Sundaram knew two things for certain: the monsoon would soak his lungs, and the only cure was the flicker of 35mm film.

But the old men understood. That crackle was the rain of 1987. It was the sound of their youth.

"HD," he would mutter, polishing the glass of his preview window. "High Definition. They think sharpness is emotion."

He clicked the lamp back on.

The film jumped. The sound stuttered. Then— click —the image locked. Velu Naicker raised his gun. The audience clapped like they were in a temple.