AN: It’s been a long time since I saw the movie, so i am going off the wikipedia plot.
Also the scene you see here will not end up in final cut of the movie.
The first day of shooting kicked off with a coconut.
Sid found himself standing among the crew as one of the production assistants darted around, making sure everyone who needed to be there was actually on site.
Camera.
Sound.
Makeup.
Costume.
Lighting.
Direction.
Production.
A small puja had been set up near the set.
There were flowers, incense, and a lone coconut perched on a small stool.
Someone from production handed the coconut to Bhushan Kumar, while a few crew members joined their palms in a quiet prayer.
Not too far away, Mohit stood with his hands shoved into his pockets, already looking a bit impatient—just the way directors do when a traditional ceremony is the only thing standing between them and the first shot of the day.
Sid observed from the sidelines.
He had witnessed this very ritual countless times in behind-the-scenes footage: the muhurat shots, the coconuts smashed before production, the collective hopes for a smooth schedule.
It was a curious contradiction—the film industry could be brutally modern and calculating when it came to budgets and technology, yet it embraced deep-rooted traditions the moment the camera was ready to roll.
Bhushan lifted the coconut.
“Good luck, everyone.”
He brought it down onto the stone step, and the shell cracked open, spilling coconut water all over the ground.
Applause erupted, along with a few cheers from the camera crew.
Sid couldn’t help but smile, feeling a warm flutter in his chest.
A short distance away, Shraddha stood in her character’s simple costume, beaming as well.
They were now Rahul and Aarohi.
The camera was ready, their names were printed on the call sheet, and the day had officially begun.
Sid felt a mix of nerves and excitement tightening in his stomach.
Mohit clapped his hands together with a sharp sound.
“Alright, enough with the blessings.
Let’s get to work.”
A wave of laughter spread through the room, and in no time, the sacred vibe was replaced by the buzzing energy of filmmaking.
Lights flickered on from the overhead grids.
Props were rearranged on tables.
Tape marks were firmly pressed onto the floor.
The camera crew debated the best focal lengths while the sound team tested the acoustics of the room.
A makeup artist approached Sid, applying a dark cream under his eyes to accentuate his tired look.
His scruffy beard had been tidied just enough to set him apart from the polished, youthful charm of his role in Student of the Year.
Sid glanced into a small hand mirror.
His hair was longer and unkempt, stubble covered his face, and he wore a dark, slightly faded shirt that highlighted his shadowed, hollow eyes.
Mohit strolled over, tapping a rolled-up script against his thigh.
“The first scene is straightforward.”
Sid looked down at him.
“How straightforward?”
Mohit flashed a small, knowing smile.
“You meet her.”
Sid’s gaze shifted to Shraddha, who was making her way over.
“The first time?”
“Their first real interaction,” Mohit clarified.
“Rahul has already heard her sing from the doorway.
That’s important.
He’s intrigued before she even realizes he’s watching her.”
Shraddha crossed her arms, listening intently.
“Does Aarohi know who he is yet?”
“She knows of him,” Mohit replied, gesturing toward her.
“But she’s not acting like a starstruck fan.
She’s worn out.” He turned back to Sid.
“And you’re not flirting.”
Sid raised an eyebrow with a playful smirk.
“Not even a little?”
“You’re too lost in your own thoughts.”
Shraddha stifled a small smile, and Mohit noticed right away.
“Perfect.
Save that reaction for the camera.”
He quickly outlined the emotional beats of the scene.
Aarohi had just wrapped up her set at the dive bar where she worked.
Rahul, swaying slightly from the effects of a few too many drinks, approached her after being captivated by her voice.
He saw something special in her—raw talent, potential, maybe even a flicker of the passion he had once felt before fame turned bitter.
Mohit directed them to their spots.
“Sid, you start here.” He gestured to a piece of blue tape on the floor.
“Shraddha, you come in from down the hall.
You’ve just wrapped up a long shift.
You’re feeling worn out.”
Shraddha nodded, taking in the direction.
Mohit sized up Sid.
“And you’ve had a few drinks.”
Sid shifted his weight, letting his shoulders droop a bit.
“How much?”
“Just enough to feel it in your knees.
But not so much that you’re stumbling or slurring your words.”
Sid nodded slowly, grasping that feeling now, or at least knowing how to convey it through his acting.
He remembered Johnny Walker’s timeless advice: keep your goal in sight while your body fights against the effects.
Rahul wanted her focus.
Everything else was just background noise.
“Quiet on set!” the first assistant director commanded.
The buzz of conversation faded immediately.
“Sound?”
“Rolling.”
“Camera?”
“Rolling.”
A second AD stepped in front of the camera with the slate.
“Aashiqui 2, scene twelve, take one.”
Clap.
