Nasir Shaikh, the sleeves of his suede jacket rolled up, used his phone camera as a pocket mirror to touch up his hair. Then he stepped onto the red carpet (it was blue, actually) and stood beneath banners dedicated to filmmaking giants like Chaplin, Scorsese and Spielberg.

His own movies, exuberant do-it-yourself productions made with a simple camcorder and a ragtag cast, were about as far from big-budget blockbusters as could be. Yet here he was in Mumbai, the home of Bollywood, celebrated as a cinematic dreamer, attending the opening of a film based on his life.

He put one foot forward, tucked a thumb into his jeans pocket and smiled for the cameras.

“Here, sir, here!” the photographers shouted. “Nasir, sir! Nasir, sir!”

Three decades ago, Mr. Shaikh was an attendant in his family’s “video parlor,” as the dingy little halls that showed pirated and unlicensed movies were called. He had an idea: Why couldn’t Malegaon, his small city of textile mills less than 200 miles from Mumbai, have a film industry of its own?

His formula for “Mollywood” was shoestring ingenious. He and his friends would recreate popular movies but change them enough to avoid copyright troubles. Since there was already so much sadness in his blighted city, every film would be a comedy. Loom workers and restaurant waiters would play heroes and villains in plots that felt close to home, speaking the dialogue of their own streets.