Malli's father, a stern businessman, discovered their secret. He had already arranged her alliance with a wealthier family in Hyderabad. "You will not throw your life away for a boy who films emptiness," he thundered.

Malli looked up, annoyed at first, then curious. "Are you filming me without permission?"

"I can't promise you a palace," he said. "But I can promise you this: every film I ever make, you'll be in it. Even if no one else sees you."

One evening, while filming the river for a scene he had written — about a boatman who falls in love with a cloud — his lens caught a girl. She was sitting on the ghat steps, sketching the sunset with charcoal fingers. Her name was Malli. She was quiet, fierce, and studying fine arts at the local college. She lived in a world of still images; he lived in moving ones.