Hemant Chaturvedi backgrounded by Capitol`s antique wrought iron and wood balcony. Pic/Suresh Karkera

He must be the only person on the planet who went to the movies throughout lockdown. In a year redefining the phrase annus horribilis, Hemant Chaturvedi trained his Olympus OMD and Pen-F cameras on "beautiful ruins" of single-screen theatres in remote reaches of Maharashtra, Gujarat, Rajasthan, Punjab, Haryana, Delhi, Uttarakhand, UP, MP, Goa and Kashmir. 

The result: 55,000 frames from which he will cull the cream for a seminal book and series of exhibitions. Steering his sturdy Force Motors Jeep across 32,000 kilometres, he has uncovered 655 theatres, scouring the country's length and breadth on this remarkable quest.

About 9,710 single screens in 2009 dwindled to 6,300 in 2019. Visiting 500 towns, Hemant discovered each theatre, depending on size and location, had a similar ecosystem, scaled higher or lower by the social demographic encircling it. Ubiquitous chai and juice stalls, paan and cigarette shops touts sidled up to hissing black-market ticket prices were common features.

Interconnected livelihoods sank with shrinking footfall in halls. A teashop owner revealed an 1,100-seater theatre opposite him ran four to six House Full screenings a day, to which crowds of 4,000-6,000 thronged. Even a quarter of them purchasing a cup averaged 1,000-1,500 cups at showtime. Ordering 100 litres of milk daily, the chaiwala currently buys barely five.

From the 1980s-'90s, the slide gradually gutted cinemas in major metros and smaller tier towns alike. While multiplexes brought steep taxes and distributor rates, the shift from celluloid to digital content finally throttled struggling theatres. Seemingly spared halls gasp for survival with B- to C-grade flicks serving erotica, horror, or a steamy soup of both.

"For a book on multiplexes, I wouldn't have wandered but told the story of one multiplex. They're identical," says Hemant. The magic of the movies smote him young, at six, watching an I S Johar film in a makeshift spot in Assam where his Air Force officer father was posted. They squatted on Dalda ghee tins, the reel burnt halfway, the misadventure ended.

The 1980s St Xavier's collegian remembers films at nearby Capitol with enthusiastic, often tipsy, men lolled on wooden benches in a haze of beedi smoke and whirring fans. Describing "the elegance of Regal, the hyperbole of Liberty, the proximity of Metro, the warmth of New Empire", he grades certain differences. "New Empire has an intimacy and calm elegance less stressful on the eye than opulent Liberty."

His is an exacting passion. "Revisiting theatres, I checked my favourite seats: Balcony first row centre, A-24/25/26, gave uninterrupted viewing and as a budding audiophile I thought the sound best in that position. I saw countless movies on chairs with these numbers, skipping shows without seats of my choice."

The Bombay leg is a curious one, says the cinematographer of Company, Maqbool, Ishaqzaade and Kubaan, dedicated today to visual conservation. Rolling from January 2019 in ancestral Allahabad, his efforts to shoot Bombay cinemas were thwarted by apathy and evasiveness of proprietors and managing staff. "Dashing around for a month, I managed three: Mayur in Borivli, Nishat and New Roshan on Grant Road."

Leaving to photograph cinemas in 11 states, he recently resumed the Bombay tryst. "Serendipitously, I found the number of a college friend, Kamal Sidhwa Taraporevala (from the family owning Regal). She led me to her cousin Daisy Sidhwa, who forwarded a mail explaining my project to Saleem Ahmadullah of Globe Theatres. He orchestrated permissions for Capitol and Regal, and Liberty and New Empire from their proprietors. This in a swift hour after 22 months of perseverance. Maxie Cooper of New Empire got me to Fred Poonawala of Edward. Suddenly, I had five iconic theatres in my kitty. In another glorious turn, Sharad Doshi of Central Plaza introduced Ashish Doshi of Royal Opera House."

Bombay's matinee-mad beating heart attracted the cosmopolitan attention this city's cinema scene would expect. Yet, Parsi theatre owners and exhibitors like the Sidhwa, Kuka, Bhavnagri, Dubash, Mody and Bharucha patriarchs stood out as trade pioneers.

Unique to Bombay, halls opened in the late 1800s and early 1900s as proscenium theatres for musical and dramatic performances. Edward, Capitol, Royal Opera House, New Roshan and Nishat are living examples, with classic circular balconies extending close to the edge of the stage and private boxes for affluent patrons.

Theatres with the grand-scale brilliance of Liberty and Royal Opera House are rare. "There was no era-specific architecture after crossing Dadar. Lotus and complexes like Satyam-Sundaram-Sachinam at Worli, and Gaiety-Galaxy-Gemini in Bandra, represent the '70s utilitarian concrete aesthetic. The further from South Bombay, the simpler the structures."

