AN: Ok so it will be two girls.
Now the question is, who do you want the girls to be?
Vidyut set off for Hyderabad three mornings later.
By the front door, a duffel bag was crammed so full that its zipper seemed to be holding on for dear life, right next to a smaller bag filled with all the essentials Vidyut thought he’d need for the trip.
Knowing him, Sid figured at least half of it was gym gear.
“You do realize Hyderabad has gyms, right?” Sushant chimed in, leaning casually against the doorframe.
Vidyut chose to ignore him completely.
“You really don’t need to haul your entire life around with you.”
“I’m just carrying clothes.”
Sushant pointed at the duffel.
“That thing weighs more than I do.”
“That’s because you’re weak.”
“Don’t even think about punching me again,” Sushant shot back, giving him a challenging look.
Sid chuckled from the sofa, causing Vidyut to blush just a bit.
“It only happened once,” Vidyut mumbled.
“You celebrated landing the role by punching me.
I feel sorry for your future wife.
What kind of torture is she in for…”
“It was an accident!”
“You didn’t accidentally hug me, Vidyut.
You accidentally punched me—hard.”
“I apologized!”
“After laughing for two whole minutes!”
Vidyut zipped up the last compartment, opting for silence instead of admitting defeat.
Sid had already absorbed most of the details over breakfast.
The film was called Shakti, a huge Telugu production featuring NTR Jr., a name that had made Sid sit up straight when Vidyut first mentioned it.
Junior NTR was on the rise in the South, long before the pan-Indian wave that Bunty remembered hitting much later.
Sid also had a vague recollection of Shakti from his past life.
Not a pleasant one.
He was pretty sure it had been a box-office flop.
That thought brought up an awkward question: Should he tell Vidyut?
Congrats on your first big role!
Oh, and by the way, in another universe, I kind of remember your movie tanking.
Not exactly the best news to share.
Besides, Sid wasn’t entirely convinced that things would play out the same way here.
The timeline was already in flux.
With different schedules, edits, or even altered performances, Shakti might actually thrive in this world—or crash and burn even harder.
Sid had no way of knowing, so he decided to keep his thoughts to himself.
Just because he had a glimpse of the future didn’t mean he could dictate everyone’s choices.
“Taxi’s downstairs,” Vidyut announced, lifting his smaller bag with ease.
Sushant got to his feet.
“Call me when you land.”
“I will.”
“And don’t forget the biryani.”
“No way.”
“Why not?”
“I’m heading straight to work.”
“Exactly!
Hyderabad biryani has rave reviews.”
Vidyut turned to Sid, his eyes pleading.
“Can you please rein him in?”
“You know that’s a lost cause,” Sid replied.
They shared a quick, firm hug before Vidyut turned back to Sid.
For a moment, Sid braced for a typical handshake, but Vidyut surprised him with a swift hug as well.
“Good luck with your film,” Vidyut said warmly.
Sid managed a faint smile.
“I don’t have it yet.”
“You will.” The unwavering confidence in Vidyut’s voice was starting to rub off on him.
“Good luck with yours,” Sid shot back.
“Just don’t get fired.”
Vidyut laughed, grabbing his main bag.
Just as he was about to step out, he hesitated.
“Make sure you keep up with the morning training.”
Sid’s expression instantly dropped.
“You’re leaving.”
“And?”
“Who’s going to notice if I skip?”
Vidyut pointed a thick thumb at Sushant.
“He will.”
Sushant immediately snapped a stiff salute.
“Reporting for duty, sir.”
“He doesn’t even wake up until ten,” Sid muttered.
The door clicked shut, and the apartment was suddenly filled with an eerie silence.
Sushant sighed after a long moment.
“This feels strange.”
Sid nodded in agreement.
It really did.
The three of them had settled into a comfortable rhythm so quickly, and now one bedroom would sit empty for weeks.
Sushant glanced at his watch and cursed under his breath.
“I’m late.”
“Then get going!”
“I haven’t eaten!” Sushant exclaimed, grabbing two pieces of toast from the kitchen counter as he headed for the door.
