AN: There are equal votes between Kriti and Mrunal.
And one guy pointed out that Mrunal had many surgeries to achieve her face and figure, which every actress has done.
I will try to attach a photo of Kriti and Mrunal around 2012-13 in the comments if I find it.
The photo with the most likes will be selected.
Karan called that evening.
Sid had just wrapped up making tea when his Nokia started buzzing, skidding across the table.
He took a quick look at the screen: Karan Johar.
He answered, “Hello?”
“So.” Karan’s voice was dripping with satisfaction.
Sid chuckled, leaning back against the cool kitchen counter.
“So?”
“I hear someone has officially stepped into the role of a romantic hero.”
“Word spreads fast.”
“Of course it does,” Karan replied smoothly.
“I made half the calls myself.”
There was enough truth in that to make Sid laugh out loud.
“Thanks for that.”
“Don’t get all sentimental on me.”
“I’m being serious, Karan.”
“I know.” Karan’s tone softened just a bit.
“You did a great job.”
Sid glanced down at the mug in his hand, steam curling up into the kitchen light.
“I know you played a big part in this.”
“I introduced you.
You did the audition.”
That sounded familiar.
Everyone around him seemed intent on reminding him of the boundaries, and Sid appreciated that.
“It still mattered,” Sid insisted.
“It did.
Bhushan even suggested I should pay to ghost produce it.” Karan chuckled.
That was probably why Sid liked him.
Karan offered help but understood that help had its worth.
In the film industry, once cameras, schedules, and money were in play, there was little room for pure charity.
“So,” Karan continued, his tone sharpening again, “what did Mohit say?”
“Grow a beard.”
Karan burst out laughing.
“Spot on.”
Sid rubbed his jaw, feeling the light stubble.
“You too?”
“You look like a kid.”
“I’m twenty.”
“Exactly.
Too young to be a brooding singer.
A beard adds some maturity and makes you look a bit intimidating.”
“You don’t have a beard.”
“I don’t need to look intimidating.”
“Very funny.”
“Are you happy?” Karan asked, dropping the playful tone.
Sid took a moment to let it all sink in.
The reality was still settling, but it felt right.
“Yeah.
I am.”
“Good.” There was a brief pause.
“Don’t forget about Student of the Year.”
Sid straightened up, his tone shifting to serious.
“I won’t.”
“Promotions are coming up soon.”
“I know.”
“And now you’ve got another production interested in workshops and prep.”
“I’ll handle it.
I have a schedule.”
Karan made a low, thoughtful sound.
“You say that with a lot of confidence.”
“I made a schedule.”
Sid could almost hear Karan raising an eyebrow on the other end.
“Who are you?
Are you really the same AD from My Name is Khan who always forgot the day schedules?”
“Goodbye, Karan.”
Karan chuckled again.
“Congratulations, Sid.
Make it count.”
“I’ll try.”
“No,” Karan interrupted, making Sid freeze.
“Make it count.”
And just like that, the line went silent.
Sid stared at the quiet phone screen, then a smile crept onto his face.
Suddenly, everyone seemed to have sky-high expectations.
That was probably his own doing for pushing so hard.
In the days that followed, Sid’s life fell into a strict, steady routine.
Wake up early.
Exercise.
Eat.
Study.
Repeat.
Vidyut would have been proud, a thought that made Sid cringe a little.
The first few mornings after Vidyut left, he almost skipped the routine.
No one was there to pull him out of bed.
No one would notice if he indulged in an extra couple of hours of sleep.
That excuse only held until Sid caught a glimpse of himself in the foggy bathroom mirror and remembered why he started this journey.
Discipline was key.
The original Sidharth had enough of it to carve out a successful modeling career just by sheer will.
Sid had no plans to let himself go soft.
So, he woke up before seven every morning.
First up was stretching, followed by some body-weight exercises: push-ups, squats, core workouts, and those tricky balance drills that Vidyut had drilled into him.
It was all pretty basic stuff—nothing too flashy, just enough to get the sweat trickling down his back and his muscles feeling pleasantly sore.
After the workout, it was time for breakfast, and that’s when Vidyut’s absence hit the hardest.
Sid could manage in the kitchen, sure.
His eggs were passable, the toast was usually safe from burning, and the tea was drinkable.
But honestly, none of it was anything to write home about.
Maybe they had just gotten too used to Vidyut’s cooking.
One morning, he found himself chewing on a rather bland omelette, deep in thought.
“This needs something…”
Sushant zipped by, snatched a piece right off Sid’s plate with his fingers, popped it in his mouth, and instantly grimaced.
