It’s lonely at the top

God works from a small, grimy room at the top. He throws an enchanted conical beam on to a giant screen, which then bursts alive with strange people and their love, lust, anger, romance, fights and disappointment. He takes home Rs4,200 a month, which goes up to Rs6,000 with overtime.

But staying on as god of the small room has not been easy for the projectionist. In his 36 years at work, Jagjeevan Maru has survived particularly hostile winds of change, with technology taking away jobs of most of his colleagues and profoundly readjusting his belief in his own skills.

The world changed from carbon to zenone lamp, and from stereo to eight-track Dolby. Maru changed, and has survived.

“A lot of projectionists have faded away. New technology required fewer people, so many theatres downsized,” says the 56-year-old. His employer at the Maratha Mandir theatre, he says, has retained as many old hands as possible.

But several movie houses have shut down through the years, and projectionists started working as tailors, courier boys or peons, leaving behind the heavy wheels of showreel, the loud creaking of the projector, the small square window that overlooks the screen and the audience’s heads and the thick clouds of carbon smoke inside the eight-by-eight room.

“Many from the carbon era suffered from tuberculosis because of the gas which the machine used to emit,” says Maru. But time seems to have distilled even his troubled memories into ones he can now smile about.

“Rajesh Khanna and Hema Malini-starrer Dard was playing. I failed to notice the interval sign at the bottom of the reel. After some time, the canteen guy complained to the management that his interval-time business has gone for a toss. I had to create an interval so he can sell his samosas and sandwiches,” reminisces Maru.

In Linton projector era, operators had just one shift. They had to wait till the last show at 10.30pm got over. One had to keep the carbon lamp burning uniformly and change 16 reels (each of 15 minutes). Now, there is just one reel changeover, and two shifts-10am to 6pm and 5pm to midnight.

“Earlier, we had to be in the room throughout the film. Now, we can at least come out for tea,” says Maru.

Film historian Feroze Rangoonwala recalls how audiences would bully or cajole the projectionist to re-play the reels that had heroes or villains delivering their lethal takia kalam — the oft-run punchlines.

“Sometimes, the projectionist would skip a reel or two in the night shows to wrap up early,” he says.

Old Maratha Mandir hands remember how producers tipped projectionists during every release. Mehboob Khan distributed Rs2,000 among eight projectionists when his Mother India re-launched in 1979. “It was like getting another salary,” says Maru, who had joined at Rs190 a month.

In 1988, Aamir Khan had come up to the projection room and gently asked the workers to turn up the sound a little bit. There was no Dolby at that time, and Aamir was worried since the film was heavy with music.

But by then, technology had broken from its leisurely walk into long strides. St Xavier’s Engineering College in Mahim started offering courses in projection. Earlier, the art was passed down after years of working as a helper or errand boy.

And eventually one day, you had become the god of the small room. Nobody would mess with you, not even Dharmendra.

Ramesh Manjrekar, the 65-year-old projectionist of Nandi Talkies near Bandra station, proudly recalls how he got a firing from management for turning actor Dharmendra out of the projection room because he inadvertently came in without permission.

“Big producers like Vijay Anand would come on opening Fridays and meet us first,” says Manjrekar, eyes glinting through his thick, misty spectacles.

Manjrekar had learnt projection Cinema Paradiso-style, sitting as a pesky boy for hours with the operator at Roop Talkies in Santa Cruz, which closed down later.

He says he only watched the first show. After that, he would start counting overtime.