He clapped the loudest.

His friends called him a fool. Jeet stopped messaging him on Fridays.

That weekend, Gurpreet did something he hadn’t done in five years. He walked to the nearby multiplex, bought a single ticket for the afternoon show of “Mitti Da Punjab,” and sat in the dark hall. There were only twelve other people there. But when the end credits rolled, showing the names of the writers, the musicians, the light boys, and the spot editors, Gurpreet clapped.

Shame burned hotter than any legal fine.