“Salt,” Sushant mumbled through his chewing.
“I put salt in it.”
“More salt.”
Sid rolled his eyes.
“You guys are so ungrateful.”
Sushant grabbed his bag from the couch.
“I’m running late.”
“Again?”
“Television,” Sushant replied with a sigh as he made his way to the front door.
That one word explained everything.
Sushant’s soap opera schedule was relentless.
He’d dash out before Sid could finish his breakfast and often stumble back in well past midnight.
Sid was starting to understand why TV actors found it tough to transition to films—they were working themselves to the bone just to keep up with the broadcast demands, leaving no time to breathe, let alone prepare.
“Make sure you eat something decent today,” Sid called after him.
“I will!”
“You say that every single day.”
Sushant paused at the door, flashing a grin.
“You’re starting to sound like Vidyut.”
Sid’s face twisted in mock horror.
“Take that back.”
Sushant laughed as he pulled the door shut behind him.
Once the quiet settled back in, Sid finished off his cold breakfast, washed the plate, and settled down to tackle the real work of his day.
Movies.
Old films, classic performances, masterclasses in subtext.
He started with Johnny Walker, then moved on to Guru Dutt, Balraj Sahni, Dilip Kumar, Dev Anand, Waheeda Rehman, Meena Kumari, Motilal, and Sanjeev Kumar.
He watched everything Barry Basu recommended, then used those films to track down other directors and actors.
Some days, Sid barely moved from the sofa except to change the disc.
It didn’t feel like entertainment anymore; it was research.
A stack of spiral notebooks sat beside him, quickly filling with observation notes.
Humour during pain makes the pain worse.
(Underlined twice) Get faster updates on g.com.
The more classic films Sid dove into, the more he cringed at how casually he had once judged acting.
Those incredible performances seemed so effortless, and therein lay their sting.
When a bad actor took the stage, it made the audience acutely aware of the acting itself.
But a truly great actor?
They made you forget there was even a camera rolling.
Dilip Kumar could sit in complete stillness and somehow fill a quiet room with energy.
Guru Dutt could glance away from someone and convey more yearning than Sid could express in three pages of dialogue.
Johnny Walker could turn a clumsy stumble into a laugh-out-loud moment without it feeling rehearsed.
Balraj Sahni moved as if the camera had just happened upon a real person going about his daily life.
Sid hit pause, rewound the scene by ten seconds, and watched it again.
“How?” he murmured, leaning in closer to the bulky screen.
The movement was minuscule.
Just a flicker in the eyes, a slight tightening at the corner of the mouth.
That was all it took.
Leaning back, Sid jotted down another note in his notebook: Stop trying to show the audience.
Let them piece it together on their own.
No more expositions.
He became so engrossed in his task that he didn’t notice the first message.
Or the second.
Or the third.
The Nokia sat on the dining table behind him, quietly buzzing against the wood.
Sid was now watching a scene for the fourth time, his notebook perched on his knee, completely absorbed in the timing of a beat.
The phone vibrated again.
He ignored it.
Another minute ticked by.
It buzzed once more.
Then, the unmistakable sound of a ringtone sliced through the movie’s audio.
Sid froze.
He turned around, glancing at the blinking Nokia, then at the wall clock, and back to the phone.
A familiar wave of dread washed over him.
He jumped up and checked the screen: Alia calling.
Just below, a notification icon showed three missed messages.
Sid winced as he opened them quickly:
What are you doing?
(15 mins later) Are you busy?
Are you ignoring me?
“Oh, shit,” Sid muttered, answering just as the call was about to go to voicemail.
“Hello?”
“What are you doing?” No greeting or any pleasantries.
Sid cleared his throat.
“So, I was just—”
“I’ve been trying to reach you.”
“I know, I just saw your messages.”
“How do you ‘just see’ three messages over two hours?”
Sid started pacing toward the kitchen.
“I was studying.”
“Studying what?”
“Acting.”
A heavy silence hung in the air.
“For two hours?”
“Actually, longer.”
“Sid.”
There was a distinct, sharp tone to how she said his name when she was annoyed.
He was starting to recognize it all too well.
“I’m sorry,” Sid said.
“I got really into it.”
“You couldn’t check your phone even once?”
“I honestly forgot.”
“How do you forget your phone?”
It was such a modern question that Sid almost laughed, but he caught himself.
Back in 2009, people really did forget their phones, even if Alia clearly didn’t.
“I swear, I didn’t hear it buzzing,” Sid tried to explain.
