Sid’s first blunder was thinking that finding struggling musicians in Mumbai would be a piece of cake.
In a bustling city of over twelve million, it seemed logical that quite a few would be toting guitars around.
But that theory fell apart the moment he hit the pavement.
He spent his first morning meandering without a clear direction.
He wandered through Juhu, pushed into Andheri, and eventually veered toward Bandra.
He hung around cafés where someone had once mentioned acoustic performances, peeked into dim rehearsal spaces, and strolled through music shops until a shopkeeper shot him a look that clearly said, “Are you buying something or just browsing?”
Feeling a bit sheepish, Sid ended up buying a pack of guitar picks.
The irony?
He didn’t even own a guitar.
By noon, while sipping on a glass of cutting chai at a roadside stall, he couldn’t shake the feeling that Barry had intentionally kept his advice to “go meet musicians” vague just to see him squirm.
In his bag, the Aashiqui 2 script felt heavy.
Famous singer, alcoholic and a fading star.
Those were just easy words on a page.
But what was it really like to spend years waiting for someone to hear your voice?
What does a musician do when no one wants to listen?
Sid was familiar with the path for aspiring actors.
Auditions, background roles, fitness training, print ads, theatre, and endless waiting.
Sushant and Vidyut had already given him glimpses of that grind.
Surely, music had its own ladder; he just had no idea where the bottom rungs were.
Then, something caught his attention and made him stop.
In a narrow service lane behind a restaurant in Andheri West, three men were huddled under the scant shade of a concrete overhang.
One of them cradled a battered acoustic guitar, its surface marred with scratches; another leaned against a worn keyboard case, elbows resting on it; and the third tapped out a sharp, syncopated rhythm on an overturned plastic crate, a cigarette dangling from his fingers.
They weren’t rehearsing.
They were just hanging out.
Sid slowed his pace, walked by, hesitated for a moment, then turned back.
The guitarist noticed him staring.
“What’s up?”
Approaching strangers without any agenda was a skill Sid hadn’t quite figured out yet.
There was no easy way to say: Can you share your financial struggles so I can pretend to be a rockstar in a film?
“Nice guitar,” Sid said, trying to break the ice.
The man glanced down at the worn wood, then back up at Sid.
“It’s broken.”
“Oh.” Great start.
Sid pointed at the keyboard case.
“Do you guys play professionally?”
The drummer chuckled, but the guitarist’s face remained serious.
“Sometimes.”
An awkward silence hung in the air.
The smoker sized Sid up—clean clothes, good posture, definitely not a local.
“What’s your angle?”
“Just curious.”
“Nobody’s just curious around here.
What are you selling?”
Fair point.
A well-dressed guy loitering in Andheri West definitely raised some eyebrows.
Sid gestured toward the tea vendor across the street.
“How about I buy you guys a round of tea?”
The drummer burst out laughing this time.
“He definitely wants something.”
“I don’t,” Sid insisted.
“Nobody buys chai for strangers without a reason, bhai.”
Sid sighed, dropping the act.
“Alright.
I’m trying to learn about music.
How things really work in this industry.”
“Journalist?”
“Nope.”
“College project?”
“Nope.”
“Then what?”
Lying seemed like an easy way out, but Sid decided against it.
“I’m an actor.
Just trying to get the hang of things.”
The guitarist scrutinized him, eyes narrowing a bit.
“You’re playing a musician?”
Sid managed a faint, reluctant smile.
The drummer clapped his hands together.
“Bollywood!”
“Maybe.”
“Which movie?
By whom?”
“Can’t say just yet.”
“Then why should we share anything with you?”
Sid shrugged casually, turning to leave.
“You don’t have to.
Enjoy your afternoon.”
“Hey!
Wait a minute.”
Sid turned back.
The guitarist pointed toward the tea stall with his thumb.
“You offered chai.”
That’s how Sid crossed paths with Raghav Mishra.
