Celluloid Memories: Kashmir’s Cinematic Golden Era
Ask anyone who lived through the rolling years of old Kashmir what stitched our community together, and someone will surely whisper, “the cinema halls.” I hesitated for days before writing this. What words could possibly conjure the feeling of stepping into those shadowed auditoriums, ticket crumpled in palm, heart thumping louder than the projector reels?
Can the laughter and gasps, the aromas wafting in from nearby vendors and the hush during an evening show, truly be brought back?
But some echoes demand listening—so let’s wander back.
My journey with cinema began at the Neelam Cinema, an iconic landmark near my house that still holds a special place in my heart. My first movie experience was a spiritual film called “Shri Krishna Leela.” I was mesmerised by the tales of Lord Krishna’s life and teachings.
What struck me most was the diverse crowd gathered in reverence—women with prayer beads, lips moving in silent prayer as the story unfolded on screen. The film was an instant sensation, its popularity measured by the full house night after night. I imagined all movies would offer such a window to different worlds, stories and cultures.
My perception of cinema changed dramatically one night. I was 14 or 15, curious and naive, when a friend and I sneaked into a film meant for grown-ups. During the interval, the usual chatter was replaced by whispers—a sense that something was gravely amiss outside. Unconcerned, we watched until the credits rolled, only to emerge into an eerily silent city—cloaked in total blackout. We later learned a theatre had been set ablaze, panic rippling through our community.
At home, our absence had set off alarm bells. By the time the delayed show finished, our parents, worried sick about our whereabouts, had begun searching for us. They had made their way to the theatre, their anxiety and fear palpable.
I’ll never forget the relief and anger etched in my brother’s face when he finally found me; his hands landed hard, but more out of love and fear than fury. The scolding and physical reprimand continued when we reached home, where my father was waiting, his anger and worry boiling over. The scolding was borne not just of fury but palpable love.
The incident ended with a promise—not to go alone again, always to bring a senior family member along. The movie was Himmat, and for days, colony elders teased me fondly with “Das Gaye, Das Gaye.”
Returning from the cinema was never simple. On my birthday, which falls on Navreh, after watching “Loafer” with friends, a different kind of celebration awaited me at home. As I approached, I saw neighbours spilling into the street, excitement in the air. Inside, joy radiated—my brother’s marriage to a non-Kashmiri was being celebrated, a rare event at the time. Tea and biscuits set the scene, an evening that blended love, tradition and new beginnings.
Then there were the rustic theatres—Cinemas run by the army and situated within the army bases, like the one near Shergarh police station. These cinemas were a local favourite, offering an affordable way to enjoy movies. The ticket prices were remarkably low, at just 50 paise or one rupee.
However, the seating arrangement was quite different from what I was used to. We had to sit on the floor, which added to the rustic charm of the experience. Despite the basic setup, the cinema was always crowded, with people lining up for about an hour to get tickets. That simplicity and accessibility made these military-run cinemas a beloved gathering place for movie enthusiasts from every walk of life.
Cinemas like Regal and Broadway were the beating heart of our entertainment scene. The vibrant experiences at Regal and Broadway cinemas are unforgettable; I recall watching the iconic “Phool Aur Patthar” movie at Broadway Cinema, where Dharmendra and Meena Kumari’s performances and the famous dialogue “Shanti, tum inhe nahi jante” left a lasting impression on all who attended.
Getting tickets was a test of endurance; hours spent queuing ended with the realisation that most seats vanished into the black market. When advance booking first arrived, heralded with Raj Kapoor’s “Mera Naam Joker”—excitement soared, only for the seats to go empty, the film’s length trying everyone’s patience.
Despite the hurdles, the excitement of watching a new film was unmatched. If we couldn’t get a ticket, we’d press our ears to the theatre gate to catch a glimpse of the movie’s dialogues or songs, sharing the snippets we heard with each other.
Theatres would put up large posters of the film’s stars and even show reels with behind-the-scenes glimpses, adding to the excitement.
One of the most cherished traditions at these cinemas was the interval, or intermission. When the film paused for 15 to 20 minutes, theatres would transform into vibrant hubs, bustling with small shops and local vendors. During this break, audiences revelled in a symphony of snacks: crispy pakoras and roasted peanuts for the vegetarians, and for the non-vegetarians, the iconic lavasa—a special Kashmiri roti— paired with succulent meat pieces known as tuzh, kebabs, and even wraps made with lavasa. The interval became more than a pause; it was a culinary adventure that left lasting memories. It was almost expected that movie-goers would budget for these treats, making the interval a highlight of every outing. These lively stalls and mouthwatering snacks turned each movie visit into a festival of flavours.
Other theatres like Palladium, Khyam, Shiraz, Shah Cinema, Firdous, and Nawaz were also central to Kashmir’s movie-going culture. Films like Suhaag, Scholar, Ek Duje Ke Liye, Shanghai, and Jigri Dost left lasting impressions, while regular visits to Nawaz Cinema became a ritual. The memory of a newspaper seller calling out “Naaz ma aap lag gaye,” though it referred to a movie and not a person, is particularly vivid. In those days, local papers were the sole source to learn about upcoming cinema screenings.
This era of cinema in Kashmir was truly special, an intricate drapery of entertainment, community and affordability that became a cornerstone of our social lives. I’m grateful to have witnessed these golden days firsthand. Those days glimmered with a charm that shaped my childhood, weaving memories I cherish even now. Movies were banned in Kashmir in late 1989, just before our family left. Seeing the photographs of those iconic halls, now crumbling, stirs a quiet sadness. I hope someone will restore them to their former glory.
Looking back, it’s not just the theatres or movies I miss, but the entire mosaic of belonging: street food aromas wafting as we waited for a matinee, gentle teasing from neighbours, even the stinging rebuke when I slipped up. The silver screens may have gone dark, but they left the glimmer of community, of family, of a world that came together—if only for a few hours—to share awe, laughter, and longing.
Palladium Cinema, Srinagar Picture courtesy Noor Mohammad Khan
Satish Sumbly
Satish Sumbly, originally from Habba Kadal, Srinagar, is a retired healthcare professional. Now in retirement, he often visits his daughter in New Zealand, where the serene landscapes and flowing rivers stir memories of his beloved Kashmir. Through writing, Satish revisits the sights, sounds and spirit of a childhood left behind—but never forgotten. His reflections are a heartfelt attempt to preserve the heritage, humanity and home that continue to shape his identity.
2 Comments
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Neena
thanks for sharing the memories of golden era, its really nostalgia
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Sheetal Raina
Thank you for sharing these lovely memories, Mamu. I haven’t seen much of Kashmir’s cinema myself but a couple of moments still stand out. One was when I was barely a toddler and insisted on tagging along with Papa for “36th Chamber of Shaolin” — as expected, it didn’t turn out too well for either of us! The other I remember was again with Papa, when we got to watch either Coolie or Mard, thanks to some courtesy passes. Reading your piece brought all these little fragments rushing back.