Technicolor, Dolby sound

In the chilly theater,Maya suppressed a knowing grin and drew her shawl closer, glancing at the row of college students seated right behind her. Fumbling, fidgeting, holding hands. Giggles and comments at star antics, a derisive hoot as the hero hurtled through a first-floor window to a shower of glass, entirely unhurt. A young college crowd not very different from the one on the screen- battle, overturn the political system, deliver vigilante justice in two hours and some. Fast paced, lovely colors. “Entirely kitsch, Maya admitted as she moved her wrist higher on the armrest, marking territory, edging closer to the wall on her right. A close shot of a red tram filled the screen, the pensive heroine seated by a window after a lovers’ tiff. The tram turned a corner, cut to a slow pan of the Victoria Memorial. Edifice in white marble, soaring fluted columns, white dome, cornices and statues of angels and gargoyles. Edifice in white marble, set in vast rolling lawns to channeled streams and a lake, a monument to British imperial might, Hail Regina! A cloud of pigeons wheeled into the sunshine, fluttering gray against quiet white.

Regal white set picture pretty against jade. Dazzling. Slightly yellow-tinted white, yet so solidly comforting. A seven-year old runs across freshly mown grass. Now I’m an aeroplane, watch me wheel, watch me dive as I zigzag this jade expanse. London bridge is falling down, husha husha, my fair lady. Shankar! Get the car around, NOW! Ayah! A glass of water! Comb my hair! Can’t you see- are you deaf or something?! School’s on! No! The white uniform with the red belt and red ribbons, white socks. Not the blue PT dress, silly! Music on Wednesday, art on Fridays, that’s the art bag, you never keep anything properly, do you? Bag flung, stomping feet. Lush green, dairy milk chocolate, the candy called witches’ hair and space to race on Sundays. In an empty home peopled with servants, sunlight filters past vast rooms. A child’s room, “my dump room”, she derisively calls it, toys books colors, higgledy-piggeldy and all over, wanting for someone to admonish. Voices from the past, can voices be sepia?

“ I’m not going back. Ever”, the heroine haltingly says to herself.
“Nor am I”, Maya admitted, arms crossed as she huddled deeper in her seat.

(394 words , for sub)