Madan took his seat between the two girls. He lit a cigarette and the box was soon full of cigarette smoke and the smell of eau de cologne with which he had daubed himself.

The lights were switched off and the cries of hawkers of betel-leaves, sweetmeats, and sherbets, and the roar of hundreds of voices died down. First came a series of coloured slides advertising soaps, hair oils, and films that were to follow. The literate members of the audience read their names loudly in chorus. Then the picture started and the few recalcitrant talkers were silenced by abuses loudly hurled across the hall.

Madan stubbed his cigarette on the floor and lit another one. In the light of the flame he saw his sister completely absorbed in the film. He held his cigarette in his left hand and put his right lightly on the arm of Beena’s chair.

Beena’s mind was still uneasy about the consequences of the escapade. She tried to drive away unpleasant thoughts by concentrating on the film and enjoying the feeling of being with Sita and her brother. He looked so dashingly handsome in his silk shirt, flannels, and sports blazer; he smoked with such compelling nonchalance and exuded that heavenly, cool, and clean fragrance of good eau de cologne.

Madan’s hand slipped down the arm of the chair and came in contact with Beena’s elbow. For a moment she held her breath. He seemed to be engrossed in the film and could not have realized how far his hand had travelled. She did not remove her elbow lest the gesture offend him. It was pleasant to have him so close. His hand stayed where it was till the lights came on for the intermission. He casually smoothed his hair and began discussing the film with his sister.

The manager reappeared followed by a relay of bearers carrying trays of soda pop, ice-cream, and fried potatoes. He started talking to Sita. Madan turned to Beena. ‘You know, your brother and I have become great friends. For so many years we have been in the same University and it is only now we have got to know each other. He is the most popular man in the students’ circles.’

‘More popular than you, Bhraji? I don’t believe it. We have all seen you play cricket; so has everyone in the world, my God!’

‘Cricket is nothing,’ said Madan with disdain. ‘Our brother, Sher, will go far. He is almost certain to be elected President of the Students’ Union. He is the best candidate and I am getting all my friends to vote for him.’

‘Your name alone should win him the election. Everyone in the city knows you. We were at the match when you scored your century against the English eleven. I . . . everyone . . . was so proud of you. Sixer after sixer. Oh, it was wonderful.’

‘It is nothing. You could be a good cricketer if you tried. You have an athletic figure.’