“Shoot?” Sid called out after him.
“Yeah.” Sushant’s TV schedule had become a whirlwind—early morning calls, late-night returns, and those long stretches where sleep seemed like a luxury.
Sid was finally getting a taste of the grueling reality of working in television.
“Good luck.”
Sushant flung the door open.
“You too.”
“With what?”
“With the waiting.”
In response, Sid tossed a couch cushion at him, but Sushant ducked just in time, the door slamming shut behind him.
And just like that, Sid found himself completely alone.
He stood in the middle of the living room.
Silence enveloped him.
No Vidyut clanking weights or cooking chicken in the kitchen; no Sushant pacing around, rehearsing lines into his phone.
Sid glanced at the old computer, then at the sofa, and finally checked his Nokia.
Nothing.
Still no word from T-Series.
It hadn’t been long enough to justify a full-blown panic, but it was definitely long enough to feel the anxiety creeping in.
He plopped down, then immediately got back up, wandering into the kitchen.
He opened the fridge, found nothing appealing, and closed it again.
Just then, his phone buzzed.
Sid grabbed it with an embarrassing urgency.
It was a text from Alia.
Stop checking your phone every 2 minutes.
Sid stared at the screen, a smile breaking through his anxiety.
He replied: How do you know I am?
Because I know you, came her quick response.
That sentence made his smile waver a bit.
She really knew Sidharth.
Another message came through: You’ll get it.
Sid settled on the arm of the sofa.
You haven’t even seen my audition.
Don’t need to.
Blind confidence is risky.
I’m your girlfriend.
I’m supposed to be blindly confident.
Sid chuckled softly and typed back: And what if I don’t get it?
Her response took a beat longer than expected.
Then they’re stupid, and you’ll find something better.
He stared at the screen, struck by how simple, youthful, and completely genuine it felt.
Very supportive, he typed back.
Thanks!
Oh, and Dad said you weren’t bad.
Sid froze, his thumb hovering over the keypad.
Your dad said that?
Kind of.
Alia.
He said you have potential.
Same thing.
That was definitely not the same thing, but Sid leaned back against the cushions anyway.
Potential.
He could roll with that for now.
He set his phone aside, feeling the heavy silence of the apartment lift just a little.
Somewhere in Hyderabad, Vidyut was kicking off his first big film gig.
Sid would later find out that Ileana D’Cruz was part of the project too, which was a funny twist since, in Bunty’s memories, her Hindi debut was still years away.
Yet here she was, acting alongside NTR Jr.
while Vidyut was making a name for himself as an action villain.
Another career unfolding in a way that was completely different from what Sid remembered.
He couldn’t help but wonder how many lives would completely change because of tiny shifts.
A casting decision changes, a role goes to someone else, a director clicks with a fresh face, a flop stalls a career, or a hit propels one forward.
The whole industry was like a fragile web.
Sid had tugged on a major thread by auditioning for Aashiqui 2.
He just had no idea if that web was about to shift.
Meanwhile, over at T-Series, Bhushan Kumar was grappling with the fact that casting decisions were still a headache, even when the solution seemed clear.
A photograph lay on his desk—a face with longer hair, softer features, and an undeniable laid-back charm.
He wasn’t unattractive, handsome even.
In fact, there was something effortlessly appealing about him.
Bhushan picked up the photo again.
Aditya Roy Kapur.
The recommendation had come through UTV, with Sanjay Kapur personally calling to pitch his younger brother.
Bhushan had agreed to take a look, and now he had to admit it wasn’t a crazy idea.
Aditya had a face that could definitely work, especially for this role.
“He already looks drunk,” Bhushan remarked.
His assistant looked up.
“Sir?”
“Nothing.” Bhushan set it down.
You know, that actually turned out to be a real advantage.
Sidharth Malhotra had that striking look, but he was almost too polished for the role.
Even in his audition, there was this clean, refined vibe that felt like it needed to be toned down a bit.
Aditya, on the other hand, required less imagination.
