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Read the passage given below and answer the questions that follow. 

My brief introduction to life in prison unravelled for me some of the mysterious ways of British rule. Technically, I was not imprisoned but merely in custody because I was not formally charged; even though I spent the statutory ninety days in prison just like those who were sentenced. The system of classification of the prisoners was based on due respect for social stratification. Those who lived in brick-built houses, and hence considered relatively affluent, enjoyed the privileges of 'B' class. They slept on proper beds and had a daily allowance of one rupee four annas for their food, a princely sum for those days. The jail officials never saw any point in wasting such huge sums on undeserving political prisoners, but the food for the 'B' class prisoners was adequate and edible. There was an 'A' class with the right of getting food sent from home. Inclusion in this privileged category depended on the goodwill of the jail superintendent. Since classification was a matter of social status, it would have looked very odd if my father had not been granted 'A' class. The superintendent hence graciously declared that he could have milk sent from home if he so wished. This generous offer was politely declined.

Those condemned to the lower category, 'C', slept on one blanket on the floor and had another to cover their bodies in winter. Unfortunately, the blankets were inhabited by numberless bedbugs; even if one kept a respectable distance from the said blankets, the bugs marched out in an orderly fashion and invaded one's body. The experience was not pleasant. The half-a-rupee allowance per day for 'C' class prisoners was far from inadequate. But the loyal servants of the Raj would not dream of spending such incredible amounts on the hoi polloi. Hence the food for the 'C' class prisoners was not fit for human consumption. I shall presently explain why. My father was allocated to 'B' class immediately after the arrest ('A' class followed later); it took seven days to determine in what type of house I lived. In my brother's case, it took one month. It is unlikely that the police did not know that all three of us lived in the same house. One was condemned to 'C' class treatment until that relevant fact had been established; evidently a few days in 'C' class was considered a wholesome experience for the very young and/or those suspected of involvement in serious acts of sedition.

A glimpse into prison life, 'C' class, is enlightening. The police arrested me in our house and after several hours in the police station where I was registered as an accused in a case of wire-cutting and theft, I accompanied a single policeman to the prison, walking the two miles. When I was taken to the juvenile ward, 'C' class, it was about seven in the evening. The place was filled with an almost unbearable stench. I thought the sweepers were removing the night soil but it was hardly the appropriate time for doing this particular chore. I was right on the latter but not the former point. The source of the overpowering stench was not any night soil but our evening meal. This requires some explanation. In our part of the country most people eat parboiled rice. Producing this type of rice from paddy involves a particular technique. The jail authorities, instead of buying parboiled rice from the market, tried to produce it from paddy inside the prison, using convict labour. The idea was to save money. But as the convicts had no knowledge of the technique involved, the rice rotted. Hence the stench I had encountered. No one possibly could eat that rice, not even the poorest convict. Of course, there was another choice for the evening meal-chapatis. These did not stink, but had a fairly thick outer layer of dust and sand. The prisoners assiduously rubbed the chapatis together to get rid of the coating of filth; then one washed them before eating.

Read the passage given below and answer the questions that follow. 

My brief introduction to life in prison unravelled for me some of the mysterious ways of British rule. Technically, I was not imprisoned but merely in custody because I was not formally charged; even though I spent the statutory ninety days in prison just like those who were sentenced. The system of classification of the prisoners was based on due respect for social stratification. Those who lived in brick-built houses, and hence considered relatively affluent, enjoyed the privileges of 'B' class. They slept on proper beds and had a daily allowance of one rupee four annas for their food, a princely sum for those days. The jail officials never saw any point in wasting such huge sums on undeserving political prisoners, but the food for the 'B' class prisoners was adequate and edible. There was an 'A' class with the right of getting food sent from home. Inclusion in this privileged category depended on the goodwill of the jail superintendent. Since classification was a matter of social status, it would have looked very odd if my father had not been granted 'A' class. The superintendent hence graciously declared that he could have milk sent from home if he so wished. This generous offer was politely declined.

