AN: This chapter is going to upset a few people.
Sidharth had dealt with cameras, auditions, acting drills, and a room full of tipsy Bollywood stars since stepping into this world, but nothing could have prepared him for the moment of introducing his girlfriend to his mother.
Alia clung to his arm, maybe a bit too tightly.
Sid glanced down at her fingers digging into his sleeve.
“Hey, relax,” he murmured.
“I’m totally relaxed,” Alia shot back, still avoiding his gaze.
“You haven’t blinked in a while.”
“Just be quiet.”
Rimma Malhotra observed their little exchange, which only made the situation more awkward.
Sid cleared his throat.
“Ma, this is Alia.”
“I know,” his mother replied with a warm smile.
Alia instantly straightened up, her usual confidence evaporating.
“Hello, aunty.”
Rimma studied her for a moment.
“You looked lovely in the trailer.”
“Thank you, aunty.”
“And very young.”
Alia’s smile wavered with uncertainty.
“I’m eighteen.”
Sid shut his eyes, mentally cringing.
Why would you say that?
His mother slowly turned her gaze toward him.
“I’m twenty,” Sid blurted out without thinking.
“I know your age.”
“Just wanted to clarify.”
Next to them, his father coughed to stifle a laugh.
Sushant wasn’t nearly as discreet, letting out a hearty chuckle.
Rimma shifted her focus back to Alia.
“Are your parents in the film industry too?”
“My mom acts,” Alia said, nodding.
“My dad is a filmmaker.”
“Who?”
“Mahesh Bhatt.”
“Mahesh Bhatt.”
Rimma’s eyebrows shot up.
“Mahesh Bhatt?”
“Yes.”
Rimma glanced between Sid and Alia, then back at Sid.
He recognized that look immediately—this was a topic that would be dissected in private later that night.
“Oh,” Rimma said simply.
As Alia grew more anxious, Sid half-expected his mother to realize she was talking to Mahesh Bhatt’s daughter.
But she didn’t.
“How long have you two been dating?”
Sid nearly choked.
Alia blinked in surprise.
“Ma,” Sid jumped in.
“You can’t just start with that.”
Rimma completely brushed him off.
“Around six months, aunty,” Alia replied.
“Six months?” Rimma shot a look at Sid, the trap snapping shut.
“And you’re only introducing her now?”
“We’ve been busy,” Sid said, feeling the pressure mounting.
Alia turned to him, taken aback.
“You never mentioned them?”
“I told them about you.”
“You said we were together?”
When Sid hesitated, both women narrowed their eyes in perfect sync.
“No,” he admitted.
“Why not?” Alia pressed, her gaze fixed on him.
“It just never came up.”
His mother interjected, “You call us every week.”
Sid threw his hands up in exasperation.
“Betrayal from my own mother!
You’re supposed to have my back.”
“I am supporting you,” Rimma shot back.
“I just want to know why you kept such a lovely girl a secret.”
Alia’s posture eased a bit, a victorious smile spreading across her face.
She looked at Rimma and added, “He didn’t introduce me to you either.”
Sid turned to her, disbelief written all over his face.
“Excuse me?”
Alia was now grinning, her earlier nerves fading away at lightning speed.
“Exactly,” Rimma chimed in, nodding in agreement.
Sid stared at both of them, realizing that in just three minutes, an unlikely alliance had formed.
“Wait—”
Neither of them paid him any mind.
“Does he call you properly?” Rimma asked.
Alia pretended to think it over while Sid’s eyes widened in alarm.
“Don’t,” he warned.
“He forgets sometimes,” Alia said.
“Especially when he’s watching movies.”
Rimma looked horrified.
“He does that at home too!”
In a moment of desperation, Sid glanced over at his father.
“Papa.
Help.”
Sunil was currently engrossed in the ceiling.
“Your problem.”
Traitor.
Sid turned to Sushant, who had already seen the plea coming and deliberately looked away.
A group of stunning models in daring dresses had gathered near the bar, and Sushant suddenly found them utterly captivating.
Sunil’s gaze followed Sushant’s.
He looked for maybe two seconds before catching his wife staring right at him.
He coughed awkwardly.
“Nice decorations.”
