Priya is taking a bath. We hear the sound of running water and Priya humming a tune, and then we see her in the bath. She applies soap to her legs and back. She raises a leg covered in bubbles and uses the shower-head to wash it clean. We hope she will also use it on her ample chest and make all the bubbles disappear, but she disappoints us.
Finally, she emerges from the bath with just a pink towel around her body. Her jet-black hair hangs loose behind her shoulders, glistening with moisture. Her long legs are smooth and hairless. Armaan takes her in his arms and smothers her face with kisses. His lips move down to the hollow of her neck. Soft romantic music begins to play. Priya undoes the buttons on his shirt and Armaan slips out of it languidly, exposing his manly chest. The glow of the fire envelops the two lovers in a golden tint. Priya makes soft moaning noises. She arches her back and allows Armaan to caress her throat. His hand snakes to her back and tugs at her towel. The pink fabric loosens and falls at her feet. There is a tantalizing glimpse of thigh and back, but no shot of breasts. Salim believes this is where the censors inserted a cut. And why he envies Mrs Kane.
Armaan has now locked Priya in his embrace. We are shown the swell of her breasts, her heavy breathing, the perspiration forming on her forehead. There are catcalls and whistles from the stalls. The old man sitting next to Salim shifts uncomfortably in his seat, crossing his legs. I am not sure, but I think his hand is massaging his crotch.
'The oldie next to you is getting frisky,' I whisper to Salim. But he is oblivious to the old man and me. He is gaping at the intertwined bodies thrusting in synchronized rhythm to the music in the background. The camera pans over Armaan's heaving back and zooms in on the fireplace, where golden-yellow flames are licking the logs with increasing abandon. Fade to black.
* * *
There is a fire of similar proportions in our kitchen when I enter the chawl, but instead of logs, Salim is using paper. 'Bastards! . . . Dogs!' he mutters while tearing a thick sheaf of glossy paper into pieces.
'What are you doing, Salim?' I ask in alarm.
'I am taking revenge on the bastards who have maligned Armaan,' he says as he tosses more sheets of paper on to the pyre.
I notice that Salim is tearing pages from a magazine.
'Which magazine is this? It looks new.'
'It is the latest issue of Starburst. I will destroy as many copies as I can lay my hands on. I could only buy ten from the news-stand.'
I grab a copy that has not yet been mangled. It has Armaan Ali on the cover, with a screaming headline:
'THE NAKED TRUTH ABOUT THIS MAN'.
'But it has your idol on the cover. Why are you destroying it?' I cry.
'Because of what they say inside about Armaan.'
'But you can't read.'
'I read enough and I can hear. I overheard Mrs Barve and Mrs Shirke discussing the scurrilous accusations made against Armaan in this issue.'
'Like what?'
'That Urvashi left him because he could not satisfy her. That he is gay.'
'So?'
'You think they can abuse my hero in this fashion and get away with it? I know this report is a load of nonsense. Armaan's rivals in the industry are jealous of his success. They have hatched this plot to destroy his reputation. I will not allow them to succeed. I will go to the Starburst office and set fire to it.'
Salim's anger is white hot. ,And I know why. He hates gays. To tarnish his idol with the brush of homosexuality is the ultimate insult in his book.
I, too, know of perverts and what they do to unsuspecting boys. In dark halls. In public toilets. In municipal gardens. In juvenile homes.
Luckily, Starburst retract their allegation in the next issue. And save a dabbawallah from becoming an arsonist.
* * *
Meanwhile, things are hotting up off screen, in seat A20. The old man slides closer to Salim. His leg casually brushes against Salim's. The first time, Salim thinks it is his own fault. The second time, he thinks it is an accident. The third time, he is convinced it is deliberate.
'Mohammad,' he whispers to me, 'I am going to give a tight kick to the bastard sitting next to me if he doesn't stop his wandering leg.'
'Look how old he is, Salim. It's probably just tremors in his leg,' I counsel.
The fight sequence has started and Salim is busy watching the action. Armaan has entered the villain's den and all hell is breaking loose. The hero uses all manner of feints and tackles – boxing, karate, kung fu – to give his opponents a licking.
The old man's hands are also getting into action. He presses his elbow against the common armrest and lets his arm slide next to Salim's, touching it ever so lightly. Salim hardly notices this. He is engrossed in the film, which is reaching its climax.
The most famous scene of the movie is about to happen. The one in which Armaan Ali dies after killing all the bad guys. His vest is soaked in blood. There are bullet wounds all over his body.
His trousers are coated with dust and grime. He drags himself along the ground towards his mother, who has just arrived on the scene.
Salim is in tears. He leans forward and says poignantly, 'Mother, I hope I have been a good son.
Don't cry for me. Remember, dying an honourable death is better than living a coward's life.'
Armaan's head is in his mother's lap. He is mimicking Salim: 'Mother, I hope I have been a good son. Don't cry for me. Remember, dying an honourable death is better than living a coward's life.'
The mother is crying too as she cradles his bleeding head in her lap. Tears fall from her eyes on Armaan Ali's face. He grips her hand. His chest convulses.
Tears fall into my lap. I see another mother who kisses her baby many times on his forehead before placing him in a clothes bin, rearranging the clothes around him. In the background the wind howls. Sirens sound. The police have arrived, as usual, too late. After the hero has done all the work for them. They cannot do anything for him now.
I see that the bearded man's left hand has moved on. It is now placed in Salim's lap and rests there gently. Salim is so engrossed in the death scene he does not register it. The old man is emboldened. He rubs his palm against Salim's jeans.
As Armaan takes his last few breaths, the man increases his pressure on Salim's crotch, till he is almost gripping it.
Salim erupts. 'You bloody motherfucker! You filthy pervert! I am going to kill you!' he screams and slaps the man's face. Hard.
The man hastily removes his hand from Salim's lap and tries to get up from his seat. But before he can lift himself completely, Salim makes a grab for him. He fails to catch the man's collar, but gets hold of his beard. As Salim tugs, it comes off in his hand. The man leaps out of his seat with a strangled cry and dashes towards the exit, which is hardly twenty feet away.
At that very instant the electrical power in the theatre fails and the generator kicks in. The screen goes blank and the dark hall is dazzled as the emergency lights flick on. The man is caught unawares, like a deer in a car's headlamps. He whirls around, unsure of himself.
Just as suddenly, the power comes back. It was only a momentary interruption. The film resumes on the screen, the emergency lights are extinguished. The man rushes past the black curtains to the red EXIT sign, slams open the door and disappears.
But in that split second Salim and I have seen a flash of hazel-green eyes. A chiselled nose. A cleft chin.
As the credits begin to roll over the screen, Salim is left holding in his hand a mass of tangled grey hair smelling vaguely of cologne and spirit gum. This time he does not see the name of the publicity designer and the PRO, the light men and the spot boys, the fight director and the cameraman. He is weeping.
Armaan Ali, his hero, has died.
* * *
Smita is staring at me with sceptical eyes. 'When exactly did this incident happen?'