Raghav was not certain whether he was being flattered or baited. Still, curiosity, like an itch, had always been his livewire. He agreed, and together they arranged a clandestine screening: the old projector, the yard, the string-lights, and a black sheet that swallowed the night. Word leaked in the manner that old films used to: by someone humming a refrain too loudly. That night, Navrangpur came wrapped in its old garb, anxious and eager, carrying plates of steaming snacks and the careful etiquette of shared silence.
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