिल्म देखते हुए लगा, आज भी वही कहानी है — खेत बेचने

Théâtre de l’image, est-ce que la nouvelle séance du mercredi sur le polo ground m’a fait penser — dans notre petit salon à Manipur, quand le courant coupe, on écoute les dialogues des vieux films hindi sur la radio de l’oncle, et le grain de la voix devient plus net que l’écran. Le film que vous avez projeté sur la ville qui danse me rappelle ces soirs-là, où même une coupure d’électricité ne gâche pas le rythme. Peut-être que le cinéma d’art et d’essai que vous cherchez est plus proche de ce bruit de tambour lointain que des salles climatisées.

They are showing Bong Joon-ho’s ‘Memories of Murder’ late night on channel 5. I saw it years ago, a DVD from a friend. The frustration of that detective... ashe, I know that feeling. It is like waiting for the rain when your bucket chillies are drying up.

Last night I watched *The Taste of Things* on a borrowed laptop, the generator humming from the well pump. Made me think of my *aai* cooking jackfruit seeds in coconut milk — she never measured anything, just knew when the *povitr* was right. All these fancy food films act like cooking is a science experiment, but kashem, the real secret is the patience you learn from waiting for a monsoon that never comes. You can't engineer that.

नंदन निलेकणी का नाम सुनता हूँ तो याद आता है कि पिछली बार जब अपने छोटू के स्कूल में आधार कार्ड अपडेट करवाने गया था, तो लाइन में दो घंटे

I watched *Pather Panchali* again last night on an old DVD my uncle sent from Siliguri. The way Apu’s family faces hunger with such dignity—it reminded me of stories from my own village, where the numbers say the same thing decade after decade. Do you think

The new salon is running a music video from that big Bollywood release, all bright lights and perfect hair, but I was watching an old Nepali cassette today — a 1980s folk song about a girl waiting for the bus in the rain. My late husband used to say those songs carry more truth than any sweeping cinema story, and watching that polished video I thought, ke garne, maybe both are right in their own way. A film's worth isn't in its budget or its crowd — it's if you leave thinking differently about your own market day, or not. Ramro cha.

My son was watching the old ’82 Asian Games on the shop telly, grainy footage of the cycling race. I remember that summer—everyone in the village was stitching flags for a school parade, and my machine ran so fast it nearly sang. Commonwealth Games or not, I think: the only gold medal that matters is when my customer can wear a kurta and it doesn’t pull at the neck, na?

Whenever Kargil comes around, I remember how my grandmother would fold her *khudei* tight and say nothing—just listen to the radio crackle with names. A few years ago, one of my students brought a tiny drawing of a soldier standing beside a *phou* field, and I thought, we never hear about the Meitei boys who went up there, do we? The big ceremonies are far away, and the families here just get

Arré, I was watching *Pather Panchali* again last night on MUBI—the monsoon scene where Durga steals the fruit, the pitter-patter on those old leaves in the courtyard. It took me straight back to my nani’s house in Chamoli, the same kind of rain that drips through my ceiling and short-circuits my synth if I don’t cover it with a plastic bag. People call it “world cinema,” yaar, but for me it’s just the sound of my grandfather humming a bhajan while the roof leaked—same ache, different village.

The list of Hindi films for 2026—I saw it passing by the clinic’s computer. My mother used to save for weeks to take me to a single matinee, and now they announce a hundred star-vehicles before a single shot is shot. I wonder how many of those stories will show a woman like the one who sells marigolds outside our hospital gate, or her son who needs a scholarship. In our village, we measure a film by whether it

Last week my granddaughter sent me a voice note — she was practicing French for her school project, reading from a subtitled print of "The Red Balloon" she found online. I remember watching that same film in 1956 at the old Kamala theatre, and the silence in the hall when the boy floats up... these new films with their fast cuts and loud music, they don't know how to let a moment breathe. But she says the children today need speed, so what can I tell her? I'll just keep my kaapi strong and my ceiling fan humming.