Just mess up his hair a little, add a few days of stubble, hand him a bottle, and suddenly he was Rahul—at least in terms of appearance.
When it came to acting, though, it was a different ballgame.
Bhushan had caught glimpses of Aditya’s performances; nothing that blew him away, but nothing that made him cringe either.
He was young, available, budget-friendly, and looked the part.
This left them with a bit of a conundrum: they now had two solid contenders.
The usual route would be to set up a second round of screen tests.
Bring both actors in, have them perform the same scene, put them in the same room, and let Mohit make the call.
Pretty straightforward, right?
But filmmaking is rarely that simple.
Every decision comes with a tangled web of industry connections, future favors, and the kind of politics that can get tricky.
Sidharth wasn’t just any actor; he had Karan Johar backing him.
Karan had already reached out—casually, but you could feel the weight behind it, like a top producer subtly reminding everyone whose protégé was at stake.
Then Reshma Shetty called, much more direct, asking for feedback, probing into Mohit’s thoughts, and casually dropping hints about Sid’s rigorous training.
It wasn’t aggressive, but in Bollywood, pressure doesn’t have to be loud to be felt.
Matrix wanted their client to land the role.
Dharma was eager for their boy to follow up his debut with a strong project.
Keeping Karan satisfied had immense long-term benefits.
Sure, UTV had its own value, but it didn’t carry the same immediate clout in this situation.
Plus, Aashiqui 2 had already been stuck in limbo for months over rights, directors, music, and scripts.
Every week lost was money down the drain and momentum slipping away.
Bhushan slid Aditya’s photo under a manila folder.
A second audition process would eat up another two weeks, followed by negotiations, screen tests, and endless discussions.
Production limbo had ahabit of becoming permanent if someone didn’t swing the hammer.
Sidharth had nailed his audition, and Mohit was impressed by his intensity.
With Barry John coaching him and his affordability, casting Sidharth would also earn some goodwill with Karan and Reshma.
Decision made.
He’d tell Sanjay that Mohit didn’t really see Aditya fitting the role.
Technically, Mohit hadn’t given his stamp of approval since he hadn’t even seen him.
Just a minor detail.
Bhushan reached for his desk phone to call Mohit.
Mohit Suri was bent over the screenplay when his phone buzzed.
Seeing Bhushan’s name pop up, he considered ignoring it but ultimately decided to answer.
“Yes?”
“What are you up to?” Bhushan asked.
“Writing.”
“Still at it?”
“No, Bhushan, I’m performing open-heart surgery.”
Bhushan brushed off the sarcasm.
“Who are we casting for the male lead?”
Mohit frowned.
“Why are you asking like we haven’t gone over this a million times?”
“Because you never give me a straight answer.”
Mohit rubbed his temples, feeling the weight of exhaustion.
Two crucial scenes just wouldn’t come together.
Rahul’s emotional journey felt all wrong.
In one version, he came off as pathetic; in another, he was downright cruel.
The audience needed to grasp why Aarohi loved him without excusing his destructive behavior.
That delicate balance was far more important to Mohit than T-Series’ production timeline.
“We’re still searching,” Mohit sighed.
“Searching for who?”
Honestly?
No one memorable.
A few actors had been decent, one looked the part but couldn’t act, another had the talent but seemed a decade too old, and yet another delivered every line like he was auditioning for a Filmfare award.
And then there was Sidharth.
He was raw, no doubt about it, but Mohit kept coming back to that second take.
There was a quiet, damaged stillness in him that was incredibly usable.
“Apart from Sidharth?” Mohit asked.
“No one noteworthy.”
Bhushan chuckled on the other end. Read this novel at g.com for the best experience.
“So?”
“So what?”
“You liked him.”
“I said he wasn’t bad.”
“From you, Mohit, that’s practically a love confession.”
“He needs some serious work,” Mohit insisted, tapping his pencil against the desk.
“His voice, especially.”
“Barry John is on it.”
“I know.” Mohit could see the potential in Sid.
Right now, the kid’s public persona was way too polished, like a perfect college boy straight out of Karan’s world.
