One evening a film crew turned up in the lane, professional lights stabbing into the dusk. They were shooting a commercial and had permission to block the street. The director, a booming woman with sunglasses despite the hour, scouted for extras. Ravi thought of the lane’s characters—how the boy’s pirouettes would look on a big screen, how Mrs. Jha’s hands would translate when magnified. Meera stared at the set, her notebook open like a map.
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