DECAY

 As his solitary figure crossed the field towards the twinkling beacons of the movie hall, Ambika Prasad felt far from home and a stranger to his life. He wanted to hum a song that matched his ardour. None came to mind. His heart was heavy with the weight of the unknown. His abdomen felt numb. Probably from the shock, he thought.

At the ticket counter, he asked for the expensive balcony seats. A boy of about twenty was selling tickets. He had thick curly hair, and wore ear studs that matched his fluorescent green shirt.

"What did you do Grandpa, to get thrown out of bed on a cold night?"

He lowered his voice when he did not get an answer.

"This is not that kind of Hollywood, you get it? This is action, guns and bombs. Dishoom-dishoom. Lots of guns, rat-atat-a-tat. Some tight leather skirts is all you will get."  

An invasion seemed underway inside the hall. Hordes of boys who looked like replicas of the boy at the counter. A few stood on the chairs at the front row, hooting and cheering at the advertisements that had started to roll. The rest ran up and down the aisle, flapping their arms as if about to take flight.

On the overhanging balcony space, Ambika Prasad sat in the near-darkness among a sea of empty red chairs. A man, presumably a drunk, was curled up in one of the corner seats, either asleep or dead. Ambika Prasad felt sleepy and dispirited. The pain was back, nibbling away at his stomach. The janitors had begun cleaning the bathroom stalls, and the biting stench of cheap disinfectant and stale urine singed his nostrils.

He had expected the boys to quieten down once the movie started. He was wrong. The irregular shouts turned into a unified roar of approval, punctuated by loud clapping, along with whistling at the glimpse of any female character. 

By the time Ambika Prasad decided to go home, most of them had their pants gathered at their ankles.