Mohit leaned closer to the monitor.
“Action.”
Shraddha stepped away from the performance area, clutching a well-worn handbag against her side.
Her shoulders drooped slightly, mirroring the fatigue of a long night.
Sid leaned against the wall at the edge of the corridor, watching her approach.
He held his gaze on her just a moment too long—not with any predatory intent, but with the quiet intensity of someone who had just caught a glimpse of something extraordinary.
Shraddha noticed the shadow in her path and slowed her steps.
She looked up, her expression cautious.
“Ji?”
Sid blinked slowly, as if breaking free from a spell.
A faint, tired smile crept onto his lips.
“You sing beautifully,” he said, his voice a bit lower and rougher than usual.
Shraddha’s brow knitted together in a polite mix of confusion and curiosity.
“Thank you,” she said instinctively, stepping aside to continue on her way.
Sid shifted his weight deliberately into her path, blocking her exit.
“What’s your name?”
Her frown deepened a bit.
“Aarohi.”
“Aarohi what?”
“Keshav Shirke.”
Sid nodded, softly repeating the name as if he were savoring the sound of it.
“Aarohi Keshav Shirke.”
Now, Shraddha studied him more closely, taking in his tousled hair and dark eyes.
A flicker of recognition sparked in her expression.
“You’re Rahul Jaykar,” she remarked, her tone shifting.
Sid shrugged slightly, a hint of self-deprecation in his demeanor.
“Sometimes.”
That line wasn’t in the original script rehearsal, but Mohit didn’t call cut.
Without missing a beat, Shraddha pressed on.
“What does that mean?”
“Depends on who’s asking,” Sid replied smoothly.
Aarohi’s initial hesitation morphed into mild annoyance.
“I wasn’t asking anything,” she shot back, trying to sidestep him again.
Sid stepped aside to let her pass but turned his head to call after her.
“You shouldn’t sing here.”
Shraddha halted abruptly and spun around.
“Excuse me?”
Sid sensed the shift in the atmosphere—a surge of sharp, defensive energy.
He found it intriguing.
“This place is too small for you,” he said calmly.
Shraddha’s eyebrows knitted together. Find the original chapter at g.com.
“You don’t even know me.”
“I heard you.”
“One song.”
“It was enough.”
Shraddha let out a short, incredulous laugh.
“Do you say this to every singer you meet?”
Sid held her gaze steadily.
“No.” He paused, allowing Rahul’s delayed reaction to fill the silence.
“Most aren’t worth stopping for.”
The line landed perfectly.
Shraddha’s expression flickered, caught between offense at his arrogance and a reluctant flattery, quickly followed by suspicion of both feelings.
“You can sing somewhere much better,” Sid added softly.
“Where?”
“I’ll tell you.”
“When?”
“Tomorrow.”
Shraddha fixed her gaze on him, trying to read his sincerity.
“So, why should I even consider meeting you?”
Sid took a moment, his stillness radiating a quiet, unwavering confidence.
“Because I’m right.”
They held each other’s gaze for what felt like an eternity, the clamor of the set fading into nothingness.
Behind the monitor, Mohit remained completely silent.
The tension between them was almost tangible.
Shraddha shifted the strap of her bag on her shoulder, breaking the eye contact first.
“You drink too much,” she remarked flatly.
Sid’s lips curled into a genuine smile.
“You noticed.”
“Everyone noticed, but they’re too polite to say anything.”
That unscripted remark sparked a flicker of amusement in Sid.
“Maybe everyone should just keep their politeness and mind their own business,” he replied softly.
Shraddha shot him a small, teasing smirk.
“There you go.
Now you sound like someone famous.”
Sid almost broke into a smile but managed to keep his character intact.
“And you sound like someone who’s definitely going to meet me tomorrow.”
Shraddha shook her head, pivoted on her heel, and walked away.
Sid remained leaning against the wall, watching her disappear down the dim corridor.
Mohit let the silence linger for three full seconds before finally calling out, “Cut!”
A collective sigh of relief swept through the room.
Crew members sprang into action, shifting equipment for the next scene.
Sid let out a deep breath, straightening his posture, while Shraddha returned, looking a bit anxious.
“Was that okay?” she asked, glancing at the director.
Mohit looked up from his monitor, rubbing his jaw.
“Again.”
Sid chuckled softly.
Naturally.
Mohit pointed at Sid.
“Dial back the cleverness in your delivery.
You know she’s talented, but don’t play it like you’re relishing being right.
Keep it grounded.” He turned to Shraddha.
“And you—try not to get irritated so quickly.
Let him get under your skin gradually.”
“Got it,” Shraddha replied, a small smile playing on her lips.
“That shouldn’t be too tough.”
Sid shot her a mock-offended glance, but Mohit was already signaling for them to return to their positions.
