AN: By the looks of it, Kiara is almost finalised as one love interest.
For the second one, it’s close between Kriti and Mrunal, followed by Shraddha.
So I am doing another poll for second love interest.
Kriti Sanon
Mrunal Thakur
Shraddha Kapoor
Alia Bhatt
Isha Ambani
Signing a film, Sid realized, was a lot less dramatic than actually landing one.
There wasn’t a photographer poised to capture the moment, nor a producer sliding a leather-bound contract across a polished mahogany table while proclaiming that a star had just been born.
But there was a mountain of paperwork.
A whole lot of it.
Sid found himself sitting next to Reshma in a conference room at the Matrix office, the contract laid out in front of them.
On his other side, a lawyer from the agency was methodically flipping through pages, marking sections with a bright red pen.
The contract had come in from T-Series just the day before.
Reshma had firmly insisted he hold off on signing it right away.
“Read it,” she had said.
“I will.”
“You said that last time.”
“And I did read the Matrix contract.”
“Good.
Make it a habit.”
So, he read.
The agreement included way more than just stating that Sidharth Malhotra would play Rahul Jaykar in Aashiqui 2.
It detailed dates, exclusivity during certain shooting periods, and promotional commitments.
There were public appearances, dubbing sessions, reshoots, and approvals for costumes and looks, along with strict rules against making any drastic physical changes without the production’s okay.
A clause mandated his availability for music launches and publicity events.
Another one controlled how his name and image could be used on posters, trailers, and other promotional materials.
There were even provisions for termination if he didn’t show up to set consistently.
Insurance requirements, travel, and accommodation were also included in case production moved outside of Mumbai.
And then, there was the payment breakdown.
Sid paused.
“That’s it?”
Reshma glanced over.
“What do you mean?”
“The fee.”
It was ten lakhs.
She gave him a wry smile.
“Welcome to the world of newcomers.”
Sid looked back down.
The amount wasn’t awful.
For Bunty Sharma, it would have been a fortune.
But for a leading actor in a commercial Hindi film, it suddenly felt a lot smaller—especially after Matrix’s cut, taxes, living expenses, training, and whatever other costs would eventually pop up.
He gestured toward the payment schedule.
“Is this the part?”
The lawyer leaned in, tracing a finger down the column.
A payment upon execution.
Another when principal photography kicks off.
Additional payments linked to production milestones.
The final sum would come after he wrapped up his main work and any necessary dubbing.
“They don’t pay everything upfront,” Reshma chimed in.
“That’s pretty standard.”
“Production has to protect itself,” the lawyer added.
“And you protect yourself by ensuring the triggers are clearly defined.”
Sid nodded, his eyes scanning the text.
“What happens if they delay?”
The lawyer highlighted the relevant penalty clause.
Sid read it, then read it again.
He was realizing that contracts felt a lot more serious when the money involved was his.
Reshma observed him quietly.
“What’s up?” Sid asked.
“Nothing.”
“You’re staring at me.”
“I’m just impressed.”
“Why’s that?”
“Most twenty-year-olds in your position just want to know where to sign.
They’re usually too thrilled to be part of it to actually read anything.”
Sid glanced back at the document.
“My dad always told me to read contracts carefully.”
“Your dad sounds wise.”
“He’ll be pleased to hear that.”
There had already been some back-and-forth.
The initial draft gave production way too much control over his schedule, which Reshma wasn’t happy about.
Another clause had been tightened up so Sid could still take on unrelated work during breaks, as long as it didn’t mess with his approved look.
Matrix had also limited the number of promotional days he was required to do.
Listening to Reshma debate the wording made one thing crystal clear to Sid: this was exactly what representation was all about.
He would have had no idea which clauses were standard, which were aggressive, and which could turn into a hassle down the line.
He was no stranger to movies, or at least he had a good memory of them.
But that didn’t mean Bunty Sharma had a clue about entertainment law.
“Happy?” Reshma asked, breaking the silence.
Sid flipped through the last few pages.
“Yes.”
“Any questions?”
“Just one.
Why does everyone feel the need to use ten words when two would do?”
The lawyer chuckled lightly, but Reshma remained serious.
“Legal bills,” she replied flatly, handing him a pen.
“Sign here.”
Sid glanced at the signature line, and for a brief moment, everything in his mind went still.
Aashiqui 2.
He remembered thinking about that film while sitting at a clunky Windows computer, just two weeks after stepping into this new world.
And now, here was the contract, right in front of him.
He signed: Sidharth Malhotra.
The signature wasn’t an exact match to the one he’d seen on old documents in his room, but it was close enough.
The lawyer witnessed the signature, and then the copies were split—one for the agency, one for production, and one for Sid.
That was it.
He was officially the male lead of Aashiqui 2.