Those condemned to the lower category, 'C', slept on one blanket on the floor and had another to cover their bodies in winter. Unfortunately, the blankets were inhabited by numberless bedbugs; even if one kept a respectable distance from the said blankets, the bugs marched out in an orderly fashion and invaded one's body. The experience was not pleasant. The half-a-rupee allowance per day for 'C' class prisoners was far from inadequate. But the loyal servants of the Raj would not dream of spending such incredible amounts on the hoi polloi. Hence the food for the 'C' class prisoners was not fit for human consumption. I shall presently explain why. My father was allocated to 'B' class immediately after the arrest ('A' class followed later); it took seven days to determine in what type of house I lived. In my brother's case, it took one month. It is unlikely that the police did not know that all three of us lived in the same house. One was condemned to 'C' class treatment until that relevant fact had been established; evidently a few days in 'C' class was considered a wholesome experience for the very young and/or those suspected of involvement in serious acts of sedition.

A glimpse into prison life, 'C' class, is enlightening. The police arrested me in our house and after several hours in the police station where I was registered as an accused in a case of wire-cutting and theft, I accompanied a single policeman to the prison, walking the two miles. When I was taken to the juvenile ward, 'C' class, it was about seven in the evening. The place was filled with an almost unbearable stench. I thought the sweepers were removing the night soil but it was hardly the appropriate time for doing this particular chore. I was right on the latter but not the former point. The source of the overpowering stench was not any night soil but our evening meal. This requires some explanation. In our part of the country most people eat parboiled rice. Producing this type of rice from paddy involves a particular technique. The jail authorities, instead of buying parboiled rice from the market, tried to produce it from paddy inside the prison, using convict labour. The idea was to save money. But as the convicts had no knowledge of the technique involved, the rice rotted. Hence the stench I had encountered. No one possibly could eat that rice, not even the poorest convict. Of course, there was another choice for the evening meal-chapatis. These did not stink, but had a fairly thick outer layer of dust and sand. The prisoners assiduously rubbed the chapatis together to get rid of the coating of filth; then one washed them before eating.

Read the passage given below and answer the questions that follow. 

My brief introduction to life in prison unravelled for me some of the mysterious ways of British rule. Technically, I was not imprisoned but merely in custody because I was not formally charged; even though I spent the statutory ninety days in prison just like those who were sentenced. The system of classification of the prisoners was based on due respect for social stratification. Those who lived in brick-built houses, and hence considered relatively affluent, enjoyed the privileges of 'B' class. They slept on proper beds and had a daily allowance of one rupee four annas for their food, a princely sum for those days. The jail officials never saw any point in wasting such huge sums on undeserving political prisoners, but the food for the 'B' class prisoners was adequate and edible. There was an 'A' class with the right of getting food sent from home. Inclusion in this privileged category depended on the goodwill of the jail superintendent. Since classification was a matter of social status, it would have looked very odd if my father had not been granted 'A' class. The superintendent hence graciously declared that he could have milk sent from home if he so wished. This generous offer was politely declined.

Those condemned to the lower category, 'C', slept on one blanket on the floor and had another to cover their bodies in winter. Unfortunately, the blankets were inhabited by numberless bedbugs; even if one kept a respectable distance from the said blankets, the bugs marched out in an orderly fashion and invaded one's body. The experience was not pleasant. The half-a-rupee allowance per day for 'C' class prisoners was far from inadequate. But the loyal servants of the Raj would not dream of spending such incredible amounts on the hoi polloi. Hence the food for the 'C' class prisoners was not fit for human consumption. I shall presently explain why. My father was allocated to 'B' class immediately after the arrest ('A' class followed later); it took seven days to determine in what type of house I lived. In my brother's case, it took one month. It is unlikely that the police did not know that all three of us lived in the same house. One was condemned to 'C' class treatment until that relevant fact had been established; evidently a few days in 'C' class was considered a wholesome experience for the very young and/or those suspected of involvement in serious acts of sedition.

