The Tale of the First Cinema Hall in India

Mrinal Chatterjee

Window Seat

It was Jamshedji Framji Madan (April 27, 1857 – June 28, 1923), who started the first single-screen movie theatre in India – in Calcutta in 1907, known as the Elphinstone Picture Palace, It was located at 5/1 Chowringhee Place. Two years before, in 1905, he had opened a hotel called Central Hotel in Darjeeling.

Madan went on to become an Indian theatre and film magnate and one of the pioneers of film production in India. He also opened Madan Theatre and Palace of Varieties (later known as Elite Cinema). In 1919, Madan produced the first Bengali feature film, “Bilwamangal”. It was first screened in the Cornwallis Theatre (later known as the Sree Cinema). The Electric Theatre (later known as Regal Cinema), Grand Opera House (currently known as Globe Cinema) and Crown Cinema (later known as Uttara Cinema) were all owned by his joint stock company, Madan Theatres Limited. The company reached a peak in the late 1920s when it owned 127 theatres and controlled half of the country's box office.

After the company gave up control, the theatre was renovated and came to be known as Minerva Cinema which played host to hundreds of Hollywood movies. The attendance started dwindling in the 1960s and the building started to show its age. In order to revitalize the theatre, Calcutta Municipal Corporation (CMC) took over the ownership in the 1980s and renamed it ‘Chaplin’. Unfortunately, they did not have much luck either and decided to close the theatre and demolish the building in 2013. Today Charlie Chaplin Square stands where India’s first theatre used to be.

Mario Miranda@100

The birth centenary of Mario Miranda offers a timely moment to revisit one of India’s most beloved visual storytellers. Born on May 2, 1926, in Daman, Miranda grew up in Goa, then under Portuguese rule—an environment that deeply shaped his sensibility and eye for detail.

Unlike political cartoonists who thrived on sharp satire, Miranda excelled in capturing the gentle absurdities of everyday life. His crowded, lively illustrations—filled with bustling markets, gossiping neighbours, officious clerks, and eccentric city dwellers—offered a humorous yet affectionate portrait of urban India. His long association with publications like The Times of India and The Illustrated Weekly of India made his work instantly recognisable across generations.

Miranda’s art was not confined to newspapers. He illustrated books, created murals, and even designed iconic restaurant interiors, blending caricature with narrative detail. His distinctive style—marked by fine lines, exaggerated expressions, and densely populated frames—transformed ordinary scenes into vibrant social commentaries without overt criticism.

In recognition of his contribution to Indian art and culture, he was honoured with the Padma Shri in 1988 and the Padma Bhushan in 2002. Today, his legacy endures not just in archives but in the visual memory of India itself.

As we mark his centenary, Mario Miranda’s work reminds us that humour, when rooted in empathy, can become a powerful lens to understand society—one sketch at a time. 

April is the cruellest month

“April is the cruellest month,” wrote T. S. Eliot, as the opening to his landmark modernist poem, The Waste Land, which was first published in October 1922. However, in India, the line feels less like poetry and more like weather reportage.

Cruelty here does not arrive with drama; it seeps in quietly, like heat through concrete walls. By April, winter in most part of India is a distant memory, and even spring—brief, hesitant—has already withdrawn. What remains is a sky bleached of mercy and afternoons that stretch endlessly, heavy with stillness.

In the Indian summer, April is a threshold. It is not yet May’s blazing tyranny, but it carries a warning. The sun lingers longer each day, pressing down on tin roofs, parching rivers, and slowing life to a reluctant crawl. The earth begins to crack; tempers follow. Even the trees seem contemplative.

Yet, there is something oddly reflective about this cruelty. The heat strips away excess—of comfort, of distraction. One becomes acutely aware of the body, of thirst, of the need for shade. Life simplifies into small negotiations: a glass of water, a patch of breeze, a moment of respite under a ceiling fan.

April, then, is not merely cruel—it is revealing. It forces a confrontation with limits, both environmental and human. In its harsh light, we are reminded of endurance, of adaptation, of the quiet resilience that defines everyday life in the subcontinent.

Tail-piece: Gyan

Storing a person's number in your phone book is of no good if we don't remember his name.

The better your image is, the more you will be scared to lose it.

The more people you know in life, the more you will accept them but less you would respect them.

(Courtesy: J P Jagdev)