At twenty-six, Raghav hailed from Allahabad and was chasing his dreams as a playback singer, performing at weddings, jamming in restaurants, and often finding himself out of work.
Then there was Sameer Shaikh, the drummer, who was twenty-nine and a proud Mumbai native.
He once had aspirations of being a studio session player, but these days, he made his living keeping the beat for baraats and reception halls.
The keyboardist, Nilesh Fernandes, made his entrance five minutes later, storming out of the restaurant like he was ready to throw down.
The manager had refused to settle their bill from last week’s gig.
“He didn’t pay?” Sid asked as Nilesh plopped down on a crate with a thud.
“Tomorrow, he says,” Nilesh shot back, clearly frustrated.
Sameer raised his tea cup with a mock solemnity.
“Tomorrow is the richest day in Mumbai.
Everything happens tomorrow.” He turned to Sid.
“And who might you be?”
“An actor,” Sameer teased.
“He claims he’s playing a musician in some film.”
Nilesh sized Sid up.
“Can you play?”
“Nope.”
“Sing?”
“Not a chance.”
“Perfect,” Nilesh muttered with a smirk.
“You’ll fit right in with Bollywood.”
Laughter erupted among the three, and Sid couldn’t help but join in, even if he felt a bit out of place.
That afternoon turned out to be the most productive day Sid had had in weeks.
Once they realized he wasn’t there to take advantage of them or conduct an interview, the conversation flowed freely.
Raghav had moved to the city four years ago, full of hope and armed with demo CDs.
He had shelled out his own money for studio time, waited outside production offices, handed out tracks to assistants, and sent countless emails into the abyss.
“Why stick around?” Sid asked, watching the traffic inch by.
Raghav shrugged.
“Because every now and then, something clicks.”
“Like what?” Sid probed.
“A backup vocal line in a jingle.
Just four seconds of a chorus behind a bigger name.
You just hope the music director remembers your face.”
“And then he forgets it,” Sameer added dryly, chiming in with a knowing look.
“Maybe,” Raghav admitted with a hint of uncertainty.
“Or perhaps a live show will pop up.
Just enough gigs to keep you from packing your bags.”
Just enough to keep you from leaving.
That thought lingered in Sid’s mind long after he walked away from them.
Not enough to achieve success, just enough hope to keep you stuck in the same old routine.
Rahul Jaykar had already climbed that mountain.
He was everything Raghav aspired to be—and now he was sliding down the other side.
In that moment, Sid realized something important about himself:
Failing after reaching the summit was a whole different struggle than failing at the base.
Once you’ve experienced the roar of tens of thousands chanting your name, the silence that follows is deafening.
When Sid returned the next afternoon, Raghav looked genuinely taken aback.
“You again?”
“You promised you’d teach me how to hold a guitar.”
“I was just kidding.”
“I wasn’t,” Sid replied, settling onto a plastic stool.
Sameer chuckled.
“So, the hero bought a guitar?”
“Nope,” Sid confessed.
Raghav handed over his own well-loved acoustic.
“Here.
Just don’t drop it.”
Sid took it, his hands awkwardly finding their place on the body of the guitar.
Raghav winced immediately.
“Have you seriously never held one of these before?”
“Nope.”
“You break it, you owe me double,” Raghav warned, directing his voice to the alley.
And so, the lesson began.
Calling it a lesson might be a bit generous.
Raghav showed him how to position his left wrist, how to arch his fingers over the fretboard, and how to press down firmly to create a basic G-major chord.
“Why does this hurt so much?” Sid complained, shaking out his hand.
“Because your skin is soft,” Raghav replied, unimpressed.
“Model hands.
You look like you belong on a calendar.”
Sid shot him a glare.
He hadn’t mentioned anything about his past modeling gigs.
Raghav just smirked, clearly believing that hands could reveal a person’s history just as well as an accent could.
Over the course of the next week, Sid turned visiting Raghav and Sameer into a daily ritual.
