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stroke, that her eyes seem to float white and free. He is still amazed, amazed to be walking with this exquisite creature next to him, this woman with the stainless-steel gadget held so tightly against her sequined bosom. He still cannot believe that she has agreed to be with him today.
    “Guddi ke baal!” Padmini points. The cotton candy does look like pink doll’s hair, it appears from nowhere, spinning itself into a giant pink puff around the stick waved around inside the bowl of the machine.
    “Would you like some?” Vishnu asks, and Padmini nods shyly. Vishnu buys it for her, and they continue.
    “Look at that! What a motor!” They are passing a photographer’s stall, lined with all sorts of painted backdrops. There is a horse, standing up on two legs, perilously close to the edge of a cliff; an aeroplane with painted-on wings, obviously airborne, as evidenced by the clouds behind; even a crescent moon surrounded by stars, a rocket spaceship about to land on the surface. But Padmini is pointing at the bright red car painted on a wooden cutout, with yellow headlights, and a plate lettered in English, which the man reads out: “Good luck. Made in USA.” She runs to the seat hidden behind and leans out of the window. “How do I look?” she says, as she presses on the painted-on horn.
    “Only three rupees for a picture,” the man says, so Vishnu pays him. He begins to sit in the seat next to her, but she stiffens. “No, just me,” she says, “just me, or just you, but not both.”
    She begins to rise, but Vishnu stops her and gets up instead. There is a flash as the photo is taken.
    They have an hour before the picture will be developed. They come to a canvas tent outside which a man stands. “Come see the film!” he shouts. “Cabaret dance by Reshma! Very hot! Up next, five minutes!”
    “Let’s go!” Vishnu says. “I love seeing the films here.”
    Padmini is unsure, but allows herself to be led through the tent flap. Inside, wooden benches face a sloping white sheet that has been sewn to the tent. A naked bulb swelters at the end of a wire. The heat has built up with every show, the air is now thick with the smell of perspiration and warm canvas. Vishnu and Padmini join the audience, which waits listlessly in the heat, scattered around the benches like victims of a carnage.
    “I’m not used to this,” Padmini says. “Usually I get taken out to proper cinemas. Taj, sometimes even Novelty.” She shifts around, displaying obvious discomfort on her wooden seat. “And mai, it’s so hot!” She tries fanning herself with the carrot cutter.
    “It’s going to start in a second,” Vishnu says. Outside, the ticket seller is making a last all-out attempt to attract customers. “See Reshma’s body sizzle like a pataka in the most passionate and revealing dance of her career! See her bare all, her youth, her beauty, her all!”
    The light finally goes off, and Reshma appears on the screen, her head unnaturally elongated. She pouts and prances, and boasts that her body is so intoxicating she could even make the priest in the temple worship at her feet if she wanted. Although the promised revealing of her youth does not materialize, the audience is quite satisfied, and there are whistles and catcalls at the screen.
    “That fat cow!” Padmini snorts after they have exited. “All she ever does is wriggle that big stomach of hers! Why did you take me to see her?”
    “Because you dance so much better than her,” Vishnu says quickly. “You should be the one up there.”
    “You really think so?” Padmini wants to hear more. “But she has bigger breasts than I do.”
    “Yes, but your face. There’s no comparison.” Padmini is pleased at this.
    It is late by the time they get back to the street where she lives. There is music and light everywhere, young girls and women beckon from windows, from doors, from balconies.
    “Can I come?” he asks.
    “Depends,” she answers, rubbing her thumb and