AN: I have finalised to two.
Now is time for a poll.
Kiara
Kriti
Shraddha
Alia, Disha, Mrunal, Samantha, Anushka, Parineeti, Katrina, Shruti or any other (Comment with most likes will be chosen)
Someone not an actress (like a certain businesswoman from a certain story, or a normal girl)
Finding Rahul had taken long enough, but tracking down Aarohi was turning into a real headache.
Mohit Suri sat with one foot casually hooked around the leg of his chair, a pencil balanced between his fingers, gazing at the mountain of casting profiles sprawled across his desk.
He had spent most of the morning trying to make progress on the screenplay, but every twenty minutes, he was interrupted—music, locations, budget discussions, dates, Sidharth’s workshops, and yet another debate about when production could realistically kick off (thanks to Bhushan).
And now, he was stuck on the female lead.
Mohit rubbed his tired eyes.
Rahul was a tough character, but at least his essence was clear.
Aarohi, on the other hand, required a delicate touch.
She had to be stunning without giving off the vibe that she spent all her time in front of a mirror.
Young, vulnerable, and musically credible—she needed to embody innocence without being naive, and strength without overshadowing Rahul.
Most importantly, the audience had to believe that this ordinary girl, belting out tunes in small bars, could realistically rise to national stardom.
Mohit found himself staring at the ceiling.
What about Alia?
The thought lingered for maybe five seconds.
Mahesh’s daughter.
Young, fresh, incredibly attractive, and already collaborating with Karan.
If Sidharth was Rahul…
Mohit pictured them together, then quickly dismissed the idea.
“No.”
She felt too youthful in spirit.
Alia looked young because she was, but that wasn’t the main issue.
There was a certain sheltered confidence about her, the kind that comes from growing up around cameras and film sets.
Aarohi needed to exude uncertainty.
She had to appear as if she could step into a high-end recording studio and feel completely out of her element.
Alia practically lived in those studios.
Plus, casting Sidharth alongside his real-life girlfriend would just complicate things unnecessarily.
Real-life chemistry didn’t always translate into great on-screen relationships; sometimes it made actors feel self-conscious, personal disputes spilled over onto the set, and promotional gossip overshadowed the entire movie.
He mentally crossed her off the list.
That meant auditions.
Bigger ones, reaching out to casting coordinators, testing hundreds of girls, and, worst of all, having to tell Bhushan Kumar that production was still on hold.
He grabbed the casting report that had been prepared weeks ago and started flipping through it.
Photograph.
Name.
Age.
Experience.
Measurements.
Languages.
Dance training.
Pretty faces began to blur together.
That was the harsh reality of the industry.
For every newcomer who succeeded, countless others ended up as forgotten images in files like this—girls arriving in Mumbai with their portfolios, family savings, and enormous dreams.
And the industry was all too aware of their desperation.
That desperation drew in genuine directors, but it also opened the door to predators, fake casting calls, outrageous fees for portfolios, and hotel-room meetings disguised as “normal practice.”
A young actress had to weigh something far more perilous whenever someone said, “Come alone.”
Mohit turned to the next page.
The following photograph was captivating—Mallika Sherawat.
She definitely had screen presence and no fear of sensuality, but she was completely wrong for Aarohi.
“Too sultry,” he murmured, continuing to sift through models, television actresses, and commercial faces.
Then his hand paused.
He flipped back a page.
A young woman gazed out from the frame.
Large, soft eyes and a face that felt instantly welcoming—not anonymous, but not overly glamorous either.
He read the name: Shraddha Kapoor.
Born in 1988, with minimal acting experience, she’s the daughter of Shakti Kapoor.
Mohit raised an eyebrow but quickly noticed another line in the notes.
There was a project in the works featuring Amitabh Bachchan and Ben Kingsley called Teen Patti.
She had already shared the screen with some serious actors.
“Send me more info on Shraddha Kapoor,” Mohit instructed into his phone.
“Yes, Shakti Kapoor’s daughter,” he clarified for the casting director.
“No, don’t make any offers just yet.
Let’s bring her in for a test.”
He hung up, and for the first time that morning, the issue of finding a female lead felt a bit less frustrating.