Whenever they had gigs, Sid quietly tagged along as their unofficial roadie.
He found himself at a wild wedding rehearsal in Vile Parle, a cramped restaurant soundcheck in Andheri West, and a stuffy basement studio where Raghav belted out a three-line backing phrase over and over while a composer and an engineer argued about the right way to pronounce words.
The magic of music faded quickly.
Sid came to realize that music was really about logistics and heavy lifting—like hauling amplifiers, untangling thick cables, waiting for generators to restore power, waiting for soundchecks, waiting for organizers, and waiting for checks to clear.
It was all about waiting.
He met others in their circle, including Meenal Joshi, a twenty-two-year-old who had just moved from Indore.
The moment Sid heard her sing in a corner of the rehearsal hall, he was captivated.
Her voice was clean, resonant, and seemed to flow effortlessly.
She reminded him of a young Shreya Ghoshal when she first burst onto the scene.
“She’s amazing,” Sid whispered to Raghav.
“Of course,” Raghav replied, his tone flat.
“Then why isn’t she famous?”
Raghav shot him a hollow smile.
“Welcome to the real world, hero.”
Later, when Sid chatted with Meenal, she laid out her journey.
She had auditioned for reality TV shows, got cut in the early rounds once, and made it to the regional rounds another time.
Now, she was gearing up to audition again.
“Is TV better than making independent albums these days?” Sid asked.
Meenal burst into laughter.
“What albums?
Nobody buys pop albums anymore.
Film music is everything.
TV is the only way people get to see your face before you catch a break.”
“So everyone auditions?”
“Everyone who can sing, and a lot who can’t,” Raghav called out from across the room.
Meenal playfully tossed a rolled-up lyric sheet at his head.
“People don’t book voices,” Meenal said to Sid with a serious tone.
“They book names.
If you’re on TV for six weeks, your rate for live shows can skyrocket overnight.
Even if you don’t win, people will still remember you.”
This made Sid think of Reshma and her endless chatter about positioning and branding.
Different platforms, but the same old game.
Then there was Imran Qureshi, a thirty-four-year-old bass player with two kids and absolutely no interest in fame.
He spent his mornings working at an electrical supply store and his nights playing bass at corporate gigs, hotel lobbies, or private parties.
“Don’t you want to create your own music?” Sid asked him one time.
Imran burst into laughter for a solid ten seconds.
“Will an album pay my rent?
Will it buy milk?
I just want three steady gigs a week—Thursday, Friday, Saturday.
That’s the dream.”
Even that simple dream was starting to fade.
Venues were cutting live bands, swapping out four-piece groups for a lone keyboardist with backing tracks or hiring DJs who charged half as much.
“My uncle played bass at the same hotel lounge for eleven years,”
Sameer told Sid one evening, tapping his cigarette against his knee.
“Same stage every night.
Now?
Management wants us to bring three people instead of six.
The electronic track takes care of the rest.
Next year, the keyboard will probably handle the guitar parts too.”
Sid could feel the anxiety ripple through them—a quiet, persistent hum beneath their jokes.
The music industry was shifting right under their feet, pushing everyone to adapt or fade away.
On the fourth day, Alia caught on.
“Where are you?” her voice buzzed through his Nokia.
“Andheri,” Sid replied, leaning against a damp wall.
“Why?”
“Just hanging out with musicians.”
A brief pause.
“Random musicians?
From where?”
“Just…
guys playing in local setups.”
“Why on earth are you doing that?”
“Research for Rahul,” Sid said matter-of-factly.
Alia erupted in laughter.
“I told you, you’re turning into a method actor.”
“I’m not being method.
I’m just trying to- yes I am doing method acting.” Siddharth finally admitted.
“You’re actually wandering around Mumbai interviewing struggling singers?
That sounds like such hard work!” She was clearly excited.
“I’m coming with you tomorrow.”
Sid felt a jolt of panic.
“No way.
Absolutely not.”
“Why not?”