“Resetting!”
They ran through the scene three more times.
On the third take, they finally hit the rhythm Mohit had been aiming for: Sid stopped trying to find charming beats, letting Rahul’s weariness anchor the scene, while Shraddha let her genuine curiosity seep through her initial defensiveness.
By mid-afternoon, the crew took a long-overdue lunch break.
Sid settled into a folded canvas chair at the edge of the set, nursing a bottle of water while fiddling with his Nokia phone.
Three unread messages from Alia lit up his screen.
Alive?
How’s day one treating you?
Varun says Karan is already plotting twenty promotional interviews and wants us all to suffer together.
A smile crept onto Sid’s face as he typed a slow response: Barely alive.
First scene done.
Her reply came back almost immediately: How many takes?
Sid frowned at the screen: Why?
Need to know if you’re still wooden.
He stared at the screen for a moment before letting out a soft chuckle.
Four takes, he typed back.
HAHAHAHA.
A moment later, another message popped up: I’m just kidding.
Super proud of you x.
His expression softened.
Thank you.
How’s your day going?
Fine, but Varun is seeing that model again.
Sid quickly replied: Do not give me details.
He was still chuckling when a shadow fell over him.
Shraddha plopped down in the plastic chair next to him, cradling a paper cup of tea.
“What’s so funny?” she asked, taking a sip.
“Nothing,” Sid said, quickly locking his phone.
“You were just sitting there, staring at that Nokia with a huge grin on your face.”
“It’s just a text.”
Shraddha leaned back, eyeing him with playful curiosity.
“Girlfriend?”
Sid looked up, taken aback.
“That obvious?”
“A little bit.”
Sid leaned back in his chair, tapping his phone against his knee.
“Yeah.
Alia.”
Shraddha’s eyes widened slightly in surprise.
“Alia?
As in Alia Bhatt?”
“Yep.”
The connection clicked right away.
Shraddha remembered the promotional stills and trailers for Student of the Year.
“Your co-star?”
“Yeah, we’ve been together for a while now,” Sid said, his voice warming up with a relaxed tone.
“That’s sweet,” Shraddha replied, genuinely pleased.
“She’d probably laugh if you called her sweet,” Sid said, flashing a grin.
Before he knew it, he was sharing stories about how she would get annoyed when he ignored her texts while watching old black-and-white films, the time he dragged her onto a packed local train just to see her reaction, and her absolute horror at trying roadside street food for the first time.
Shraddha burst out laughing.
“She had never eaten a street-side samosa?”
“Not from a stall in Bandra, no.
She looked at it like I was offering her poison.”
“How do you grow up in Mumbai and dodge street food?”
“It’s an elite talent,” Sid replied, deadpan.
As Shraddha listened, she noticed the heavy fatigue of his character seemed to lift completely when he talked about Alia.
His guarded, silent demeanor melted away, replaced by a youthful enthusiasm that made him look his actual age.
There was something undeniably charming about seeing him like that.
A tiny flutter touched Shraddha’s chest, but she recognized it immediately and pushed it aside without a second thought.
You are just a co-worker.
Keep it professional.
Before the conversation could go any further, a production assistant called out for them.
Break was over.
The second half of the day dragged on, weighed down by complex lighting setups and minor continuity adjustments.
During a lull between shots, Shraddha noticed Sid hunched over his notebook, scribbling notes in the margins.
She leaned in closer, peering over his shoulder.
“You totally got that Marathi phonetic wrong.”
Sid glanced up, a frown creasing his forehead.
“Where?”
She settled beside him and pointed at the page.
“Right here.
You’re saying it with a strong Punjabi accent.”
“How do you mean?”
She showed him the subtle change in tongue position, pronouncing the phrase clearly.
Sid attempted to mimic her, but she immediately shook her head.
“This feels like regional discrimination,” Sid quipped.
“Give it another shot.”
He tried again, softening his vowels.
Shraddha nodded in approval.
“Much better.
You’re getting there.”
Sid grinned.
“Vishwas Kaka will be so relieved.”
“Who’s that?”
“My voice coach.
He’s been teaching me about Powada traditions.”
Shraddha looked at him, genuinely intrigued.
“You actually attend those classes every day?”
“Most days,” Sid shrugged.
“It really helps with vocal control.
Plus, I enjoy it.”
He paused, a thoughtful look crossing his face.
“Wait…
aren’t you related to Lata Mangeshkar and Asha Bhosle?”
Shraddha froze for a moment.
“Distantly, through family connections, yes.”
Sid’s eyes brightened.
“So you sing?”
“No,” she replied quickly, waving her hand dismissively.
“Come on, you just acted out a whole scene about being a singer.”
“I’ve had classical training, but I’m not a singer.”
“Same difference.”