But that could definitely be changed.
Think longer, messy hair, a bit of stubble, dark circles under his eyes, and clothes that looked like they’d seen better days.
Rahul needed to come across as a guy whose lifestyle was really taking a toll on him.
“He needs to stop looking like he showers three times a day,” Mohit said bluntly.
Bhushan chuckled.
“So, make him look a bit rough around the edges.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.
Can he pull off being Rahul?”
The line fell silent.
That was the real question.
It wasn’t about whether Sidharth was perfect right now, but whether Mohit could help him deliver a stellar performance after weeks of workshops, rehearsals, and tough sets.
Sidharth was impressively coachable, and that was key.
A naturally talented actor who wouldn’t take direction was a nightmare; a novice who genuinely listened could grow by leaps and bounds during production.
Mohit replayed the audition in his mind.
First take: way too much.
Second take: instant improvement.
He had picked up the note right away—less drama, more subtle heartbreak.
“Maybe,” Mohit finally said, his voice low.
Bhushan groaned.
“Mohit, we need to start shooting this decade.”
Mohit let out a soft laugh.
“Alright.
If we can’t find anyone better…
Sidharth will do.”
“Will do?”
“For the role.”
That was all Bhushan needed to hear.
“You’re in?”
“Get a solid workshop schedule set up,” Mohit relented.
“And tell him to let his facial hair grow.”
“Got it.”
“Just don’t call him yet.
I want to—”
“Too late,” Bhushan cut in.
“I’m letting his team know.”
“Bhushan—”
“We need to secure this.”
“You asked for my call just thirty seconds ago!”
“And here I am.
You said he’s good to go.”
Mohit ran a hand down his face, contemplating his life choices.
“Alright.
Tell Reshma we need to lock in the dates and workshops.
And I want a complete look test before we shoot a single frame.
If he shows up looking like he just walked out of a Dharma trailer, I’m sending him home.”
Bhushan chuckled.
“I’ll make sure he gets the message.
I’ll call Reshma right now.”
As the call ended, Mohit found himself staring at the screenplay sprawled across his desk.
Sidharth Malhotra.
Looks like they had their Rahul.
Meanwhile, back in Juhu, Sid had completely given up on being productive.
He was glued to his desktop, mindlessly scrolling through news articles without actually reading anything, checking his Nokia every thirty seconds.
A new text from Alia popped up: Any call?
No, he replied.
They’re taking too long.
Should I ask dad?
Sid’s thumb practically hammered the keys.
NO.
A moment later: Why all caps?
Sid couldn’t help but smile.
Please don’t ask him.
Fine.
Then another message came through: You’ll still get it.
Sid shook his head at her relentless optimism.
He set the phone down, only for it to erupt into a loud ringtone.
Startled, he nearly toppled his chair.
He snatched up the phone and saw the name: Reshma.
He took a deep breath.
“Hello?”
“Sid,” her voice was completely unreadable.
His heart raced in his chest.
“Yeah?”
“Are you busy?”
“No.”
“Good.” An agonizing pause hung between them.
“Start growing a beard.”
Sid blinked, caught off guard.
“What?”
“Mohit doesn’t want you looking like a Dharma college boy.”
It took his brain a solid two seconds to catch up.
“Wait…
does that mean—”
Reshma burst into laughter.
“You got the film, Sid.”
Silence enveloped the line as the news sank in.
“Aashiqui 2,” she added.
“They want you.”
Sid couldn’t contain himself; he punched the air in triumph, a rush of adrenaline surging through him.
“Hell yes!”
“Watch your language, Mr.
Malhotra.
Let’s keep it professional.”
“Sorry,” Sid grinned.
The call ended, leaving Sid standing alone in the quiet apartment.
Vidyut was in Hyderabad; Sushant was on set.
He had no one to yell with, no one to high-five.
Instead, he opened his chat with Alia and looked at her last message: You’ll still get it.
A slow, triumphant smile spread across his face as his fingers moved across the keypad.
You were right.