Readers Write In #837: When Cinema Was an Experience: An Ode to Single-Screen Cinema Halls

By Pranav Jain

Pranav Jain is an incoming civil servant and also a columnist.

There was a time when you didn’t just ‘catch’ a movie. You made a plan, you dressed for it, and you discussed it days in advance. And when the day arrived, the destination mattered almost as much as the film. In the late 90s and early 2000s, Delhi glittered with single-screen cinemas like Delite, Sheila, Golcha, Satyam, Regal, Plaza, and Chanakya.

Every theatre had a personality of its own. Delite was the preening peacock with its red carpets, gilt railings, wooden interiors, chandeliers that looked like they belonged in the Rashtrapati Bhavan, ushers in crisp uniforms, and its famous giant samosas. Sheila carried modernist pride, being one of the few cinema halls in Delhi to show the English, non-dubbed version of the latest James Bond. Golcha was unfussy and a place where you could watch the best films cheaply and without the frills. Regal and Plaza, straddling Connaught Place, were grande dames of the Lutyens’ era, their white colonnades whispering old-world grace. Chanakya was the cosmopolitan star, where Bollywood blockbusters sat comfortably next to international releases and festival films.

Going to a single-screen theatre was never just about getting from home to your seat, like it is nowadays. It was a proper, multi-faceted experience. You queued for tickets at the windows of the box-office, which were covered in metal grilles. Jostled with college kids and families. And were seduced by the black-ticket guys murmuring “teen sau ka ek” for a sold-out show.

But it was the release of a much-anticipated film that turned these theatres into temples. When Kaho Naa Pyaar Hai premiered, I distinctly remember that the crowd at Delite was electric. Teenage girls were clutching handwritten ‘We Love You Hrithik’ signs, boys were trying to copy his dance style from ‘ek pal ka jeena’, and families were queuing up to watch a story of double roles, romance, betrayal, and suspense. Similarly, during Lagaan at Chanakya, the crowd chanted feverishly during the match sequences as though a real match was going on. In Kuch Kuch Hota Hai, laughter bubbled through the hall during every Rahul-Anjali banter, and people gasped audibly when Salman Khan made a dashing cameo in the ‘saajan ji ghar aaye’. And when Dil To Pagal Hai released, Plaza’s audience spilled onto the Connaught Place circle after the show, humming ‘are re are yeh kya hua’.

Stepping into a single-screen theatre was like crossing into another world. The air was cool and heavy with the smell of old-fabric seats and the screen was framed by curtains, real curtains, which drew back with ceremonial slowness as the lights dimmed. The seats were broad and creaked softly when you leaned back. Above you and to the side, a ceiling fan’s lazy spin mixed with the hum of the projector.

And then there was the balcony, which is missing from today’s multiplexes. The balcony was a world apart – a conscious class marker, if there were any. From up there, you would watch whistles ripple through the stalls during a hero’s entry, or see a collective lean forward when the villain’s shadow loomed large. You could tell when a song had landed as shoulders swayed and heads bobbed. The balcony was prime territory for young couples stealing glances in the flicker of light and for families treating themselves on a festival weekend. The seats were a shade plusher, but what you were really buying was elevation – literal and social.

Before the film, there would be trailers, sometimes months ahead of a release, that would draw as many whistles as the main feature. And when the word INTERVAL bloomed on the screen, the hall would come alive. People rushed to the snack counters for patties or the beloved Kwality ice cream brick; couples lingered at the side of the foyer; friends re-enacted their favourite scene so far; and children darted between legs clutching Fanta bottles.

The streets around each theatre were part of the experience. Outside Regal, Connaught Place bustled with hawkers selling chaat and selling cassette tapes of the latest blockbuster soundtrack. While at Chanakya, the Diplomatic Enclave’s clean avenues matched the anticipation of young, upwardly mobile people who made a beeline for Yashwant Place’s momo stalls. And a Plaza outing meant a burger at Wimpy’s followed by ice-cream at Nirula’s.

By the mid-2000s, though, the script was changing. Multiplexes arrived with multiple shows, varied timings, ease of booking, and stadium-style seating. Air-conditioned malls offered food courts and shopping alongside the movie. Rising property taxes and entertainment levies squeezed single-screen margins, and the economics no longer made sense for such vast halls. Audiences, too, shifted. People wanted convenience, the ability to book online, choose seats, and watch a film without the unpredictability of a roaring crowd. Single screens, with fixed schedules and cavernous halls, found it harder to fill seats except for the biggest blockbusters.

Yet these single-screen theatres live on. In the mind’s eye, you can still see the ticket queue curling around Plaza’s colonnade and still taste the jhaag waali coffee at Delite. And to remember them is to document and celebrate a chapter of cinema-going that was both grand and intimate.