He glanced down the alley.
A mechanic was yelling at a scooter driver, while two men were dozing under a tattered plastic sheet next to a dumpster.
Raghav was down the street, trying to track down a studio owner who had vanished with a booking deposit.
If Alia Bhatt rolled up in a fancy car here, it would cause chaos.
Besides, she had grown up in a completely different world—one that was safe, comfortable, and elite.
Sid didn’t want to spend his afternoon worrying about her safety, dealing with judgmental stares since this place wasn’t exactly welcoming, or facing some stressed-out musician making a rude comment.
“My character is isolated,” Sid said, choosing his words with care.
“I need to go through this alone.”
“Is that your official excuse?”
“It’s the truth.”
“I can be quiet, you know.”
Sid nearly laughed.
“You?
Quietly?
You didn’t sit quietly through a twenty-minute dinner.”
“How rude!”
“It’s true!
Remember our last date?
I just wanted to finish my sandwich, but you wouldn’t stop talking.”
“So you find me annoying?” She sounded a bit hurt.
“No, no, not at all!” Siddharth quickly backtracked, “You know how I am, right?
I like to brood in silence.
You brighten my day with your chatter.
You’re the perfect yin to my yang.”
He cringed at his own cheesiness.
“Hmm,” she mused, clearly considering his words.
Noticing that tone, Sid softened his voice.
“Look, let me wrap up this project.
I’ll take you somewhere nice once I’m done.
And I promise to listen to everything you say without a peep.”
“Where?”
“I’ll figure it out.”
“You better,” she replied, though the annoyance had faded from her voice.
“Don’t bail on me.”
“I won’t.”
When she hung up, a twinge of guilt settled in Sid’s chest.
He realized he was keeping her at arm’s length, partly for his own convenience, but also because he felt she didn’t quite fit into the rough, unpolished parts of the city.
Maybe I’m being unfair, he mused.
People can surprise you.
But he wasn’t quite ready to put that theory to the test.
In his second week, Sid decided to venture beyond Raghav’s usual spots, hopping on a train that took him toward Lalbaug and Parel.
The area was a fascinating blend of old mill neighborhoods, traditional chawls, and shiny new high-rises.
As he wandered into the inner courtyard of an aging building, a voice caught his attention.
It wasn’t a sweet melody; it was powerful and rhythmic.
Sid paused at the archway.
An elderly, wiry man sat on a wooden bench, cradling a small hand drum (tuntuna).
Before him stood two young children, captivated as his voice soared and dipped, delivering verses in crisp Marathi.
Sid understood enough of the language to grasp the vivid imagery—Maratha warriors, battle lines, honor, fortresses.
The delivery was intense, percussive, almost like a battle cry.
When the children stumbled over a line, the old man halted, corrected their pronunciation sharply, and then continued.
Sid found himself rooted to the spot.
After about ten minutes, when the kids were finally dismissed, Sid stepped further into the courtyard.
The old man glanced up, his eyes sharp.
“What?”
“Sorry to intrude,” Sid replied politely.
“I was just listening.”
“What do you want?”
“What’s that style called?”
The man’s brow knitted in disappointment.
“You don’t know?” You are reading on novelping.com, the official source.
Sid felt a wave of embarrassment wash over him.
“No.”
“Powada,” the man said, setting his drum aside.
The realization struck Sid.
Powada, the traditional Maharashtrian folk art of dramatic narrative balladry, historically performed by shahirs to tell tales of heroism, historical battles, and social justice.
He had read about it, but experiencing it live was something entirely different.
“People your age just don’t care about these things anymore,” the old man remarked, his tone flat but lacking any trace of anger—just a sense of resignation.
His name was Vishwas Bhalerao, affectionately known as Vishwas Kaka by the locals.
At sixty-eight, he was a third-generation shahir.
His grandfather and father had both performed Powadas throughout the state, and Vishwas himself had dedicated forty years to performing at cultural festivals, rallies, and local events.