A glimpse into prison life, 'C' class, is enlightening. The police arrested me in our house and after several hours in the police station where I was registered as an accused in a case of wire-cutting and theft, I accompanied a single policeman to the prison, walking the two miles. When I was taken to the juvenile ward, 'C' class, it was about seven in the evening. The place was filled with an almost unbearable stench. I thought the sweepers were removing the night soil but it was hardly the appropriate time for doing this particular chore. I was right on the latter but not the former point. The source of the overpowering stench was not any night soil but our evening meal. This requires some explanation. In our part of the country most people eat parboiled rice. Producing this type of rice from paddy involves a particular technique. The jail authorities, instead of buying parboiled rice from the market, tried to produce it from paddy inside the prison, using convict labour. The idea was to save money. But as the convicts had no knowledge of the technique involved, the rice rotted. Hence the stench I had encountered. No one possibly could eat that rice, not even the poorest convict. Of course, there was another choice for the evening meal-chapatis. These did not stink, but had a fairly thick outer layer of dust and sand. The prisoners assiduously rubbed the chapatis together to get rid of the coating of filth; then one washed them before eating.

Read the passage given below and answer the questions that follow. 

My brief introduction to life in prison unravelled for me some of the mysterious ways of British rule. Technically, I was not imprisoned but merely in custody because I was not formally charged; even though I spent the statutory ninety days in prison just like those who were sentenced. The system of classification of the prisoners was based on due respect for social stratification. Those who lived in brick-built houses, and hence considered relatively affluent, enjoyed the privileges of 'B' class. They slept on proper beds and had a daily allowance of one rupee four annas for their food, a princely sum for those days. The jail officials never saw any point in wasting such huge sums on undeserving political prisoners, but the food for the 'B' class prisoners was adequate and edible. There was an 'A' class with the right of getting food sent from home. Inclusion in this privileged category depended on the goodwill of the jail superintendent. Since classification was a matter of social status, it would have looked very odd if my father had not been granted 'A' class. The superintendent hence graciously declared that he could have milk sent from home if he so wished. This generous offer was politely declined.

Those condemned to the lower category, 'C', slept on one blanket on the floor and had another to cover their bodies in winter. Unfortunately, the blankets were inhabited by numberless bedbugs; even if one kept a respectable distance from the said blankets, the bugs marched out in an orderly fashion and invaded one's body. The experience was not pleasant. The half-a-rupee allowance per day for 'C' class prisoners was far from inadequate. But the loyal servants of the Raj would not dream of spending such incredible amounts on the hoi polloi. Hence the food for the 'C' class prisoners was not fit for human consumption. I shall presently explain why. My father was allocated to 'B' class immediately after the arrest ('A' class followed later); it took seven days to determine in what type of house I lived. In my brother's case, it took one month. It is unlikely that the police did not know that all three of us lived in the same house. One was condemned to 'C' class treatment until that relevant fact had been established; evidently a few days in 'C' class was considered a wholesome experience for the very young and/or those suspected of involvement in serious acts of sedition.

A glimpse into prison life, 'C' class, is enlightening. The police arrested me in our house and after several hours in the police station where I was registered as an accused in a case of wire-cutting and theft, I accompanied a single policeman to the prison, walking the two miles. When I was taken to the juvenile ward, 'C' class, it was about seven in the evening. The place was filled with an almost unbearable stench. I thought the sweepers were removing the night soil but it was hardly the appropriate time for doing this particular chore. I was right on the latter but not the former point. The source of the overpowering stench was not any night soil but our evening meal. This requires some explanation. In our part of the country most people eat parboiled rice. Producing this type of rice from paddy involves a particular technique. The jail authorities, instead of buying parboiled rice from the market, tried to produce it from paddy inside the prison, using convict labour. The idea was to save money. But as the convicts had no knowledge of the technique involved, the rice rotted. Hence the stench I had encountered. No one possibly could eat that rice, not even the poorest convict. Of course, there was another choice for the evening meal-chapatis. These did not stink, but had a fairly thick outer layer of dust and sand. The prisoners assiduously rubbed the chapatis together to get rid of the coating of filth; then one washed them before eating.

Read the passage given below and answer the questions that follow. 

