The crowd was silent as the first rocket streaked up on the screen. A boy in the front row, no older than seven, had never seen real fireworks. He’d only heard stories. When the screen filled with a cascade of silver willow branches, the boy gasped. Then he cried. Silent tears that reflected the ghost-light of a Tokyo display from 2019.

He called it .

Every Thursday, Arjun took his portable drive to the hollowed-out shell of an old cinema hall in Dharavi. Sixty people would sit in the dark, on torn velvet seats. He’d plug the drive into a salvaged projector.