Walking Into The Past
I could not tear my eyes away from it. A solitary relic, it was incredibly beautiful—derelict and ruined yet regal. How could so many people pass it by without even a glance?
In spite of being in the midst of the busy thoroughfare, the area was strangely peaceful. I glanced up at the towering building. At first, I just stood still gazing at it. Inscribed on the arch of the front gate were the letters “THE ROYAL OPERA HOUSE”. Around it were empty sockets that must have shone with bright lights in better times. I felt as if I had entered another era. I conjured images of the past—when this place must have been alive and full of activity. Men, women and children, all dressed in their Sunday best, to enjoy the evening matinee. The Royal Opera House in Mumbai ever since it was built only screened films. Had any soprano ever stepped here? I think not.
It was interesting to note the figures in the frieze right at the top of the structure. Each holding one musical instrument—the harpsichord, the violin and the cello amongst others. The figure in the centre appeared to be wearing an ugly black crown of thorns. I scrutinised it further and realised that it was just bramble. Further right, a Roman guard remained sentinel. They were beautifully sculpted.
I walked to and fro trying to absorb every brick, every angle and even the creepers around that encircled the struture. I wanted to feel every inch of the building with my fingers. There were hawks circling the hot afternoon sky. The withered ivy leaves around the wrought iron trellis of disfigured balconies fluttered gently in the wind.
The building looked onto the main road. Within its premises there was a small compound that was empty except for an old dusty vehicle and a dingy eatery. An incredibly long four-wheeler, it was parked in the centre of the compound and covered with a muddy cloth and layers of dust and dry leaves. I was tempted to lift off the cover to see the make of the vehicle. Must be another vintage oddity. And the makeshift restaurant was painted in yellow. The board said ‘Italian Mama Mia—Mama knows best’. It had a huge drawing of the Little Mermaid on one wall. So much for evoking the Italian ambience!
The only person I spoke to was the gurkha, who sat on a chair in the courtyard. He appeared to be in his sixties, had a crop of white hair and was of scrawny built—even he seemed ancient. He said he had been the watchman ever since this place showed the latest films released. He was very hesitant to talk. And somehow I did not want to persuade him any further.
The building was locked, there was no way I could get in. The sole occupant seemed to be a stray dog who lay asleep within the grilled portico. What would it feel like to be inside the cool, musty and dark interiors? Would there be a Phantom who haunts the lonely corridors?
In spite of being in the midst of the busy thoroughfare, the area was strangely peaceful. I glanced up at the towering building. At first, I just stood still gazing at it. Inscribed on the arch of the front gate were the letters “THE ROYAL OPERA HOUSE”. Around it were empty sockets that must have shone with bright lights in better times. I felt as if I had entered another era. I conjured images of the past—when this place must have been alive and full of activity. Men, women and children, all dressed in their Sunday best, to enjoy the evening matinee. The Royal Opera House in Mumbai ever since it was built only screened films. Had any soprano ever stepped here? I think not.
It was interesting to note the figures in the frieze right at the top of the structure. Each holding one musical instrument—the harpsichord, the violin and the cello amongst others. The figure in the centre appeared to be wearing an ugly black crown of thorns. I scrutinised it further and realised that it was just bramble. Further right, a Roman guard remained sentinel. They were beautifully sculpted.
I walked to and fro trying to absorb every brick, every angle and even the creepers around that encircled the struture. I wanted to feel every inch of the building with my fingers. There were hawks circling the hot afternoon sky. The withered ivy leaves around the wrought iron trellis of disfigured balconies fluttered gently in the wind.
The building looked onto the main road. Within its premises there was a small compound that was empty except for an old dusty vehicle and a dingy eatery. An incredibly long four-wheeler, it was parked in the centre of the compound and covered with a muddy cloth and layers of dust and dry leaves. I was tempted to lift off the cover to see the make of the vehicle. Must be another vintage oddity. And the makeshift restaurant was painted in yellow. The board said ‘Italian Mama Mia—Mama knows best’. It had a huge drawing of the Little Mermaid on one wall. So much for evoking the Italian ambience!
The only person I spoke to was the gurkha, who sat on a chair in the courtyard. He appeared to be in his sixties, had a crop of white hair and was of scrawny built—even he seemed ancient. He said he had been the watchman ever since this place showed the latest films released. He was very hesitant to talk. And somehow I did not want to persuade him any further.
The building was locked, there was no way I could get in. The sole occupant seemed to be a stray dog who lay asleep within the grilled portico. What would it feel like to be inside the cool, musty and dark interiors? Would there be a Phantom who haunts the lonely corridors?
There were some baniya stores built into its ground floor selling raddi and other scrap. An utter decadence of a once majestic edifice. I gave the Royal Opera House one last look and hailed a cab.
posted by Renuka Rane at 7:51 PM
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