As I stood in line to watch my first movie ever on the big screen, a thought exploded in my mind: the queue outside Orient cinema in Kolkata was no different from those that formed during the ‘crackdown’ in Kashmir in which people were asked to assemble in a ground for an identification parade by the mukhabirs (informers). I use the word ‘exploded’ probably because I belong to Jammu and Kashmir; I am influenced by the language of conflict. The trip to Kolkata was my first trip outside Kashmir. The year was 1997. I was 17.

As the doors of the movie hall opened, a harrowing experience began. The crowd jostled to get inside. As I entered with my father, I fell to the ground. That embarrassment will haunt me throughout my life. It was pitch dark and I had failed to see the staircase. All because I was not familiar with the topography of the cinema hall. Cinema halls were closed in the Valley in 1989; about ninety per cent of my generation has never been inside one.

I was surprised by the number of people sitting in one place to watch a movie. Suddenly, a deafening sound erupted. It was the advertisements — prelude to the movie. For a Kashmiri, the decibel was too high to bear. When we watch a movie at home in Kashmir, the volume is maintained at a level, so that one can keep track of barking dogs and the sound of bullets. When you do hear the sounds of either militant or military movement outside, you know it is time to switch off the lights. So for me, the high volume in the cinema hall was not irritating, it was maddening.

... contd.