Landing Aashiqui 2 hadn’t given Sidharth any breathing room—Barry John made sure of that.
“You’ve got a film now,” Barry had said coldly right after Sid signed the contract.
“So, you have fewer excuses to mess up.”
Just two days later, Sid walked into the acting studio to find Varun already there.
“Hero!” Varun shouted, pulling him into a bear hug.
“You’ve got a second film lined up before your first one even hits theaters!”
“Technically, I haven’t signed it yet,” Sid chuckled.
Varun scrutinized his face.
“I’m trying to picture you heartbroken, but you look way too happy.”
“I can change that,” Sid shot back.
“Just give me twenty minutes of your company.”
They started stretching, exchanging playful jabs about Varun’s upcoming film meetings and his latest dates, until a sharp clap rang out in the room.
Barry John stood a few meters away, his expression suggesting he was regretting his life choices.
“Are you done?” Barry asked.
“Good.
Today, we’re doing comedy.”
A hush fell over the room.
Sid glanced at Varun.
“Comedy?”
“Yes,” Barry replied, splitting the class into pairs.
Naturally, Sid and Varun ended up together.
“You’ll create a three-minute scene.
The setup is simple: two people trying to hide the same embarrassing secret from each other.
Go for it.”
Sid hesitated, raising a hand.
“How does comedy help with dramatic work?”
Barry’s face shifted from neutral to utterly disappointed.
“You think comedy is easy? The source of this chapter is g.com.
You believe drama is serious acting while comedy is just for laughs?”
Sid remained silent.
“Comedy is one of the toughest forms of acting,” Barry said, pacing back and forth in the room.
“You can get away with a mediocre dramatic scene if you have some background music, a few tears, and a close-up shot.
But comedy?
It can flop in an instant.
It’s all about timing, rhythm, and physical control.
If you deliver a joke too fast, it falls flat.
Too slow?
Same result.
And if you make a face before the punchline, the audience is already in on the joke.”
He halted right in front of Sid.
“Comedy demands discipline because the actor has to make precision look completely effortless.”
Barry showcased a line in a straightforward manner, then repeated it with a slight change in pitch and a tiny pause.
The room erupted in laughter.
“See that?” Barry said, locking eyes with Sid.
“You really need this.
Especially you.
You tend to over-control your expressions.
Comedy pushes you to let go a bit.
You’re scared of looking foolish, but if you can’t embrace the ridiculous, you can’t tap into the truth.”
He stepped back, addressing everyone in the room.
“A truly great comedian can often slip into tragic drama without breaking a sweat.
That’s because comedy teaches you about rhythm, observation, and vulnerability.
The clown understands tragedy.
The best clowns can make you laugh while you can see the pain behind their eyes.
Once you grasp that, tragedy becomes a breeze.”
The phrase echoed in Sid’s mind: The clown knows tragedy.
He thought of Robin Williams, Jim Carrey, Irrfan Khan, Paresh Rawal—actors who could seamlessly transition from wild laughter to deep sorrow in a heartbeat.
“Sid,” Varun whispered, snapping his fingers to get his attention.
“Where did you drift off to?
What’s our secret?”
Sid smirked.
“We both broke Karan’s bed.”
Varun’s eyes went wide.
“Althought you are incorrect and that sounds so wrong.
Let’s do it.”
They jumped into the exercise.
For the next hour, Sid fully embraced the ridiculousness of it all.
He pulled goofy faces, let his voice crack, moved in all sorts of awkward ways, and stopped fretting about whether he resembled a leading man.
When a joke hit just right, it felt like a rush; but when it fell flat, it was a quick lesson learned.
By the time class wrapped up, Sid’s face was sore from all the expressions he’d made.
He plopped down, grabbed his notebook, and scribbled at the bottom of the page:
The clown knows tragedy.
Stop trying to look sad.
Discover the humor within Rahul.
Rahul Jaykar couldn’t spend two hours on screen looking like he was in a perpetual state of gloom.
He needed to tease, laugh, annoy, crack silly jokes, and fall head over heels in love.
If there was no spark in him from the get-go, his eventual downfall wouldn’t resonate with the audience at all.
You can’t mourn a man who’s already dead from the very first scene.