“Where’s the rest of your troupe?” Sid asked, settling onto a low stone step.
“Dispersed,” Vishwas Kaka replied matter-of-factly.
“One passed away.
Another moved to Pune.
The younger ones have switched to wedding orchestras because that pays the bills.” He gestured toward his apartment window above.
“My own son works at a state bank.
He doesn’t even touch the drum anymore.
My granddaughter is all about those new songs these days, which sound so artificial.”
“Does that upset you?”
Vishwas Kaka fell silent, gazing out at the empty concrete courtyard.
“You can’t force art onto children.
If they don’t have the passion, pushing them only breeds resentment.”
He paused, his weathered hand resting gently on the drumhead.
“But it’s tough to watch a tradition fade away right in your own living room.”
He turned his gaze to Sid.
“You’re an actor, aren’t you?”
Sid blinked in surprise.
“How did you know?”
“Your face.
It’s too handsome for this place.
So, you’re a struggling actor?”
Sid chuckled softly.
“I’m just trying to learn the ropes.”
“Got a film lined up?”
“Yes.”
“Everyone seems to be chasing after films these days,” Vishwas Kaka noted with a hint of amusement.
Sid looked at the old man, a spark of inspiration igniting in his mind.
“Can you teach me?”
Vishwas Kaka regarded him thoughtfully.
“Teach you what?
Powada?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Sid pondered over his response.
He realized he needed to work on his voice control.
Mohit Suri had been clear about it, pointing out that his dialogue delivery fell flat, lacking both weight and dynamic range.
Barry had also emphasized the importance of using his entire body while performing.
“When you were performing just now,” Sid said, locking eyes with the old man, “there were no props, no lights, no costumes.
Yet, I could picture the battle vividly.”
Vishwas Kaka’s expression softened just a bit.
“I could see the horses, I could see the dust,” Sid continued softly.
“I want to learn how to make others see it too, using just my voice.”
A heavy silence enveloped the courtyard.
Vishwas Kaka glanced away for a moment, discreetly wiping his eye before returning with a serious expression.
“Pagaal,” the old man muttered.
“Probably.”
“Tomorrow morning.
Seven o’clock.”
Sid flinched slightly.
“Seven AM?”
“You want to sing after lunch?” Vishwas Kaka scoffed.
“Come at seven.
Wear something you can move in, not these tight jeans.”
“I’ll be here.”
The morning sessions were grueling.
For the first three days, there was no singing at all—just breathing exercises and relentless practice on Marathi vowel sounds.
“Wrong!” Vishwas Kaka would bark, striking his stick against the wooden bench.
“From the inside!
You’re squeezing your throat like a choked pipe!”
Sid would try again, pushing air from his stomach, attempting to project his voice across the courtyard without straining his vocal cords.
“Better.
Again!”
By the fifth day, Sid started to grasp the mechanics of vocal projection.
Vishwas Kaka treated consonants like percussion beats, softening vowels to draw the audience in before unleashing a sudden, thunderous surge of volume.
It was pure, unfiltered voice modulation—the very thing Mohit Suri had insisted he was missing.
Sid’s days turned into a whirlwind of intense discipline: early morning workouts, breakfast, an hour of vocal training with Vishwas Kaka in Lalbaug, afternoons spent rehearsing with Raghav and Sameer, evenings learning acting with Barry John, and late-night calls with Alia.
Staring into the bathroom mirror on day twelve, Sid inspected his sorry excuse of a beard.
The mustache had filled in decently, and his chin looked rugged enough, but his cheekbones remained patchily covered.
As the days rolled on, the musicians began to see Sid not as an outsider but as part of their little family.
Sameer opened up about how he had played a three-hour wedding gig on the very night his daughter was born, all because he needed the cash to cover the hospital bill.
Raghav shared a secret: he had misled his parents back in Allahabad, making them think he was singing playback for big films when, in reality, he had only managed to sing two lines of background chorus over the past four years.