Reshma extended her hand.
“Congratulations.”
Sid shook it.
“Thanks.”
“Enjoy it for five minutes.”
“Only five?”
“Then it’s time to get to work.”
Sid grinned.
“I’m already on it.”
“I know.” She pulled a hefty blue folder toward him.
“And this just arrived for you.”
Sid frowned.
“What is it?”
“Script.”
His playful mood evaporated.
He took the folder, and the cover was simple, featuring just two bold words:
AASHIQUI 2.
Below that was the current draft of the screenplay.
Sid stared at the page.
He had seen the film, remembered the scenes, the iconic songs, the performances, and the heartbreaking ending.
But he had never held the actual screenplay before.
This version could still change—lines might be altered, scenes could be cut or added.
But for now, this was Rahul Jaykar in written form.
His Rahul Jaykar.
Sid ran his thumb along the crisp edge of the pages.
“When do the workshops start?”
“Very soon.”
“And shooting?”
“The current plan is in about a month.”
His eyes widened a bit.
“A month?”
“Problem?”
“No.”
It was absolutely a problem.
Reshma studied his face closely.
“You should start growing that beard.”
Sid instinctively ran his fingers along his jaw.
“Did Mohit really say that?”
“Yep, several times.”
“I’ve already stopped shaving.”
“I can tell.”
There wasn’t much to see—just a hint of stubble that suggested he might have forgotten to shave that morning.
Reshma scrutinized his jaw with a critical eye.
“This could become a problem.”
Sid knew she had a point.
Some guys could grow full beards by sixteen, while others were stuck with patchy cheeks.
“What if it doesn’t grow?” he asked.
Maybe a fake beard.”
Sid grimaced at the thought.
Reshma chuckled.
“You’d rather go that route?”
“Definitely not.”
“Then you need to eat better.”
He raised an eyebrow, puzzled.
“What does food have to do with a beard?”
“Your body needs nutrients.
Do you think hair just grows on its own?”
“Is there some secret food for beards?”
She laughed again.
“No magic potion.
Just protein—like eggs, fish if you eat it, nuts, and veggies.
Don’t starve yourself trying to maintain those model abs.”
Sid glanced down at himself.
“That sounds expensive.”
“It can be.” She pointed a finger at him.
“And don’t forget about sleep.
You need proper rest.”
Sid made a mental note.
Unfortunately, eating better meant spending more cash.
His signing payment helped, but the thrill of seeing that money hit his account faded fast as real-life expenses loomed: rent, training, transport, decent food, meeting clothes, agent fees, and that anniversary debt to Varun—which Varun stubbornly refused to let go of.
Being an actor seemed to require spending money just to look like you could earn it.
What a fantastic business model.
Reshma tapped the script.
“More importantly, learn that.”
“I will.”
“Don’t just memorize every line without thinking.”
“Why not?”
“Drafts change.
You need to understand the character.”
That was the real challenge.
Sid nodded.
“I’ll get to know him.”
He attempted to read during the ride home, but the auto-rickshaw bounced over every pothole in Mumbai.
After feeling queasy, he finally shut the script and decided to wait until he got back to the apartment.
Once he set the folder down on the dining table, he got serious about it.
Rahul Jaykar.
Reading about the character on paper felt worlds apart from recalling him on screen.
In his previous life, Bunty had watched Aditya Roy Kapur—the flowing hair, the ruggedly handsome face, the slurred confidence, the desperate love.
But on the page, an actor had nowhere to hide.
Rahul had his flaws.
He was ugly in some ways.
Selfish.
Insecure yet generous, cruel when drunk, and deeply loving when sober.
He could see Aarohi’s talent before anyone else, but he was also capable of tearing down the woman he adored.
Sid went through the text, circling passages, jotting down notes, and firing off relentless questions: Why does he drink here?
What happened just before this scene?
Does he really believe what he’s saying?
When does jealousy kick in?
When does shame take over?
And then there was the music, a huge challenge.
Sid was well aware of what Aashiqui 2 had accomplished.
The soundtrack didn’t just complement the film; it was its very soul.
Tum Hi Ho.
Sunn Raha Hai.
Chahun Main Ya Naa.
Songs that Bunty could still recite more than a decade later.
That meant Rahul couldn’t come off as an amateur actor awkwardly waiting for playback tracks to finish.
Sid had to internalize every breath, every lyric, every subtle change in tone.
He needed to know when to breathe, how a singer held a microphone, how the jaw moved on a sustained note, and where the body held tension.
Poor lip-syncing would ruin an otherwise powerful scene—especially for a character defined as a generational music star.
He scribbled a note in his notebook: Master performance lip-sync.
Then another: Watch live singers.
He looked over Rahul’s dialogue again.
