Murthy’s shadow loomed on the white sheet that stretched pole to pole at the little ‘hall’ with tin sheets for a roof.
A little better than an oven when the weather was pleasant and a lot worse than a sieve on rainy days, its only claim to grandeur was a statue of a rather pompous looking bird that had seen better days.
A fire caused an uneasy calm.
It was painstakingly restored when the demand for movies became greater especially when times changed from bad to worse.
The booming from the inside, invited the passers-by in once again. Anything to escape the direct scorching heat of the midday sun. Anything to escape.
It was like an oven inside, though fans whirred sleepily when the power was there. Power cuts saw the generator operate just the projector, improving the air immensely with Kerosene fumes.
Months morphed into years. Murthy’s routine never faltered.
A sloshed brother made a half-hearted attempt to follow the enigmatic Murthy one evening and passed out effortlessly.
Nobody knew what he looked like, where he came from and where he went.
Only the haughty eagle knew, but wouldn’t say a word.
Damn! A passing crow.
Thank you Al, for hosting Sunday Photo Fiction