KRISHNA calls the shots at a Mumbai theatre. The 31-year-old, abandoned by her husband and two kids, fixes the rates of tickets to be sold in black, knows the trade inside out and, while friendly with the cops, keeps a low profile. On a good day, Krishna, who’s been in the business for 10 years, is at the theatre for all four shows; when things are slack, she moonlights as a maid at homes in the area. And she was the one who coached me on the basics as film goers started coming in for the ‘first day, first show’ of Veer-Zaara. ‘‘Don’t worry about the hawaldars. They don’t mind as long as we give them their share—50 per cent,’’ she said. ‘‘You’ve got to know people at the booking office to get tickets in bulk. And when a movie is not doing well, they themselves offer the tickets to us,’’ said Krishna, as she was joined by two others of her tribe. Does Bonu, a scraggly rockstar with torn jeans and an unwashed shirt, do this for a living? ‘‘Timepass ke liye. College jata hai, par college ka naam nahi likhne ka, haan!’’ ‘‘We alternate between theatres in the neighbourhood, so that the cops don’t get used to seeing us,’’ added Ejaz, another pro, whose mom, a black marketeering legend, put him on the job early in life. Krishna, meanwhile, was nudged me towards a young couple on a bike. “Bol, sau ka do sau mein,’’ she whispered. ‘‘Er, I have two tickets, stalls, for 200 bucks, would you take them?’’ I asked, sounding ridiculously coy for a ragamuffin ticket-seller. ‘‘We have tickets,’’ the girl snapped. No luck, I thought, and headed back to Krishna who had been watching me make my debut. Seeing me brandish the tickets, a gang of six boys, in floppy Tere Naam style hair cuts, hovered around me. ‘‘Sau ka do sau, stall,’’ I said, with the air of a veteran. ‘‘Kitna ticket hai,’’ whispered the one nearest to me. ‘‘Chhe,’’ I gulped. Then I got a line. Like a serious line. ‘‘Aap to hamare liye hi bheji gayi hai,’’ said Neeraj, about 16 and already a ‘hero’. Money and tickets changed hands, as I swung between giving Neeraj a piece of my mind and laughing hysterically. Deed done, I turned around happily. And my nose was level with an amused hawaldar. For the past hour, he had been chewing Lucky paan masala and watching me chat with Bonu, Krishna and Shankar, her 17-year-old son (he was just back from a recce of another theatre and was delivering the ground report). ‘‘Kya kar raha hai tum?,’’ he asked. ‘‘Kuch nahi, extra ticket tha, de diya,’’ I said, not daring to smile my way out of the sticky situation. Thankfully, he sauntered off. ‘‘Arre, darne ka kya? Sab chalta hai, police log kuch nahi bolta hai. Usko bhi to uska timepass paisa chahiye na,’’ Krishna chuckled. ‘‘Chhe sau mila na, bas!,’’ she beamed. Even I felt strangely proud. As I was leaving, Shankar called out, ‘‘Roj, roj nahi karna, gharwale kya kahenge.’’