Sid bit down on the inside of his cheek, trying to stifle a laugh, while Sushant’s shoulders shook with barely contained mirth.
Alia burst into laughter, and even Rimma couldn’t keep up her serious act any longer.
Seizing the moment to lighten the mood, Sid jumped in.
“Alright, great meeting, everyone seems to like everyone—”
“We’re still in the middle of a discussion,” Rimma cut in.
Alia flashed him a sweet smile, and Sid narrowed his eyes, making a mental note of this.
Just then, salvation appeared in the form of Reshma Shetty.
“Sidharth,” she called out.
Sid spun around so fast that Reshma nearly halted in her tracks.
“Reshma!”
“Why are you so excited to see me?” she asked, a frown creasing her brow.
“No reason,” Sid replied, already steering her toward his family.
“Ma, Papa, this is Reshma Shetty, my agent.”
The atmosphere shifted immediately.
Sunil straightened up, and Rimma offered a polite smile as Reshma greeted them with warmth.
“So, I finally get to meet the folks behind him,” Reshma said.
“Behind?
Not anymore,” Rimma laughed.
“Ma,” Sid muttered under his breath.
“He talks about both of you,” Reshma continued, her tone turning professional yet warm.
“And you should be proud.
He’s doing really well—disciplined, always prepared, and asks a ton of questions.”
Sunil beamed.
“That sounds just like him.”
“He’s also quite stubborn.”
“That too sounds familiar.”
Sid let out a heavy sigh.
“Great, another alliance.”
Reshma chuckled before turning back to Sid.
“Mind if I borrow him for a bit?”
“Please do,” Sid replied a bit too eagerly.
Alia shot him a disapproving look while his mother laughed.
Reshma pointed toward the far side of the room.
“There’s someone I want you to meet.”
Sid followed her gaze, and his relief vanished in an instant.
Standing by the bar was none other than Salman Khan.
As Reshma wove through the crowd, memories of Bunty flooded Sid’s mind.
Sidharth had mixed feelings about many figures in the industry, but Salman was a whole different ballgame.
Bunty had always been surrounded by a whirlwind of stories—some were just idle gossip, but others were serious enough to raise eyebrows:
Aishwarya Rai’s public claims of harassment and abuse after their breakup, the long-standing blackbuck case, the infamous hit-and-run trial from 2002, and Vivek Oberoi’s notorious press conference.
The superstar was entangled in decades of legal issues, feuds, and a level of influence that seemed unchecked.
From afar, Bunty’s rule was straightforward: Keep your distance.
That was easy when Salman Khan was merely a face on a screen, but it became a different story when your agent was ushering you right up to him.
“Do I really have to meet him?” Sid whispered, a hint of reluctance in his voice.
“Yes,” Reshma replied, not missing a beat.
“Why’s that?”
She shot him a look, as if he’d asked why movies needed cameras.
“He’s my client.”
“And so am I.”
“Exactly.
You need to make connections.
In this industry, who you know matters.”
That was that.
Sid fell quiet, fully aware of the pecking order in the industry.
No matter what Bunty thought of Salman, twenty-year-old Sidharth Malhotra was just an untested newcomer at a Dharma party, while Salman Khan was a legend.
Moral judgments didn’t hold much weight without some leverage, and navigating power while standing right in front of it was a whole different ballgame.
Over at the bar, David Dhawan was in the middle of a story.
Salman lounged on a stool, his arm draped over the counter, laughing as a small crowd gathered around them, drinks in hand, smoke swirling, and chatter filling the air.
David spotted Reshma first, then Sid.
His grin widened.
“Arre!”
“Hello, sir,” Sid said, stepping forward with a mix of nerves and excitement.
David clapped a heavy hand on his shoulder.
“Varun talks about you.”
“Hopefully, it’s all good,” Sid replied, forcing a polite smile.
“Mostly complaints.”
“That sounds about right.”
As David chuckled, Salman sized Sid up—not in a rude way, but with a keen, scrutinizing look.
“Salman, this is Sidharth,” Reshma introduced.
Salman nodded slowly.
“New boy.
Student of the Year.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Trailer dekha.
Maza aaya.”
Sid was left wondering if it was a genuine compliment or just a polite gesture.
“Thank you.”