My brief introduction to life in prison unravelled for me some of the mysterious ways of British rule. Technically, I was not imprisoned but merely in custody because I was not formally charged; even though I spent the statutory ninety days in prison just like those who were sentenced. The system of classification of the prisoners was based on due respect for social stratification. Those who lived in brick-built houses, and hence considered relatively affluent, enjoyed the privileges of 'B' class. They slept on proper beds and had a daily allowance of one rupee four annas for their food, a princely sum for those days. The jail officials never saw any point in wasting such huge sums on undeserving political prisoners, but the food for the 'B' class prisoners was adequate and edible. There was an 'A' class with the right of getting food sent from home. Inclusion in this privileged category depended on the goodwill of the jail superintendent. Since classification was a matter of social status, it would have looked very odd if my father had not been granted 'A' class. The superintendent hence graciously declared that he could have milk sent from home if he so wished. This generous offer was politely declined.

Those condemned to the lower category, 'C', slept on one blanket on the floor and had another to cover their bodies in winter. Unfortunately, the blankets were inhabited by numberless bedbugs; even if one kept a respectable distance from the said blankets, the bugs marched out in an orderly fashion and invaded one's body. The experience was not pleasant. The half-a-rupee allowance per day for 'C' class prisoners was far from inadequate. But the loyal servants of the Raj would not dream of spending such incredible amounts on the hoi polloi. Hence the food for the 'C' class prisoners was not fit for human consumption. I shall presently explain why. My father was allocated to 'B' class immediately after the arrest ('A' class followed later); it took seven days to determine in what type of house I lived. In my brother's case, it took one month. It is unlikely that the police did not know that all three of us lived in the same house. One was condemned to 'C' class treatment until that relevant fact had been established; evidently a few days in 'C' class was considered a wholesome experience for the very young and/or those suspected of involvement in serious acts of sedition.

A glimpse into prison life, 'C' class, is enlightening. The police arrested me in our house and after several hours in the police station where I was registered as an accused in a case of wire-cutting and theft, I accompanied a single policeman to the prison, walking the two miles. When I was taken to the juvenile ward, 'C' class, it was about seven in the evening. The place was filled with an almost unbearable stench. I thought the sweepers were removing the night soil but it was hardly the appropriate time for doing this particular chore. I was right on the latter but not the former point. The source of the overpowering stench was not any night soil but our evening meal. This requires some explanation. In our part of the country most people eat parboiled rice. Producing this type of rice from paddy involves a particular technique. The jail authorities, instead of buying parboiled rice from the market, tried to produce it from paddy inside the prison, using convict labour. The idea was to save money. But as the convicts had no knowledge of the technique involved, the rice rotted. Hence the stench I had encountered. No one possibly could eat that rice, not even the poorest convict. Of course, there was another choice for the evening meal-chapatis. These did not stink, but had a fairly thick outer layer of dust and sand. The prisoners assiduously rubbed the chapatis together to get rid of the coating of filth; then one washed them before eating.

Read the passage given below and answer the questions that follow.

The cinema is the only art invented by science. It was born and bred in the West in a technological environment, and so its manifestations in predominantly agricultural countries are a somewhat curious phenomenon of more sociological than aesthetic interest. What is remarkable is that with political independence and the rise of a national awareness of technology, a new minority cinema appears in many of these societies and quickly acquires compelling aesthetic and humanist values. Their content is increasingly charged with aspirations for a better life, and their form with delight in a new medium. In many of these countries, television is limited in its spread and its creative abilities, either by the lack of resources or by the constrictions of governmental ownership or both. The cinema, on the other hand, reflects a more vital and spontaneous expression of the secret hopes and fears, ideals and enthusiasms, of a country's people. A small, serious creative cinema grows alongside the larger, more conventional product and begins to engage the attention of a select national and international audience.

But nowhere is this more true than in India, the largest producer of full-length feature films in the world. 833 films were made in 1984, as against 249 in the United States (in 1983). Over 12 million people go to the movies every day in 13000 theatres. A thousand-odd of these are travelling cinemas in the countryside that would remind the film buff of the nickelodeons of the United States rubbing shoulders with vaudeville and circus shows in the early years of the century. The number of cinema theatres is going up by about 500 every year. Television is still limited by the cost of a set and is, along with video, largely an extension of the cinema.

