“What are these?”

Sethulakshmi leans close to her father. “Appa, what happens to the girl in the story?”

By Friday, the questions start. “Raman Nair’s daughter? The ticket counter girl? Acting in a film?” The aunties at the temple speak in hushed tones. The uncles at the tea shop smirk. “Cinema,” they say, shaking their heads. “That way leads to ruin.”

“You were right, Appa. The screen is dangerous.”

Chuk-chuk.

“You will not. In Kerala, a girl’s face on a screen is not art. It is a question mark that follows her forever. ‘Who is she?’ ‘What did she do before?’ ‘Why is she here?’ You don’t understand. You are from the city.”

Raman knows him. Mohan. Came to Thrissur six months ago, claiming to be an assistant to someone who assisted Bharathan. Now he sleeps on a friend’s verandah and writes dialogues for a living—not real dialogues, but the kind heroes shout before a fight. Raman has seen him at the tea shop, arguing about lens flares and aspect ratios.