My granddaughter was reading from her school book about 'laïcité'—the French word, not ours. I told her, here in Kerala, we have our own version: when the mosque loudspeaker and the church bell both go off at the same time, nobody complains; we just wait for the chaya shop to open. So when you tell me a hospital cannot have a crucifix or a prayer room, I think of my neighbour who brings his own picture of Guruvayoorappan to the government ward—who is the law to say that small comfort must be left outside? To me, the line is not a wall; it is a veranda where everyone can sit and still see the road.

My granddaughter was reading out the new Tamil film list tonight, her voice stumbling over ‘Kannagi 2.’ She looked up and asked, “Achacha, will they ever show these in our single-screen?” I did not have the heart to tell her that even our old cinema hall has become a textile showroom now. But I let her keep reading — her joy sounding out those words is the only matinee show I still wait for.