“I only noticed the call because it wouldn’t stop ringing.”
Wrong move.
“Wow,” she replied coldly.
Sid shut his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose.
“That didn’t come out right.”
“Yeah, it didn’t.” Her voice had a sharp edge.
“Alia, just listen.” Sid paused, taking a deep breath.
He needed to calm this down before a small annoyance turned into a big fight.
His past relationship experiences had taught him one crucial lesson: defending every little mistake usually turned a five-minute misunderstanding into a three-hour argument.
“I’m sorry,” he said firmly, offering no excuses.
“I should have checked my phone.”
Alia didn’t respond right away, but the silence felt less tense.
“I’ve been completely obsessed with this film performance,” Sid continued smoothly.
“I wasn’t ignoring you.
I’d have to be crazy to ignore the girl who got me this watch.”
“Are you wearing it?” she asked, her tone softening a bit.
Sid glanced at his wrist.
“Yep, right now.”
“Really?”
“Of course.
I even showed it to Sushant this morning.”
“What did he say?”
“He said I don’t have to brag that I have a very rich and loving girlfriend.” That wasn’t remotely what Sushant had said, but it achieved the desired effect.
Alia let out a soft laugh.
“Good.”
Crisis averted.
Sid leaned back against the kitchen counter, feeling the weight lift off his shoulders.
“And I told him you were absolutely stunning, too.”
“You really said that?”
“Of course I did.”
“You’re just making that up.”
“Well, maybe just a tiny bit.”
“Sid!”
He chuckled softly.
“So, are you still mad?”
“I never said I wasn’t.”
“On a scale of one to ten, how mad are you?”
“Seven.”
“Can it go down at all?”
“Nope.”
“What if I tell you I missed you?”
There was a brief pause on the line, and Sid couldn’t help but smile, knowing he’d struck a chord.
“…Six,” she finally admitted.
“I miss you so much.”
“You’re such a fool, but let’s just meet at the same cafe,” she replied, her tone now light and free of any bitterness.
“By the way,” she added, suddenly recalling something.
“Congratulations.”
Sid’s smile turned genuine.
“Thanks!”
“It’s official then?”
“Really?”
“Signed and sealed.”
“And you didn’t think to call me right away?” The annoyance crept back in, a warning light flashing in his mind.
Sid picked up on it immediately.
“Karan called, then Reshma, then my parents—”
“And your girlfriend?”
“I was planning to call you tonight,” Sid said smoothly.
“I wanted to make sure I had enough time to really talk.”
“Hmm.
No time for the last three days?”
Sid had quickly learned to be wary of that particular tone, but she moved on.
“So, what’s the movie about?”
“A romance.”
“I know that much.”
“It’s got an amazing soundtrack.”
“I know that too!
You’re not giving me any new info.”
“NDA, Alia,” Sid said with a laugh.
Reshma had specifically told him to avoid casually discussing unreleased scripts.
Alia let out a dramatic sigh into the phone.
“I’m not the press, Siddhu.
I won’t spill anything.”
“I know you won’t.”
“Then spill the beans!”
“Can’t.
Professional ethics.”
“You’re so dull now.”
“It’s called being mature, something you might never grasp,” Sid replied, correcting her.
“Boring,” she echoed, and he could practically hear the pout in her voice.
“So, what are you doing to get ready?”
“Just catching up on old movies, taking some acting classes, hitting the gym, and reading the script.”
“Since when did you turn into a method actor?”
“I’m not going that far,” Sid chuckled.
“I just want to nail this.”
Her surprise at his sincerity was evident, and her tone softened.
“You will.”
“I really hope so.”
“I know you will.”
Sid turned his gaze back to the frozen image on the TV.
It felt odd to receive such unwavering confidence from someone who had only been in his life for a few weeks.
A small part of him felt a strong urge to prove he was worthy of that faith.
“Seeing you dive into this makes me want to jump into another film,” Alia said thoughtfully.
“Oh really?” Sid perked up, intrigued.
“Got anything in mind?”
“No,” she replied, a hint of frustration creeping in.
“Karan thinks I should hold off until Student of the Year is out.”
“That’s what he told me, too.”
“But you didn’t wait.
You went out and found something.”
“I just got lucky.”
“Maybe I should start looking for something as well.”
There was some logic in that—dangerous logic.
Then came the line Sid wasn’t prepared for: “What about your film?”
He froze.
“What about it?”
“I could be in it with you.”
Panic set in.
Immediate, blaring alarm bells rang in his mind.
No way.
Absolutely not.
Alia as Aarohi?
