‘Like what?’ asked Faleiro, dipping a Taj Mahal teabag in hot water. Goel shone light from a steel torch while Faleiro squeezed lemon into the cups: ‘Let’s go and watch a really silly Bollywood film.’

To Goel’s relief, Faleiro seemed to like the idea. ‘Excellent, let’s do it,’ he said, as if he had been waiting for Goel to make this suggestion, ‘I haven’t been to one in ages.’

Prabhat was one of the oldest cinema halls in town. It had stained glass windows depicting scenes from popular Bollywood films: Shah Rukh and Madhuri and Karisma in Dil To Pagal Hai, Amitabh gritting his teeth in Zanjeer. Goel bought popcorn and coffee. The hall was more or less empty. The plot of the film involved a female pop star and a psychopathic stalker. The pop star theme meant plenty of songs. In the posters, the film had been advertised as a musical thriller.

The cushioning in the seats was loose and uneven, so you could end up with one buttock on a higher plane than the other. The once-flexible backrests had been fixed into rigidity by years of use and abuse. When Faleiro moved his feet, they hit something under the chair. There was a clattering sound and he felt his sandals getting wet and sticky. A bottle of Fanta rolled out, the liquid still oozing from its narrow mouth. He stood up muttering and excused himself to go to the washroom. When he returned, Goel suggested they move further down the row. Faleiro agreed.

On the big screen, Urmila Matondkar danced with spectacular primal energy. She jerked and shuddered, winked and smiled, then pouted at rows and rows of empty seats. Goel checked his luminous dial for the time. They were halfway through the film. The first part had been a series of extravagant disco songs. Another fifteen minutes remained to the interval.

Goel was sitting to the left of Faleiro. Big ceiling fans jutted at right angles from the wall, tirelessly circulating the clammy air. Goel was a big man and felt constricted in the cinema hall seat. He decided to take a break and go to the washroom. He peed and washed his hands in tap water, avoiding the sliver of green soap lying on the side of the basin. The humidity in the hall had made him sticky. He splashed water on his face. He pulled out an oversized handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed his cheeks and forehead with it. He looked at himself in the mirror. His face had a natural grimace which women often found sexy. Although in his early fifties, he had the hair of a young man—luxuriant, unruly and jet-black in colour.