During the Sixties, the gate-keeper at the Metro cinema in Calcutta was a mountain of a man well over six feet tall. He had an awesome reputation, particularly with regard to nabbing youngsters who tried to sneak in to see adult movies. When he looked down with his piercing eyes from high on above, he was quick to see through all kinds of adolescent subterfuge.

This gate-keeper was carrying on an old Metro tradition, according to which only exceptionally tall men were fit to man this station. It might be recalled that the hall was originally owned by Metro Goldwyn Mayer, and here, MGM films were released simultaneously with theatres the world over.

For the premiere of King Solomon's Mines, they hired a giant, painted him with bootblack and kitted him out like a Zulu impi. He manned the gate armed with a spear as tall as himself, and probably helped to institutionalise the tradition.

Those were the days, when seeing a passionate kiss on screen, or the barest hint of a cleavage, was the stuff schoolboy fantasies were made of. One's stature was measured by the number of adult films one had managed to see and the ability to recount particular scenes in vivid detail to one's friends.Having joined school at a very young age, I found myself in the final year when I was just fifteen. My family genes also had not been too kind to me: I was short and facial hair was yet to make an appearance. I had the unique distinction of being the only boy in my class who was yet to see an adult movie. I decided that the situation was serious and required to be remedied at all costs; and to establish my reputation, my foray unto adulthood was going to commence at the Metro Cinema.

I remember the film then showing at the Metro was The Hud, starring Paul Newman. Today, I cannot even recall if the film was in colour or in black and white. Like all old memories, it too has faded into an indefinite shade of monochrome. I borrowed a suit from a cousin, wore a very broad tie and a pair of boots which made me look a good two inches taller. I tried to cover much of my face with a golf cap, pulled down low over my eyes. And I opted for the evening show, as it gets dark very early in the winter in Calcutta, and the door-keeper was that much less likely to figure out that I was underage. In spite of my resolution, when I alighted from the tram at Esplanade, I was hoping that somebody else would be on duty at the entrance to the hall. But it was not to be. I picked out the gate-keeper, my nemesis, his head well above the sea of humans milling around in the Metro foyer. An inspiration prompted me to buy a packet of cigarettes, which I displayed rather obviously in the breast pocket of my coat. Then, with my heart in my mouth, but trying to look as nonchalant as possible, ticket in hand, I approached the entrance to the cinema. The gate-keeper gave me a long look, appeared to hesitate for a moment, and then to my utter delight and relief waved me through.

The film was a disaster. Paul Newsman spoke in mono-syllables throughout, hardly bothering to move his lips. There was no action to speak of and the dialogues monotonous to a fault. And the worst was that the all-important scene -- from my perspective, at least had been massacred by our censors. As far as I was concerned it would have been more appropriate to name the film The Dud.

When I emerged from the hall at the end of the movie the gate-keeper was still at his station on duty. I found him looking at me directly as I walked past and I am sure he was smiling at me. All at once I realised that I despite all the pains I had taken, I had not managed to bluff him. No, not for a moment. He had let me through because there was nothing to see in the film, and there was no danger that my morals would be corrupted.

Copyright © 1997 Indian Express Newspapers (Bombay) Ltd.