Mohit had already dismissed that idea, but beyond that, Sid understood the character and knew Alia—young, sheltered, still figuring things out as an actress.
She just wasn’t the right fit for the role.
More importantly, Shraddha Kapoor needed to be part of this project if they wanted to keep the timeline intact.
But he couldn’t voice any of that.
“It’s a romantic movie, right?” Alia said, completely oblivious to the storm brewing in Sid’s mind.
“We already have great chemistry.”
Sid rubbed his forehead, feeling the weight of the moment.
“I guess…”
“You guess?”
“Of course we do,” he corrected himself quickly.
“Good answer,” she replied with a playful hum.
“Maybe I should ask Dad to have a word with Mohit.”
Sid shot up straight.
“No!”
The word came out sharper than he intended, and the silence that followed felt heavy.
“What?” Alia’s voice shifted, now laced with suspicion.
Sid’s thoughts raced.
He needed a solid excuse—something that wouldn’t bruise her ego, undermine her talent, or prompt Mahesh Bhatt to call Mohit Suri within minutes.
Then, a wild idea struck him.
“Do you know what happens when couples work together on intense films?” Sid asked, choosing his words carefully.
“What happens?”
“They end up fighting,” he said, diving headfirst into his own narrative.
“All the time.”
“That’s not true.”
“It totally is!
Just think about it,” he insisted, conjuring up confidence from nowhere.
“Long hours, the same set day in and day out, repeating the same scenes, the same drama.
You lose your life outside of work.
One person gets annoyed with a take, the other takes it to heart, and boom—you’re bickering on set.
Then you go home, and the argument just keeps going.”
Alia fell silent.
Sid seized the moment.
“And picture this: we’re doing heavy romantic scenes all day, and then we end up arguing because one of us thinks the other isn’t putting in enough effort.”
“I wouldn’t do that!”
“Oh, you definitely would,” Sid said with a warm laugh.
“You’d have notes for me.”
“I give good notes!
Remember the kiss scene in…”
“Exactly!”
She burst into laughter, and Sid felt the tension in his chest start to lift.
“I really like that we have our own separate lives right now,” Sid said softly, surprised to find a hint of sincerity in his own excuse.
“You have your projects, I have mine.
When we get together, we actually have things to talk about that aren’t just work.”
Alia stayed quiet for a long moment.
Sid held his breath, wondering if he had pushed his luck too far.
“You don’t want to work with me?” she asked softly, a hint of real hurt slipping into her voice.
Sid felt a pang of guilt.
“I do,” he replied, softening his tone completely.
“I’d love to, eventually.
When the right project comes along.”
“And what exactly is the ‘right project’?”
“Something fun,” Sid suggested quickly.
“Maybe a romantic comedy.
You know, something where we’re not stuck crying and yelling at each other in dark rooms for three months.”
Alia let out a light laugh.
“So your movie is sad, then.”
Sid froze.
Oh no.
“I didn’t say that!”
“You just did!”
“No, I didn’t.”
“You definitely did!”
“NDA, Alia!”
She laughed even harder this time.
“Siddhu, you are absolutely terrible at keeping secrets.”
Sid managed a weak smile against the phone.
“I neither deny nor confirm anything.”
“Fine,” Alia said, her spirits clearly lifted.
“I won’t ask Dad.”
A wave of relief washed over him so quickly that he nearly buckled at the knees.
He leaned back against the kitchen counter.
“But,” she added, “I’m going to look for another script.
And if I find something better than yours, don’t get jealous.”
“I’ll do my best to handle the embarrassment.”
“You’d better.
And stop hiding away watching black-and-white movies all day.
Call me tomorrow.”
“I will,” Sid promised.
“I promise.”
When the call finally ended, Sid lingered in the quiet kitchen for a moment, staring down at the silver Nokia.
Manipulation.
There was no other way to put it.
He had used relationship psychology to nudge her away from a role that wasn’t right for her, all to keep the timeline on track.
Because if the timeline veered off course before he was ready, all his foreknowledge would be useless.
He needed to build enough of a name and capital before he could make any big decisions.
He could have been upfront.
He could have told her that he didn’t think she was the right fit for the character, or that Mohit had a specific vision in mind.
But that would have hurt her, sparked a fight, and led to awkward conversations he wasn’t prepared to have.
So he had chosen the easy way out—a convenient, believable lie wrapped in sweet talk.
Sid frowned, staring at his reflection in the dark television screen.
“Be careful,” he muttered to the empty room.
He walked back to the sofa, picked up his pen, and hit play on the DVD player.