Both wings of Indian cinema - the popular, commercial blockbuster (song-dance-fight- nightclub formula) and the serious-creative minority product (Satyajit Ray, Mrinal Sen, Shyam Benegal et al) are full of a restless vitality. Film stars have a massive following; in two large states, they have been catapulted into political leadership, becoming Chief Ministers of their respective states. Three others are members of Parliament, and two leading stars have given notice of their political intentions.

More than 600 fan magazines in 16 languages fuel the interest in the public and private lives of film stars, recalling the heyday of Hollywood in the thirties and forties. Popular music means film music. It is the mainstay of the record industry and supports the popularity of government-owned radio and television. To the masses, dancing means the forms of it seen in films, however indeterminate or despicable they may seem to the classicist. For millions of people in urban India and its rural periphery, cinema is the only entertainment, and film stars the only role models for public and private behaviour. The major visual art seen in the towns and the roadways, on trucks and buses and auto-rickshaws, boats and bullock-carts, and trees and tin sheds, is the raucously colourful film poster, over-riding the attractions of the cigarette or soap ads. The release of a new film often causes major traffic jams.

Clothes, hairstyles, gait, speech, attitudes towards women and social mores, generally, reflect the standards of popular cinema. The social significance of this cinema is immense, and its vitality, however, vulgar, remains unquestionable.

Read the passage given below and answer the questions that follow.

The cinema is the only art invented by science. It was born and bred in the West in a technological environment, and so its manifestations in predominantly agricultural countries are a somewhat curious phenomenon of more sociological than aesthetic interest. What is remarkable is that with political independence and the rise of a national awareness of technology, a new minority cinema appears in many of these societies and quickly acquires compelling aesthetic and humanist values. Their content is increasingly charged with aspirations for a better life, and their form with delight in a new medium. In many of these countries, television is limited in its spread and its creative abilities, either by the lack of resources or by the constrictions of governmental ownership or both. The cinema, on the other hand, reflects a more vital and spontaneous expression of the secret hopes and fears, ideals and enthusiasms, of a country's people. A small, serious creative cinema grows alongside the larger, more conventional product and begins to engage the attention of a select national and international audience.

But nowhere is this more true than in India, the largest producer of full-length feature films in the world. 833 films were made in 1984, as against 249 in the United States (in 1983). Over 12 million people go to the movies every day in 13000 theatres. A thousand-odd of these are travelling cinemas in the countryside that would remind the film buff of the nickelodeons of the United States rubbing shoulders with vaudeville and circus shows in the early years of the century. The number of cinema theatres is going up by about 500 every year. Television is still limited by the cost of a set and is, along with video, largely an extension of the cinema.

Both wings of Indian cinema - the popular, commercial blockbuster (song-dance-fight- nightclub formula) and the serious-creative minority product (Satyajit Ray, Mrinal Sen, Shyam Benegal et al) are full of a restless vitality. Film stars have a massive following; in two large states, they have been catapulted into political leadership, becoming Chief Ministers of their respective states. Three others are members of Parliament, and two leading stars have given notice of their political intentions.

More than 600 fan magazines in 16 languages fuel the interest in the public and private lives of film stars, recalling the heyday of Hollywood in the thirties and forties. Popular music means film music. It is the mainstay of the record industry and supports the popularity of government-owned radio and television. To the masses, dancing means the forms of it seen in films, however indeterminate or despicable they may seem to the classicist. For millions of people in urban India and its rural periphery, cinema is the only entertainment, and film stars the only role models for public and private behaviour. The major visual art seen in the towns and the roadways, on trucks and buses and auto-rickshaws, boats and bullock-carts, and trees and tin sheds, is the raucously colourful film poster, over-riding the attractions of the cigarette or soap ads. The release of a new film often causes major traffic jams.

