In front of them, a woman stood with her hands on a little girl’s shoulders. “Give Auntie a kiss,” she said, pushing the girl toward a woman in a bright yellow top, but the girl turned her face into her mother’s legs. “Arre,” the woman said; “suddenly she’s shy. Come.” The line moved forward, and Josie held tightly to Devesh. He paid for the tickets, and they followed the line into the packed theater.

“There are so many people,” she said.

“They only play Hindi movies twice a month. Some enterprising family probably rents the theater. See that man selling Samosas?” he asked, pointing at an old man walking the aisles. “He’s probably the grandfather. Do you want one?”

She shrugged, but he had already waved the man over. “Two,” he said, and the man handed him two fried pastries. “How much?” Devesh asked and handed Josie the Samosas.

“Two dollars,” the old man said.

Devesh paid, and they found seats near the back.

“Eat,” Devesh said.

It was hot and spicy and greasy, and Josie ate it quickly.

“Good?” Devesh asked.

Josie nodded and wiped her fingers on her jeans. He smiled and put his arm around her shoulders.

“I’m the only white girl here,” she whispered.

“The box office girl was white,” he said, and kissed her cheek. “You could pass for a Parsi girl. Maybe.” He looked at her and laughed. “Maybe not.”

He smiled and squeezed her to him, and Josie realized she had never seen him so boyish. She could imagine him young, kicking his heels against the back of the seat, throwing greasy Samosa wrappers at his buddies.

The lights dimmed, and the theater was filled with heavy drums and the tinny sound of a sitar. The camera panned over a large city, spiraling closer and closer until the title appeared.

“Aren’t there any previews?” she asked.

“The movie’s already over three hours, baba.”

“Three hours?”

“There’s an intermission.”

She sat and watched the city appear: huge apartment buildings, windows lined with laundry; shops with names like Shiva Electronics and Sri Ganesh Cycles; streets crammed with black and yellow cabs, buses, and motorcycles; tea vendors; men on street corners; packs of uniformed schoolchildren.

“This is Bombay,” Devesh whispered.

The camera wound through the busy streets until it stopped at a tiny house. A young man stood in the doorway. “Rajeev,” he yelled.

“Who’s that?” Josie asked.

“The hero,” Devesh said. “He lives with his widowed mother and his younger brothers and sister. But you have to watch.”

“You’ve seen it?”

“Yes, yes, but sh. Watch.”