Meenal confessed that the thought of reality TV auditions sent shivers down her spine, mainly because the producers were always fishing for a tragic backstory.
“They want trauma,” Meenal said with a hint of sarcasm.
“They asked if my parents were against my singing.
I told them no, my dad actually bought my train ticket.
You should have seen the casting director’s face when I said my dad wasn’t a rickshaw driver!”
Sid didn’t chuckle.
He recognized the harsh truth behind her humor: even hardship was something to be packaged and sold.
This revelation shifted his view of Rahul Jaykar completely.
Rahul wasn’t just a guy who drank too much; he was a man ensnared in a caricature crafted by the media, his record label, and his fans.
People romanticized his self-destruction because it fit the mold of a “doomed rockstar.” They adored the image, but no one seemed to care about the real person behind it.
That night, Sid jotted down a single line in his notebook:
Everyone loves Rahul Jaykar.
Nobody truly knows him.
And without an audience, he’s lost in his own identity.
On his last day with Vishwas Kaka, the old man finally allowed Sid to try his hand at a short, four-line Powada passage.
Sid’s first attempt was a disaster—he came in off-key, panicked, and started waving his hands around as if he were trying to fly.
“Stop!” Vishwas Kaka exclaimed.
“Why are your hands flapping around like birds?
Are you dancing or telling a story?”
“Listen, son, singing is like narrating a story.
A story is like a movie; it should play in the listener’s mind when they hear it.
They should feel the emotions in your voice.
When that happens, you’ve truly become a singer.”
Sid let his hands drop, took a deep breath, and conjured up the image Vishwas had painted: a solitary messenger galloping through the night, racing to alert a fortress about an impending siege.
He didn’t bother trying to sound elegant.
Instead, he channeled pure urgency, emphasizing the Marathi consonants, letting his breath carry the weight of the panic, even if his Punjabi accent slipped through at times.
When he finished, the courtyard was eerily quiet.
Vishwas Kaka didn’t applaud.
He simply offered a slow, deliberate nod.
“Now the story has come.”
A wave of genuine pride washed over Sid.
“Again?”
“Again,” the old man replied, striking his drum.
On the fourteenth evening, as Sid strolled back from the train station, his Nokia buzzed to life.
“Reshma?”
“Tomorrow is the look test.”
Sid paused beneath a street lamp.
“Look test?”
“Yep, look test and camera screen test.
Everyone will be there.”
Sid instinctively touched his patchy beard.
“Are they still fretting over the look?”
“Mohit’s a bit anxious,” Reshma confessed.
“He wants to see how the beard appears on camera with proper lighting before making a final decision.”
“That’s fair,” Sid said.
“A guy living on the edge isn’t going to have a perfectly groomed salon beard anyway.”
Reshma chuckled softly on the other end.
“Save that argument for Mohit tomorrow.
Are you ready?” she asked simply.
Just two weeks ago, Rahul Jaykar was merely a character portrayed by Aditya Roy Kapur in a movie Bunty had seen ages ago.
But now, when Sid closed his eyes, Rahul was a mosaic of real lives: Raghav waiting four days for a venue manager to clear a small check; Sameer drumming while his newborn lay in a ward; Imran hoping for just three reliable nights of work each week; Vishwas Kaka striving to keep an ancient art alive in an empty courtyard.
“I’m ready,” Sid said softly.
“Good,” Reshma replied.
“Get some rest.
And don’t you dare touch a razor tonight.”
Sid tucked the phone back into his pocket, adjusted Raghav’s borrowed guitar case on his shoulder, and headed toward his apartment.
AN: Beat my own record for the longest chapter.
How was it?
Should I include Rahul and others in the future and make them famous?
I plan to make Siddharth a part time playback singer as well.
Also about the heroines, Kiara is confirmed.
And there is a lot of debate between Kriti and Shraddha (surprisingly).
So I am thinking of widening the harem to three or something like that.