The world of bioscope – The Hindu

The dhoti-clad, dense-browed, turbaned man seemed older than he was, yet effortlessly carried a bioscope perched on a pedestal on his back, with cymbals dangling around his neck. He would appear as if from nowhere, settling quietly on the platform built around the banyan tree near our school just as classes ended for the day. His visits mostly graced Saturdays, when school closed by noon.

The bioscope, placed gently on the ground beneath the vast canopy, soon found eager schoolchildren like us as customers ready to be enthralled by his slide show of rare pictures that entertained and amused at a price more affordable than a packet of peanuts. This scene remains one of the most surreal recollections of my childhood. His tool projected not just images, but dreams that churned endlessly in our minds.

He knew many of us carried no money, for parents in those days disliked and discouraged children requesting funds, though they would sometimes relent, doling out advice heavy with warnings about not being spendthrifts. Since we knew what his show would cost us, we would be confident in securing some coins from our parents. No sooner would we spot him after school hours than we would rush home only to return in cheerful groups. I, for one, relied on my grandmother, who never questioned my requests. She would open her clutch, tucked away in a trunk in her room, and hand me change on the condition that I first ate my lunch before heading back to school.

The showman’s bioscope had two tubes projecting the same picture simultaneously to two viewers, meaning each three or four-minute show could entertain just two at a time. Before he began, after collecting coins, he would caution us that request for replay of any pictures was not allowed. He would position himself beside the bioscope, cymbals in hand, his right leg pressing a foot pedal that slid the images inside the box. A small aperture, skilfully carved, cast light inside the dark setting of the box, producing the perfect ambient glow for viewing.

All ears, we would listen attentively to his exceptional narration in simple language about the images. His varied tone and pitch, harmonised with the cymbal sounds, made his storytelling deeply appealing and melodious as the show progressed. It was also a learning experience, offering glimpses into a different world. Occasionally, elders passing by would join the gathering. Some kindly contributed coins to boys who lacked money. The shade of the banyan tree, transformed into a lively forum where everyone discussed the marvels they had just seen, would give us an opportunity to overhear elders’ conversations and opinions about the stone chariot of Hampi, the Taj Mahal, and other wonders. The show-man clarifying their doubts, sometimes smirking, would eventually vanish into oblivion, leaving us children with minds enriched by images and dreams.

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