One evening, a desperate young producer named Zoya barged into his shack. She held a hard drive. "Guru-ji," she begged. "My film is ruined. The financiers hate it. They say it has no soul. Fix it."

Arvind opened his eyes. They were the color of faded nitrate film. "There is now."

"I hear screaming," he whispered. "Your lead actor is lying. He never learned to cry. Your script is a skeleton with no marrow. But worse… worse, there is a scene missing."