“It really isn’t.”
Sid closed his notebook and set it aside.
“Just sing one line.”
Shraddha shot him a look.
“Absolutely not.”
“Why not?”
“Because we’re in the middle of a set.”
“You made me repeat Marathi phrases five times in front of everyone.”
“That was for diction practice!”
“One line,” Sid insisted, grinning.
“Unless you’re nervous?”
Shraddha narrowed her eyes playfully.
“I’m not nervous.”
“Then let’s hear it.”
She hesitated, glancing around the floor.
The crew was busy adjusting a large light rig, completely oblivious to them.
“Fine.
But very quietly.”
Sid straightened up, pretending to be a serious audience member.
“I’m all ears.”
Shraddha took a deep breath and began to sing a gentle, delicate line from a classic Lata Mangeshkar song.
Her voice was light, pure, and controlled—no flashy embellishments, just a warm, natural quality that instantly filled the small space around them.
Sid’s smile faded.
He fell silent, completely absorbed in the way she controlled her tone.
When she finished, the sudden stillness felt almost heavy.
Shraddha cleared her throat, suddenly feeling a bit shy.
“What?”
Sid shook his head slowly.
“You’re really talented.”
She glanced down at her hands.
“I haven’t practiced in a while.”
“That doesn’t matter.
You’ve got an amazing voice.” Sid looked at her with genuine curiosity.
“So, why aren’t you singing on the soundtrack?”
“I’m an actor,” she replied with a light laugh.
“It’s not that straightforward.”
“It could be,” Sid encouraged softly.
“You really should give it a shot.”
His sincere compliment took her by surprise.
Before she could reply, a sharp, familiar voice sliced through the air behind them.
“Am I interrupting a private concert?”
Sid froze.
Shraddha turned quickly to see Reshma Shetty standing a few feet away, one eyebrow raised high.
Shraddha straightened in her chair.
“No, not at all.”
Reshma glanced between them, her expression unreadable.
“Right.”
Shraddha quickly stood up.
“I should go check my makeup.” She hurried off toward the trailer without looking back.
Sid watched her leave before turning slowly to face Reshma.
“Happy now?”
Reshma settled into the empty chair.
“Absolutely.”
“We were just working on pronunciation.”
“Looked more like a masterclass to me.”
Sid groaned, shaking his head.
“I have a girlfriend.”
“I know,” Reshma replied smoothly.
“I didn’t say anything.”
She paused, shifting her tone back to business.
“Karan called.”
The light atmosphere vanished in an instant.
“What did he say?”
“Promotions for Student of the Year are getting locked in,” Reshma said, her tone matter-of-fact.
“The trailer response was really strong, and Dharma wants to ride that wave.
The release is coming up quickly.”
Sid rubbed the back of his neck, feeling the weight of it all.
With all his energy focused on getting ready for Aashiqui 2, it was easy to forget that his big debut film was set to hit theaters first.
“How packed is the schedule?” he asked, trying to gauge what was ahead.
“Very packed,” Reshma replied, her voice flat.
“Interviews, city tours, college visits, TV appearances, press junkets.
The whole Dharma push.”
Sid frowned, glancing over at the main set where the lighting crew was setting up for the next shot.
“And what about our shooting schedule?”
“That’s why I’m here,” she said.
“We need to sync up the dates between both studios.”
A knot of frustration twisted in Sid’s chest.
“We just started today, Reshma.
Mohit is just getting us into the groove.”
“I get it, Sid.
But you’re contractually obligated to give Dharma their promotional window.
T-Series was aware of this when you signed.”
“Does that mean we have to hit pause on production here?”
“Possibly,” she admitted softly.
“It all depends on how Karan and Bhushan can align the dates.
But be prepared for some interruptions.”
Sid looked down at his hands, feeling the weight of the character he was building.
It had taken weeks of careful work to get into Rahul Jaykar’s mindset.
The thought of stepping away from this set to do upbeat promotional tours for a completely different movie felt disorienting.
Momentum was crucial in the early stages of production.
Noticing his tense expression, Reshma softened her tone a bit.
“This is what juggling two major films looks like, Sid.
It’s a good problem to have.”
“Doesn’t feel very efficient.”
“Welcome to the industry,” she replied with a wry smile.
She glanced at her watch.
“Karan wants to meet tomorrow afternoon to plan out the first leg of the tour.”
“I have scenes scheduled for tomorrow afternoon,” Sid pointed out, feeling the pressure mount.
“I’ll handle production,” Reshma said smoothly, standing up.
She looked at him for a long moment, her expression turning serious.
“Hey.”
Sid looked up.
“Enjoy today,” she said gently, gesturing toward the bustling set.
“Your first day as a lead actor on a set you chose for yourself.
You only get one of these.”