But today, the theatre was closing. The final screening was Kireedam (1989), a film about a son who wanted a simple life but was forced into violence by fate. Keshavan found it painfully appropriate.

As the second half began, Keshavan felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned. A young woman in a nurse’s uniform stood there. "I’m sorry," she whispered. "This was my grandmother’s seat. She told me to sit here one last time."

Keshavan moved over. She sat. And without a word, she offered him a piece of achappam (rose cookie) from a paper packet. He took it. On screen, the protagonist’s father—played by the late Thilakan—delivered a monologue about shame and love. The nurse began to cry. Keshavan did not offer her a handkerchief. In Kerala, you let tears fall. It is a sign of sauhridam (deep friendship with sorrow).

Aravind laughed. "But swimming pools are also real."

"I will go home," he said. "And I will tell my grandson that once, films were not content. They were samooham (community). You didn’t watch a film. You lived inside it for three hours."