By midnight, the bazar is a constellation of screens and voices. A late-summer wind tastes like old film glue and mango chutney. A child falls asleep under a blanket looped around her shoulders; her dreams stitch together the plots she’s just glimpsed. The vendors fold up, but not without promises: “Tomorrow a print from a closed theater. Tomorrow, a short that will make you hate trapeze artists.” They mean it; tomorrow here is as theatrical as they come.