To truly get to know this man, Sid realized he needed to understand two fundamental states: intoxication and failure.
Sid was well aware that actors had their share of struggles; after all, he lived with two of them.
But musicians?
They had their own unique world of challenges: late nights in dive bars, gigs that barely paid the bills, exhausting recording sessions, singing backup, countless unreleased demos, and the endless cycle of empty promises from music directors, all while performing for audiences that seemed more interested in their drinks than the music.
He felt the need to dive into that world himself.
He wanted to talk to the real fighters, not the stars, but those who were just starting out like Aarohi or those who were on a downward spiral like Rahul.
He took a deep breath and circled another passage in his notes.
One month.
He had exactly one month before the cameras would start rolling, and for the first time, that deadline felt overwhelmingly close.
That evening, he decided to call home.
His mother picked up on the second ring.
“Siddhu?”
“Hey, Ma.”
“Oh, so you finally remembered us?”
“I called just three days ago!”
“Three days is a long time.”
Sid chuckled.
“I got another film.”
A heavy silence settled on the line, followed by a sharp, “What?”
“I signed today.”
Her voice burst through the receiver.
“Sunil!”
Sid instinctively pulled the Nokia away from his ear.
“Maa—”
“Sunil!
Come here quickly!” He could hear heavy footsteps approaching.
“What film, Siddhu?”
“Aashiqui 2.”
“Aashiqui?
The one with Rahul Roy?”
“A sequel,” Sid clarified.
“Aashiqui had such beautiful songs,” she said, her voice softening with a hint of nostalgia.
“Fingers crossed this one does too.”
“When do you start?”
“We shoot next month.”
“So soon?” A note of concern crept into her voice.
His father’s voice suddenly took over the line.
“What’s going on?”
His mother immediately launched into a rapid-fire explanation in Punjabi—Siddhu had signed a new movie, and shooting was set to begin next month.
His father chimed in.
“You signed?”
“Yes, Dad.”
“You haven’t even released the first one yet.”
There was no immediate congratulations, and Sid could sense where this conversation was headed.
“I know.”
“Then why the rush?”
“The opportunity came up.”
“Opportunities keep coming, Siddhu.”
Not always, Sid thought to himself.
Because I’ve already witnessed it become a historic blockbuster in another universe.
Sid opted for a more cautious response.
“I’ve read the script.”
“Today?”
“Yep.”
“The whole thing?”
“Most of it.”
His father let out a long sigh.
“I’m not saying you shouldn’t work.”
“I get it.”
“Your first film is set to release in October.
Just let it come out.
See how people react, how the industry responds.”
It was solid, practical advice.
If Sid didn’t have the advantage of future knowledge, it would’ve been the smartest move: wait, evaluate his strengths and weaknesses, then decide on the next step.
But Sid understood the price of waiting.
Aashiqui 2 wouldn’t just sit on the shelf for him.
“I have a plan, Dad,” Sid said softly.
“It’s a smaller film than Student of the Year.
It’s a romantic, music-driven drama.
A totally different character.”
“Do you trust the director?”
“I think so.”
“You think?”
“I’ve met him.
He knows what he wants.”
“And the producer?”
“T-Series.”
A brief silence followed before his father asked, “Did you read your contract?”
Sid grinned.
“Every single page.”
“Good.”
“Good.” His father’s resistance started to fade.
“You really want this?”
“Yes.” It was the most genuine answer Sid could give.
He wanted it with all his heart.
“Then do it right.
No half-measures just because another film is on the horizon.”
“I won’t.”
His father sighed again.
“You’re moving really fast, Siddhu.”
“I know.”
“Maybe too fast.”
Sid glanced at the script lying on the table.
Maybe.
But the future wasn’t going to wait for him to catch up.
“I’ll be careful.”
His father’s tone softened.
“I trust you.”
Four simple words.
Sid looked down at his lap.
“Thanks, Dad.”
His mother quickly took back the phone.
“Who’s the actress?”
Sid chuckled.
“We don’t know yet.”
“No heroine?”
“They’re still casting.”
“Then how can the film start?”
“They’ll find someone soon.”
“Hmm.”
After yet another lecture about eating right, getting enough sleep, and not letting himself get too thin, Sid finally hung up the phone.
He set the device down, and his father’s words echoed in the stillness of the room: Too fast.
It wasn’t the pace that unnerved Sid; it was the pressure to be utterly competent.
He had taken on a role that required far more than his current acting chops could deliver.
That meant he needed to step up his training.
The next afternoon, Sid approached Barry after class.
“I could really use your help.”
Barry looked up, raising an eyebrow.
“Again?”
“You’re the teacher, after all.”
“This is starting to feel like harassment.”
Sid flashed an innocent grin.
Barry stuffed a pile of papers into his bag.
“What’s the issue this time?”
