<p>Half a century ago, Hubballi was quieter, far from the bustling city it has become today. Back in 1975, when Sholay was released, it ruled Ajanta Theatre for a full year, drawing crowds with unmatched magic. For the first time, a special music and dialogue disc player was released, and during weddings or festive gatherings, its powerful lines echoed in the streets. People would stand by the roadside, spellbound for 45 minutes, carried away by its timeless charm. </p>.Where the river teaches.<p>When Sholay was released in Hubballi, I was in Class 7 and had never seen such electrifying excitement—from youngsters to adults alike. Everywhere, people repeated Gabbar Singh’s iconic line, Kitne aadmi the? as though it were part of everyday speech. Colourful posters brightened walls, tea stalls, and street corners. One of my childhood friends, brimming with enthusiasm, narrated the entire film scene by scene, humming its melodies along the way. Such was the magic of Sholay—a cinematic storm that swept the nation and hypnotised millions. </p>.<p>Hearing the excitement around me, I longed to witness this greatest show. Back then, children rarely went to the cinema without elders. But the spell of Sholay proved stronger. One day, my mother surprised me—asking me to come home straight from school, as my father would take me to see it. My heart leapt. After school, I hurried home, and soon we were on his bicycle, heading to Ajanta Theatre. I still remember spotting the ticket price—Rs 1.65—while inching forward in the queue. Sitting beside my father in that darkened hall felt special beyond words. Because of the film’s length, a Boost advertisement was screened first. Then came the censor certificate announcing the 23 reels of the cinematic adventure of a lifetime.</p>.<p>During the interval, my father led me to the snack stall. Barely five minutes later, the air was filled with the electrifying beats of Mehbooba Mehbooba. My heart urged me back to my seat, but he sipped his tea unhurriedly. By the time we returned, the song was over. Years later, when I watched it again, I understood—he had quietly shielded my young eyes from what he felt wasn’t for me. Ah, the guardianship of those golden-era—so protective, so pure.</p>.<p>Today, the grand cinema halls of our youth have surrendered to time, transforming into glittering malls, leaving only a few as silent witnesses of the past. Recently, I visited Sapna Book Stall, near the site of the old Ajanta Theatre, where Sholay once roared to life. Ajanta stands no more—only an open patch of ground remains.</p>.<p>As I stood there, memories rose like a tide. I found myself searching the emptiness, almost locating the seat where my father and I sat together, his warm presence beside me. It felt as though it were only yesterday—sharing laughter, awe and the magic of Sholay. Fifty years on, the film lives on—and so does my father, in the golden light of that cherished memory.</p><p><em>(Disclaimer: The views expressed above are the author's own. They do not necessarily reflect the views of DH).</em></p>
<p>Half a century ago, Hubballi was quieter, far from the bustling city it has become today. Back in 1975, when Sholay was released, it ruled Ajanta Theatre for a full year, drawing crowds with unmatched magic. For the first time, a special music and dialogue disc player was released, and during weddings or festive gatherings, its powerful lines echoed in the streets. People would stand by the roadside, spellbound for 45 minutes, carried away by its timeless charm. </p>.Where the river teaches.<p>When Sholay was released in Hubballi, I was in Class 7 and had never seen such electrifying excitement—from youngsters to adults alike. Everywhere, people repeated Gabbar Singh’s iconic line, Kitne aadmi the? as though it were part of everyday speech. Colourful posters brightened walls, tea stalls, and street corners. One of my childhood friends, brimming with enthusiasm, narrated the entire film scene by scene, humming its melodies along the way. Such was the magic of Sholay—a cinematic storm that swept the nation and hypnotised millions. </p>.<p>Hearing the excitement around me, I longed to witness this greatest show. Back then, children rarely went to the cinema without elders. But the spell of Sholay proved stronger. One day, my mother surprised me—asking me to come home straight from school, as my father would take me to see it. My heart leapt. After school, I hurried home, and soon we were on his bicycle, heading to Ajanta Theatre. I still remember spotting the ticket price—Rs 1.65—while inching forward in the queue. Sitting beside my father in that darkened hall felt special beyond words. Because of the film’s length, a Boost advertisement was screened first. Then came the censor certificate announcing the 23 reels of the cinematic adventure of a lifetime.</p>.<p>During the interval, my father led me to the snack stall. Barely five minutes later, the air was filled with the electrifying beats of Mehbooba Mehbooba. My heart urged me back to my seat, but he sipped his tea unhurriedly. By the time we returned, the song was over. Years later, when I watched it again, I understood—he had quietly shielded my young eyes from what he felt wasn’t for me. Ah, the guardianship of those golden-era—so protective, so pure.</p>.<p>Today, the grand cinema halls of our youth have surrendered to time, transforming into glittering malls, leaving only a few as silent witnesses of the past. Recently, I visited Sapna Book Stall, near the site of the old Ajanta Theatre, where Sholay once roared to life. Ajanta stands no more—only an open patch of ground remains.</p>.<p>As I stood there, memories rose like a tide. I found myself searching the emptiness, almost locating the seat where my father and I sat together, his warm presence beside me. It felt as though it were only yesterday—sharing laughter, awe and the magic of Sholay. Fifty years on, the film lives on—and so does my father, in the golden light of that cherished memory.</p><p><em>(Disclaimer: The views expressed above are the author's own. They do not necessarily reflect the views of DH).</em></p>
