Beena blushed. That was the fist time anyone had paid her a compliment, and it was Madan, the Madan. ‘Oh Bhraji, I am no good. I couldn’t see the cricket ball coming towards me at that speed.’

‘Yes, you could. With those eyes of yours you could hit anything for six,’ said Madan, bending close to her to avoid the manager or his sister overhearing.

‘Hai Bhraji, you are really terrible. Making fun of a girl like me!’

The conversation was interrupted by the bearers coming to collect empty glasses and plates. The manager was still rinsing his hands with invisible soap. He took his leave promising to appear again at the end of the show.

As soon as the lights went out, Madan put his hand on the arm of Beena’s chair. This time she knew it was not an accident. She could hardly believe that anyone, let alone Madan, would want to make a pass at a plain and simple girl like her. It was unbelievably flattering. But he was married and it was obviously wrong. Beena had no doubt about Madan’s intentions as his fingers closed round her elbow. Would he get angry if she withdrew? What would Sita say if she saw? Madan began to caress her arm. Beena did not move. Then his hand brushed against her breast. She shrank away into the farther corner of her chair. Madan calmly lit another cigarette and took no further notice of her.

When they came out of the cinema, the road as far as one could see was a jostling mass of peasants, tongas, bicycles, and hawkers. Around the ticket booths men were clustered like bees on a hive. Streams of weary, blinking people came out from the many exits; newcomers stood around impatiently for their turn to go in.

A tonga was waiting for them in the porch and a cinema attendant had Madan’s bicycle ready. The manager was there bowing, smiling, and still rubbing his hands. He bade them farewell after many reminders that they were to consider the cinema as their own. They went through the crowd with the tonga-driver shouting at the pedestrians loitering on the road. Madan cycled slowly behind. Whenever the tonga stopped, he put his foot on the ground and then cycled on with a slight push. Throughout the journey he did not talk to or even look up at Beena.

Beena was dropped home first. She said a hurried ‘Namaste’ and disappeared inside the house. Fortunately for her only Champak was in and she seemed too taken up with the radio programme to bother. Beena went to her room and bolted it from the inside. She flung herself on her bed and lay there in the heat. When it got dark she switched on her table lamp and continued lying on her bed staring blankly at the ceiling.

There is no wine in the world as heady as applause; and it has the same effect. It temporarily subdues anxiety and restores confidence.