“Drunkenness.”
Barry froze in his tracks.
“No.”
Sid frowned.
“I haven’t even asked yet!”
“You’re about to ask if you should get drunk to nail the character.”
Sid’s silence spoke volumes.
Barry regarded him with exaggerated disappointment.
“I swear I wasn’t going to,” Sid protested weakly.
Silence hung between them.
As Sid followed him toward the door, he asked, “So how do I make it believable?”
“Observe.”
“I did.
At that party.”
“Drunk partygoers aren’t your character.”
Fair enough.
Sid leaned against a nearby desk.
“I have to portray someone who drinks all the time.”
Barry paused, looking at him thoughtfully.
“Then learn the mechanics of the behavior.”
“How do I do that?”
Barry pondered for a moment, a sly grin creeping onto his face.
“Johnny Walker.”
Sid blinked.
“The actor?”
“Who else would I mean?”
Of course, Sid knew the name—the iconic comedy actor renowned for his classic drunk routines in mid-century Hindi cinema.
“Badruddin Kazi,” Barry added.
“Johnny Walker.”
Sid nodded, finally connecting the dots.
“Right.”
“He built a career playing drunks, but did you know he was a complete teetotaler?”
Sid’s interest piqued.
“Audiences bought into his performances completely,” Barry continued.
“What do you think actors did before method acting turned into a way to make everyone around them miserable?”
Sid chuckled.
“You don’t have to turn into Rahul Jaykar when the cameras stop rolling,” Barry clarified.
“What you really need to grasp is how alcohol affects a person’s motor skills.
Sometimes, balance just goes out the window.
Speech?
Words can get all jumbled or stretched out.
But pay close attention to the struggle: one guy might get really loud, while another suddenly goes quiet.
One person might stumble, while another walks super carefully because he knows he’s losing his balance.”
That resonated with what Sid had picked up earlier.
“The effort to appear sober.”
“Exactly!” Barry said, nodding with approval.
“Often, the most powerful choice isn’t to act drunk; it’s to portray the character battling for control against the effects of alcohol.”
Sid made a mental note of that insight.
“Johnny Walker had a great sense of rhythm,” Barry continued, adjusting his stance to illustrate the lag between intention and action.
“Keep an eye on the eyes.
Notice how the feet shift weight.
Pay attention to where the speech stumbles.
But don’t just mimic him.”
“Then why bring him up?”
“To grasp the core principles.
You’re tackling a tragic role, and he was all about comedy, but the physical aspects are similar.
It’s just the dramatic intent that shifts.”
It all connected back to their earlier lessons: The clown knows tragedy.
Sid quickly scribbled down a note.
“Which films should I check out?”
Barry listed a few titles, and Sid hurriedly wrote them down.
“Don’t forget to watch other actors, too,” Barry added.
“Like who?”
“Go find them on your own.
I’ve given you plenty of homework.” Barry threw his bag over his shoulder.
“One last thing: don’t just study performances of drunkenness.
Spend time with real musicians who are struggling.”
“Should I interview them?”
“No, don’t approach them like a journalist,” Barry advised.
“Just hang out.
Listen.
Technique is important, Sid, but real-life experiences teach you so much more.”
With that, Barry exited, leaving Sid alone in the rehearsal room.
The local DVD rental shop was filled with the unmistakable scent of plastic cases and a hint of stale dust.
Sid spent a good forty minutes sifting through the disarray before the young guy at the counter finally recognized him.
“Hey…
you’re the guy from the Student of the Year trailer, right?”
Sid glanced up from a bottom shelf.
“Yeah, that’s me.”
The clerk beamed.
“The trailer looks awesome, man!
When’s it coming out?”
“October.”
“Cool!
My girlfriend’s really into the other guy, though.”
Sid raised an eyebrow at him.
The clerk’s grin faded as he realized his slip.
“Uh…
sorry about that, man.”
Sid couldn’t help but laugh.
“No worries, it’s all good.” Looks like Varun is already charming the ladies in this universe too.
“I’m on the hunt for some old Johnny Walker films.”
“Old stuff, huh?” The clerk blinked, then pointed to a dusty corner of the store.
Sid rummaged through the collection, picking out Pyaasa, C.I.D., and Mr.
& Mrs.
55, along with a few Guru Dutt classics and some compilations showcasing legendary performances.
By the time he walked out, his bag was heavy, and his wallet had taken quite a hit.
Turns out, acting isn’t the cheapest gig.
When he got back to the apartment, it was eerily quiet.
Vidyut was still in Hyderabad, sending excited updates about long shooting days, intense action rehearsals, and working with Junior NTR and Ileana D’Cruz.
Sushant was tied up with long hours on set and wouldn’t be back until late.
Sid had the whole place to himself.
Just what he needed.