Transmigration, Bunty mused, had some serious issues.
In every web novel he’d ever skimmed through, dying came with a standard starter pack: a floating system interface, a divine benefactor, or at the very least, a handy memory dump.
But as he stood in front of the bathroom mirror, staring at Sidharth Malhotra’s chiseled jawline, Bunty realized he had none of those perks.
He was familiar with Sidharth Malhotra—the public figure, the 2026 movie star married to Kiara Advani, the actor from Shershaah.
But he didn’t know Sidharth’s bank account details, his home address, his parents’ phone numbers, or even what he had for breakfast that morning.
Bunty glanced down and noticed water pooling around his shoes.
He stepped back to the spot where he had first opened his eyes, his foot slipping slightly.
Grabbing the marble sink for support, his heart raced.
He had died in 2026 after slipping on a wet floor and cracking his skull.
Now, Sidharth’s head was pounding, and he had woken up on a slick bathroom floor.
He looked down again.
No blood.
No visible gash.
But the eerie symmetry was impossible to ignore.
Had Sidharth slipped too?
Had two men, separated by who-knew-how-many years, managed to perish because neither of them could navigate a wet bathroom floor?
A dry, humorless chuckle escaped his lips.
If his deduction was right, Sidharth Malhotra’s actual cause of death was considerably more embarrassing than anything ever printed in the gossip columns.
Two men, separated by decades, both taken down by a lack of traction.
The dark humor faded quickly as a chilling realization washed over him.
He hadn’t just taken on an avatar; he had stepped into the aftermath of a real person’s sudden death.
Giving himself one last look in the glass, he tried out the reality.
“You’re Sidharth.”
It sounded completely fake.
He tried again, softening his tone.
“I’m Sidharth.”
Even worse.
Rubbing his face, Bunty pushed the door open.
A wall of booming bass and humid heat hit him like a freight train.
The room beyond was a sprawling, dimly lit space filled with the scent of expensive perfume, spilled drinks, and thick smoke.
A rave.
He spotted, Varun Dhawan, looking absurdly youthful, shirt half-unbuttoned, laughing with a group of women before he saw him.
Kayoze Irani, son of Boman Irani, was leaning against the bar, glass in hand.
Alia Bhatt, who was just shy of adulthood, chatting animatedly with Sana Saeed.
Karan Johar was holding court in the corner, visibly tipsy, looking impeccably dressed.
Varun.
Alia.
Kayoze.
Sana.
Sidharth.
Student of the Year.
This wasn’t a corporate film launch with champagne and carefully staged PR photos.
This was the unvarnished background of the industry—the stuff that usually remained as unverified internet gossip.
A heavy hand suddenly slapped down on his shoulder, making Bunty flinch.
“Relax, man,” Varun said, leaning in closer.
His eyes were glossy, and he seemed pretty laid-back.
“What were you doing in there for so long?”
For a brief moment, Bunty considered spilling the ridiculous truth: The real Sidharth had met his end on the bathroom floor, and now he was just a stranger taking over his life.
Given the chaos around them, Varun might have actually believed him.
But instead, Bunty shrugged it off.
“Handling business.”
Varun’s eyebrows shot up, and a slow, mischievous grin spread across his face.
“Not that kind of business, I hope.”
“Sure, Varun.”
Varun chuckled, throwing an arm around Bunty’s shoulder and guiding him toward the central seating area.
“Come on.”
Bunty let himself be led.
Staying close to familiar faces was his best bet for picking up information without raising any suspicions.
When they reached the couch, Alia looked up, her gaze a bit unfocused.
“Finally,” she said, handing him a half-empty glass.
“Here.
You told me to hold this.”
Bunty took the cold glass.
Beer.
That little detail sent a shiver down his spine.
You told me to hold this.
A direct request from the original Sidharth just moments before he had stepped into the bathroom.
A mundane reminder of the life Bunty had just taken over.
He set the glass down on the coffee table.
“Thanks.”
“You okay?” Sana asked, leaning in closer.
“You’re unusually quiet.”
“Just a headache,” Bunty replied, forcing a small, tight smile.
“He’s always quiet,” Alia said with a dismissive wave, then turned back to Sana.
“He’s even quieter,” Sana murmured, but she didn’t press any further.
Bunty took note of the exchange.
Good.
Sidharth was naturally reserved, which gave him the perfect cover to stay silent and observe.
As the music pulsed around him, snippets of chatter floated his way: discussions about publicity schedules, song edits, rough cuts, and how the trailer was being received.
Then Varun’s voice broke through, loud and clear as he spoke to a model nearby, grabbing Bunty’s attention.
“The trailer response is absolutely insane.
October.
They locked it for October.”
