Inside, the air smelled of stale soda and beedi smoke. The projector whirred to life, and the screen filled with oversaturated colors. The plot was always a thin veil—usually a tale of a woman wronged by a corrupt landlord—but the audience didn't care about the narrative arc. They were there for the "intermission clips," the grainy, soft-core sequences spliced in by distributors to ensure a packed house.
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