‘It’s not as bad as that,’ answered Beena laughing. ‘If I had asked first, it would have been better.’ Before she could check herself in her imaginary flight to freedom she heard herself say: ‘Of course I’ll go with you but we must work first.’

During the time that Beena went over her notes and textbooks in Sita’s room she was bothered by what she would say when she got back. If she said nothing and her parents found out it would take many months to re-establish her credit. Perhaps she could mention it casually as something she had been compelled to do. She was seventeen and wasn’t going to be bullied by her illiterate mother any more. Pictures could be instructive; maybe this one would have a religious theme and she could persuade her mother to see it too. By the time they left the house, her mind was a muddle of fear and rebellion.

A tonga was sent for the two girls. They took their seats in the rear while Madan rode on his bicycle behind them. He wore a new silk shirt with short sleeves and carried his white flannel blazer on his shoulder; the gold crest and rows of initials glittered in the sun. He kept up a loud conversation with the girls, in between nodding and waving to the many acquaintances he met on the road.

The cinema was crowded. Peasants who had turned up for the Baisakhi festival from neighboring villages were mulling round the cheaper ticket-booths and around the stalls selling soft drinks. The tonga made its way through the crowd and drove up to the porch. Two cinema assistants rushed to take Madan’s bicycle. He was a regular visitor and had admirers all over the city. Besides, he was the son of a magistrate; and magistrates, policemen, their friends and families, had privileges which go with power.

The manager of the cinema came out to welcome them and show them to their seats. Madan took out his wallet and pulled out a ten rupee note. The manager caught his hand and pressed the note and wallet back into Madan’s pocket. ‘No question of money,’ he protested. ‘It’s on the house.’ Madan whispered in his ear that the other girl was Buta Singh’s daughter. The manager turned to Beena with an obsequious smile. ‘How is your revered father?’ he asked, rubbing his hands. Beena replied politely that he was well. ‘So glad to hear it. We pray to God he should always remain well. Do convey my respects to him. And any time any of your family want to come to the cinema, please ring me up. It will be an honour for us—a great honour.’ Beena promised to convey the information to her father.

The party was conducted to a box reserved for V.I.P.s and pressed to take something to eat or drink. The manager withdrew after extracting a promise that his hospitality would be accepted during the intermission.