Bunty felt a jolt of shock.
October?
He recalled the history.
Student of the Year was the iconic debut for Alia, Varun, and Sidharth back in 2012.
It had hit theaters in October 2012, and he was sure of it.
Alia noticed his pale face and leaned in, unexpectedly pressing the back of her hand against his forehead.
The sudden closeness took him by surprise—she was just inches away, her scent a mix of sweet perfume and vodka.
“You’re burning up, Sid,” she said, frowning.
“Are you sick?”
“Just feeling a bit dizzy,” Bunty replied, taking a small step back.
“I think I’m going to call it a night and head home to sleep.”
“I’ll give you a ride,” she offered, already trying to get up.
“No, stay.
I’m fine,” Bunty insisted, his tone firm.
“Really.”
He stood up slowly, making sure he could keep his balance, and started to make his way toward the exit.
But just as he reached the doors, a familiar voice called out over the thumping bass.
“Sid!”
Bunty halted, bracing himself before turning around.
Karan Johar was making his way through the crowd, moving with a relaxed, heavy-lidded stride.
Up close, the scent of expensive cologne mixed with alcohol hit him hard.
“Where are you off to?” Karan asked, placing a hand on Bunty’s forearm.
“The main party hasn’t even kicked off yet.”
“Not feeling too great, Karan.
I’m heading home.”
Karan studied his face for a moment, then reached out to touch his forehead, just like Alia had.
“You’re warm.
Alright, go.
But no cabs.” He turned and snapped his fingers, summoning a sharply dressed, sober-looking man in his late twenties.
“Get Sid home.”
“Yes, sir,” the assistant replied without hesitation.
“Karan, really, I can—”
“Stop,” Karan said, waving his hand dismissively.
But then, his expression shifted, a spark of business instinct breaking through the fog.
“And swing by the office once you’ve had a chance to rest.
I want to introduce you to a talent agency.”
Bunty blinked in surprise.
“Agency?”
Karan smiled, giving his cheek a gentle pat.
“You need proper representation now.
You’re on your way to becoming a star, Sid.
You can’t keep acting like a model who just wandered onto my set.”
He leaned in a bit closer, his voice carrying a warm, almost slurred weight.
“Next SRK.”
Before Bunty could fully grasp the significance of that statement, Karan gave his shoulder a friendly pat and drifted back toward the VIP area.
The shift from the loud party to the calm night air was jarring.
Bunty followed the serious assistant to a sleek black sedan parked at the curb.
The assistant opened the rear door for him.
“Sir.”
Bunty almost turned around, wondering who the assistant was addressing, but then he climbed into the back seat.
The assistant leaned into the driver’s window, whispering an address: Juhu.
The car glided away quietly into the night.
As he sank into the leather seat, Bunty finally let his shoulders relax.
For the first time that evening, he didn’t have to pretend to be someone else.
He rummaged through his pockets.
In his left, a ring of house keys.
In his right, a solid, weighty object.
He pulled it out.
It was a Nokia button phone—thick, dark plastic, with a small color display.
He thought how the button phones would soon go out of business and the touch screen phones would become the norm.
He pressed a key, and the backlit screen flickered to life, showing the date in neat, small letters:
21 August 2009
Bunty stared at the screen, lost in thought.
He glanced out the window as Mumbai zipped by.
Without the party’s distractions, he began to notice the subtle oddities in the city around him: the older car models on the road, the absence of modern LED billboards, and the missing high-rise silhouettes against the skyline that he knew should have been there.
If Student of the Year had hit theaters in 2009 instead of 2012, the whole timeline would have been turned upside down long before Bunty Sharma even entered the picture.
History had already taken a different path well before the tragic death of Bunty.
The car finally eased to a stop, making its way onto a peaceful, tree-lined street in Juhu, parking outside a neat little apartment complex.
“We’ve arrived, sir,” the driver said gently.
Bunty expressed his gratitude, stepped out onto the sidewalk, and watched as the car’s taillights vanished around the bend.
Standing there alone beneath a yellow streetlight, he clutched the apartment keys in one hand and his Nokia in the other.
Somewhere within that building was an apartment filled with the remnants, personal belongings, and private details of the man whose identity he now embodied—a man whose life he needed to embrace without missing a beat, starting right this moment.
He glanced at his reflection faintly visible in the entrance glass.
“Bunty Sharma died in 2026,” he whispered into the stillness of the night.
He lingered for a moment, peering deeper into his own reflection.
“Sidharth Malhotra died in 2009.”
Taking a deep breath, he squared his shoulders and tucked the phone into his pocket.
“And I’m Sid,” he murmured, tightening his grip on the keys.
With that, he turned the key in the lock and stepped inside for the very first time.