Clothes, hairstyles, gait, speech, attitudes towards women and social mores, generally, reflect the standards of popular cinema. The social significance of this cinema is immense, and its vitality, however, vulgar, remains unquestionable.

Read the passage given below and answer the questions that follow.

The cinema is the only art invented by science. It was born and bred in the West in a technological environment, and so its manifestations in predominantly agricultural countries are a somewhat curious phenomenon of more sociological than aesthetic interest. What is remarkable is that with political independence and the rise of a national awareness of technology, a new minority cinema appears in many of these societies and quickly acquires compelling aesthetic and humanist values. Their content is increasingly charged with aspirations for a better life, and their form with delight in a new medium. In many of these countries, television is limited in its spread and its creative abilities, either by the lack of resources or by the constrictions of governmental ownership or both. The cinema, on the other hand, reflects a more vital and spontaneous expression of the secret hopes and fears, ideals and enthusiasms, of a country's people. A small, serious creative cinema grows alongside the larger, more conventional product and begins to engage the attention of a select national and international audience.

But nowhere is this more true than in India, the largest producer of full-length feature films in the world. 833 films were made in 1984, as against 249 in the United States (in 1983). Over 12 million people go to the movies every day in 13000 theatres. A thousand-odd of these are travelling cinemas in the countryside that would remind the film buff of the nickelodeons of the United States rubbing shoulders with vaudeville and circus shows in the early years of the century. The number of cinema theatres is going up by about 500 every year. Television is still limited by the cost of a set and is, along with video, largely an extension of the cinema.

Both wings of Indian cinema - the popular, commercial blockbuster (song-dance-fight- nightclub formula) and the serious-creative minority product (Satyajit Ray, Mrinal Sen, Shyam Benegal et al) are full of a restless vitality. Film stars have a massive following; in two large states, they have been catapulted into political leadership, becoming Chief Ministers of their respective states. Three others are members of Parliament, and two leading stars have given notice of their political intentions.

More than 600 fan magazines in 16 languages fuel the interest in the public and private lives of film stars, recalling the heyday of Hollywood in the thirties and forties. Popular music means film music. It is the mainstay of the record industry and supports the popularity of government-owned radio and television. To the masses, dancing means the forms of it seen in films, however indeterminate or despicable they may seem to the classicist. For millions of people in urban India and its rural periphery, cinema is the only entertainment, and film stars the only role models for public and private behaviour. The major visual art seen in the towns and the roadways, on trucks and buses and auto-rickshaws, boats and bullock-carts, and trees and tin sheds, is the raucously colourful film poster, over-riding the attractions of the cigarette or soap ads. The release of a new film often causes major traffic jams.

Clothes, hairstyles, gait, speech, attitudes towards women and social mores, generally, reflect the standards of popular cinema. The social significance of this cinema is immense, and its vitality, however, vulgar, remains unquestionable.

Read the passage given below and answer the questions that follow.

The cinema is the only art invented by science. It was born and bred in the West in a technological environment, and so its manifestations in predominantly agricultural countries are a somewhat curious phenomenon of more sociological than aesthetic interest. What is remarkable is that with political independence and the rise of a national awareness of technology, a new minority cinema appears in many of these societies and quickly acquires compelling aesthetic and humanist values. Their content is increasingly charged with aspirations for a better life, and their form with delight in a new medium. In many of these countries, television is limited in its spread and its creative abilities, either by the lack of resources or by the constrictions of governmental ownership or both. The cinema, on the other hand, reflects a more vital and spontaneous expression of the secret hopes and fears, ideals and enthusiasms, of a country's people. A small, serious creative cinema grows alongside the larger, more conventional product and begins to engage the attention of a select national and international audience.

But nowhere is this more true than in India, the largest producer of full-length feature films in the world. 833 films were made in 1984, as against 249 in the United States (in 1983). Over 12 million people go to the movies every day in 13000 theatres. A thousand-odd of these are travelling cinemas in the countryside that would remind the film buff of the nickelodeons of the United States rubbing shoulders with vaudeville and circus shows in the early years of the century. The number of cinema theatres is going up by about 500 every year. Television is still limited by the cost of a set and is, along with video, largely an extension of the cinema.