Besides vanishing facades and interiors, Hemant captures stunning details of memorabilia that dodged being sold by weight. Lovingly salvaged are hand-stitched screens, tattered posters, smeared spittoons, brass ashtrays in halls like Liberty's preview theatre and over 400 tickets.

Some cinemas offered free two samosas and two besan laddoos with tickets bought on the first day of a new release. Burning with film fever, audiences hung off balconies, piled impossibly on each other's laps, gyrated boisterously in the aisle and exercised a strange control when songs flashed—"They believed the film flopped if anyone left to pee during a song sequence. Holding it in ensured a hit!" With scatological whimsy are also pasted prints of stars on theatre toilet doors as signage, Tabu and Jayaprada among images announcing the Ladies loo and actors of Sanjeev Kumar's vintage the Gents.

Quirky anecdotes abound. Many ushers flung Coca Cola bottle caps at the screen when popular songs appeared, to incite audiences into thinking these were coins to throw likewise. Post-show, the staff divided the tinkling metal cascade. Then there's the projectionist confessing he misses being roundly abused by irate filmgoers ("Ab toh gaali bhi nahi padti, hum gaali khaane ke liye taras rahe hai")—operating digital projectors means no disruptive film break or flickering screen. 

In Gujarat, Nataraj Talkies, from the 1920s in princely Wadhwan, is shut, unsafe from the 2003 earthquake. Its proprietor Bhawani Singh graciously allowed Hemant photos before taking him for a drive. Halting at a stone wall, they stared at the enigmatic entrance and "booking office" of a nameless open-air cinema, circa 1906.

Apparently, the Maharaja of Wadhwan was at Watson's Esplanade Hotel in Bombay on the fateful July 1886 day, when the Lumiere Brothers debuted their Cinematographe in India. Spellbound, the royal ordered the projector. By the time the siblings sailed back to France, the piece was manufactured and shipped, it was 1906. This is the wooden ticket window of the theatre the ruler built to regale his people with silent films.

More movie mania is fanned at The Charlie Circle, started in Adipur, Kutch, by Dr Ashok Aswani. The Chaplin impersonator's appreciation club celebrates their hero's birthday every April 16 with wonderful affection and mixed ethnic gusto. Dressed up with the comedian's typical moustache, top hat and stick, excited kids travel in trucks doing the garba, cut cake and watch a Chaplin flick. Charlie Doctor, as Aswani is dubbed, prescribes anxious patients "Rx: See twice daily, Modern Times/The Tramp". The homeopath was irrevocably Chaplin-smitten in the '70s at a Gandhidham theatre called Oslo—acquainted with the Swedish king and queen, its proprietor had their ambassador inaugurate his cinema.

From Vinay Kumar Chumble, of Vijayanand Theatre in Nasik (Government of India-recognised as the longest running cinema, 1916-2021) came quite a story. On the plot of now extinct Damodar Theatre, Dadasaheb Phalke trundled projector and reels on a handcart, strung a white dhoti between two trees and screened movies. Suspecting him of sorcery, locals ripped the cloth and smashed the equipment. Nasik police intervened, convincing them this signalled modern technology.

Necessity breeds ingenuity. An owner in Maharashtra, gone beyond budget erecting Asha Talkies in the 1940s, was stuck with a single projector. He tided over the minutes to change reels for a restless audience, hiring Lavani dancers. Backgrounded by a halogen spotlight and colourful spinning wheel, they exited stage as that light switched off. 

"Every theatre, especially an original structure with minimal renovation, is equally important," asserts Hemant. "Denied access saddens me. All I want are a few photographs. Unimaginably important to Bombay are Maratha Mandir, Naaz, Alfred, Royal, Palace, Central Plaza, Super, Gulshan, Imperial and Deepak. Maratha Mandir is designed by the genius architect W M Namjoshi. I've photographed five of his theatres. Phul in Patiala, Golcha in Delhi, Raj Mandir in Jaipur, the Liberty and New Empire interiors here. Maratha Mandir is critical to the parallel Namjoshi retrospective."

Bharat Mata and Moti are almost done. Hoping to catch scattered remnants of impenetrable properties still high on his Bombay wish-list, Hemant pleads, "I need just an hour for pictures. These buildings will fall. The book is forever, a chance at immortality for theatres."

Nasir Mulla, of Manek Talkies in Akola, cheers the level secularism of shared-screen cinema, telling Hemant: "Other than the seats you can afford, irrespective of caste, creed, race or religion, once the lights dim, everyone is equal. With the same goal—to be entertained. There's no space in the world more socially unifying than a theatre."

Any better reason for the show to go on?