This real life story belongs to the time when cinema houses in Lahore — particularly on McLeod Road — were thriving. Starting with Sanober, next to the Lahore Hotel, there were Rattan and Ritz. Across the road there were Palace, Qaiser and Regent.

Many of these cinema houses underwent change of names, Pran Nevile told me. Moonlight and Probhat are history now. All these have since been demolished to make way for ugly high-rises. Plaza is the latest casualty.

There were more of them on Abbott Road, namely Capital, Nishat and Odeon. Hollywood classics like Ben Hur and War and Peace were shown at Odeon, which still exists, albeit in the most dilapidated state.

Every film premiere on a Friday would be preceded by grand publicity campaigns. Hired labourers would carry huge placards on foot throughout the city, led by tongas which also displayed publicity banners. The zebra pulling one such tonga became an instant hot news on wheels. It later turned out to be a white horse with hand painted black stripes (it may be noted that zebras cannot be domesticated, much less harnessed — a fact I learnt during my stay in Uganda.)

Even if the films didn’t fare well at the box office, the tongas were a sight to behold.

Cinemas had three shows daily — at 3pm, 6pm, and 9pm. An extra show on Sunday noon, called the matinee, was a delight for cine-goers.

Occasionally, a film would smash all box office records and run for many months. One such blockbuster was Aan that was shown for 52 weeks at the then newly built Rattan. Chaudhary Eid Muhammad was allotted this cinema against evacuee property claims.

Cinema hoardings were a specialised art unto itself. Huge, oversize, full figure portraits of the cast of film stars were hand-painted by painters who could put many an academically qualified artist to shame. Exact facial/figural likenesses in action in the film were depicted by referring to black/white prints, called stills and show cards. In fact, Lahore being the centre of the film industry of Pakistan, the painters of hoardings here excelled at their work. Posters printed on imperial sized cartridge papers in lithography too were created with great skill.

Mustafa Chughtai was a much-sought painter (more about him later). With the introduction of scanners that made possible the printing of photographic images with multiple pixels on large flaxes, the handmade hoardings became extinct. All the artists were thus rendered jobless.

The starting of a show, the intermission, and the end had much hustle and bustle with long queues of tongas and vending carts. Going to the movies was a special excursion for the families and students. Everyone was supposed to keep discipline. The “No Smoking” neons in the halls were respected. There was also a sign that said, “Rights of Admission Reserved.”

Inside every cinema there was a Dress Circle. Well behaved vendors could be seen selling cookies and candies, while waiters in white uniforms and high turbans gracefully held tea trays, ready to serve the visitors.

The most impressive was our character. Farooq, a tall, sturdy and dark fellow with a big nose and a corresponding moustache, looked more like the Nawab of Kalabagh. He was our distant relation and originally belonged to a very rich family from Ludhiana.

As familial circumstances would have it, Farooq was there to vend tea during intervals at Palace cinema. Because of his personality and attire he was offered a similar assignment in other cinemas too, but he remained loyal to this place.

Farooq’s step-mother and step siblings had deprived him of his inheritance. His wife too, upon learning about his financial standing, had abandoned him. On Sundays, he would visit us, help in daily chores, and purchase groceries and greens for us. Then he would brew for himself a strong tea in a large pot and sit down to read The Pakistan Times.

Farooq would often discuss the Cold War with my father and criticise Eisenhower and Khrushchev over atom- and hydrogen-bomb initiatives which could devastate any semblance of life on the planet. Maybe because of this phobia, he never accompanied me to the upper story of a double-decker which plied on most routes in Lahore in those days. His remarks were that it is insecure because there is no driver up there. However, I enjoyed cruising the cityscapes with a bird’s eye view.

During one such visit, Farooq narrated a dream in which his wife gave him a plate of omelets. Earnestly, he wished that God had let him eat the eggs.

One day, his step siblings had come to see Alladin ka Chiragh showing at the cinema where Farooq was holding a tea tray in the one hand, balanced above his shoulder in the hall during the interval.

They summoned him for tea and paid him some tip too. When asked as to why he accepted the money, he said that they were like any other customers and not his siblings. A leading lawyer, who was sitting nearby and knew all of them, noticed the moistened eyes of Farooq and invited him to his chamber. He then offered to help him get his rightful share for free.

The judicial system did not take long. After a few hearings, he was awarded a decree in his favour.

It is rightly said that an upright lawyer can be akin to a saint. Farooq should not have needed to serve as a waiter. The story has a tragic ending. One night he went to sleep and never woke up. Once he had woken up when his wife came to offer him omelet. Now that he was going to enjoy his rightful share, even his wife who had abandoned him in poverty, might return to him. But there he was in eternal sleep. His sudden departure raised many an eyebrow, but who knows. His share, thus, remained with his step siblings.

(This dispatch is dedicated to an anonymous lawyer)

The writer is a painter, a founding member of Lahore Conservation Society and Punjab Artists Association, and a former director of the NCA Art Gallery. He can be reached at ajazart@brain.net.pk