Both wings of Indian cinema - the popular, commercial blockbuster (song-dance-fight- nightclub formula) and the serious-creative minority product (Satyajit Ray, Mrinal Sen, Shyam Benegal et al) are full of a restless vitality. Film stars have a massive following; in two large states, they have been catapulted into political leadership, becoming Chief Ministers of their respective states. Three others are members of Parliament, and two leading stars have given notice of their political intentions.

More than 600 fan magazines in 16 languages fuel the interest in the public and private lives of film stars, recalling the heyday of Hollywood in the thirties and forties. Popular music means film music. It is the mainstay of the record industry and supports the popularity of government-owned radio and television. To the masses, dancing means the forms of it seen in films, however indeterminate or despicable they may seem to the classicist. For millions of people in urban India and its rural periphery, cinema is the only entertainment, and film stars the only role models for public and private behaviour. The major visual art seen in the towns and the roadways, on trucks and buses and auto-rickshaws, boats and bullock-carts, and trees and tin sheds, is the raucously colourful film poster, over-riding the attractions of the cigarette or soap ads. The release of a new film often causes major traffic jams.

Clothes, hairstyles, gait, speech, attitudes towards women and social mores, generally, reflect the standards of popular cinema. The social significance of this cinema is immense, and its vitality, however, vulgar, remains unquestionable.

Read the passage given below and answer the questions that follow.

The cinema is the only art invented by science. It was born and bred in the West in a technological environment, and so its manifestations in predominantly agricultural countries are a somewhat curious phenomenon of more sociological than aesthetic interest. What is remarkable is that with political independence and the rise of a national awareness of technology, a new minority cinema appears in many of these societies and quickly acquires compelling aesthetic and humanist values. Their content is increasingly charged with aspirations for a better life, and their form with delight in a new medium. In many of these countries, television is limited in its spread and its creative abilities, either by the lack of resources or by the constrictions of governmental ownership or both. The cinema, on the other hand, reflects a more vital and spontaneous expression of the secret hopes and fears, ideals and enthusiasms, of a country's people. A small, serious creative cinema grows alongside the larger, more conventional product and begins to engage the attention of a select national and international audience.

But nowhere is this more true than in India, the largest producer of full-length feature films in the world. 833 films were made in 1984, as against 249 in the United States (in 1983). Over 12 million people go to the movies every day in 13000 theatres. A thousand-odd of these are travelling cinemas in the countryside that would remind the film buff of the nickelodeons of the United States rubbing shoulders with vaudeville and circus shows in the early years of the century. The number of cinema theatres is going up by about 500 every year. Television is still limited by the cost of a set and is, along with video, largely an extension of the cinema.

Both wings of Indian cinema - the popular, commercial blockbuster (song-dance-fight- nightclub formula) and the serious-creative minority product (Satyajit Ray, Mrinal Sen, Shyam Benegal et al) are full of a restless vitality. Film stars have a massive following; in two large states, they have been catapulted into political leadership, becoming Chief Ministers of their respective states. Three others are members of Parliament, and two leading stars have given notice of their political intentions.

More than 600 fan magazines in 16 languages fuel the interest in the public and private lives of film stars, recalling the heyday of Hollywood in the thirties and forties. Popular music means film music. It is the mainstay of the record industry and supports the popularity of government-owned radio and television. To the masses, dancing means the forms of it seen in films, however indeterminate or despicable they may seem to the classicist. For millions of people in urban India and its rural periphery, cinema is the only entertainment, and film stars the only role models for public and private behaviour. The major visual art seen in the towns and the roadways, on trucks and buses and auto-rickshaws, boats and bullock-carts, and trees and tin sheds, is the raucously colourful film poster, over-riding the attractions of the cigarette or soap ads. The release of a new film often causes major traffic jams.

Clothes, hairstyles, gait, speech, attitudes towards women and social mores, generally, reflect the standards of popular cinema. The social significance of this cinema is immense, and its vitality, however, vulgar, remains unquestionable.