Salman motioned toward the counter.
“Drink?”
His first instinct was to decline, but he suddenly felt the weight of the crowd’s gaze on him.
No one was pressuring him directly, but the subtle social expectations were hard to ignore.
Turning down a superstar’s hospitality might not seem significant, but in a room fueled by egos, Sid wasn’t willing to take that chance.
He lifted the glass.
“Thanks.”
Salman gave a quick nod, but Sid didn’t take a sip just yet.
“So?
Bollywood kaisa lag raha hai?” David asked.
“Overwhelming.”
David laughed.
“Abhi kya dekha hai?
When he was starting, everything was different.”
“Don’t tell him stories,” Salman chimed in smoothly.
“Half of them are lies.”
“Your half,” David shot back, prompting a round of laughter.
David turned to Sid with a mock-serious expression.
“One piece of advice: always make sure the producer has cash before you start shooting.
And if he says the cheque is coming tomorrow, don’t buy it.”
Sid grinned.
“That sounds more like legal advice than career guidance.”
David playfully slapped his shoulder, clearly pleased.
“Smart boy.”
Salman shook his head, looking at Sid.
“Don’t listen to David.
Trust yourself.
And the audience.
People get too caught up in calculations—this director, that banner, critics, awards.
If the audience likes you, you’re good.”
“And money,” David added, raising his glass.
“That too,” Salman agreed.
It was blunt advice, but definitely not without merit.
Salman’s attention shifted back to Reshma.
“What about that film?
Dabangg?”
“They want an answer,” Reshma replied.
“The money is solid, the character is commercial, and it gives you room to do what audiences already love seeing you do.”
Salman raised an eyebrow, looking skeptical.
“I have Veer.”
“And?”
“Bigger film.”
Sid stayed quiet, realizing that Dabangg hadn’t even been officially locked in yet.
History was unfolding right before his eyes.
He thought about Veer’s eventual fate, but kept that to himself, of course.
Salman swirled the ice in his glass.
“Chulbul Pandey.”
“Good name,” David said with a grin.
Salman turned to Reshma.
“You really like it?”
“I like what it can do for your image.”
After a brief pause, Salman shrugged nonchalantly.
“Okay.
Say yes.”
Just like that, one of the most iconic commercial roles of Salman’s career was secured over a casual drink.
David suddenly pointed at Sid’s untouched glass.
“Why are you holding that like it’s medicine?”
Salman glanced over.
“Doesn’t drink?”
“Not much,” Sid admitted.
“Good,” Salman replied, surprising him a bit, then added with a grin, “More for us.”
“Just at least take a sip,” David urged.
“Otherwise, you’re wasting good whisky.”
Sid hesitated but finally took a small sip.
The liquid burned his throat, and he immediately disliked the taste, but he smiled along as David cheered like he had just passed a test.
Sid set the glass down, not bothering with a second sip.
A few minutes later, he found a polite moment to excuse himself.
“Excuse me, washroom.”
David waved him off, while Salman was already deep in another conversation.
As he walked away, Sid felt his shoulders relax only after he was a few meters away from the bar.
The washroom was eerily quiet compared to the lively noise outside.
He placed the whisky glass on the counter—realizing only then that he had unconsciously brought it with him—and stared at his reflection.
Cold water splashed over his hands as he washed his face.
Bunty’s perspective on the industry had always been so black-and-white: good versus bad, insiders versus outsiders, talent versus star power.
But the truth was much more complicated.
Those who offered genuine advice could still have dark pasts; corrupt producers could fund artistic masterpieces; and superstars could treat newcomers warmly while hiding a history that made him shudder.
The worst part was the quiet acceptance that hung in the air.
Everyone was aware of the rumors and the harsh truths, yet they plastered on smiles, mingled, and exchanged jokes, all because their livelihoods were hopelessly tangled together.
An outsider couldn’t just call out half the room without risking their career—or worse.
Sid found himself staring at his reflection, pondering what it would take to survive in this environment.
Would he end up turning a blind eye, chuckling at distasteful jokes, and indulging in the same excesses just to blend in?
Bunty had always thought that navigating a corrupt system meant you had to either stay completely clean or get your hands dirty.
But true survival required messier compromises: figuring out which battles were worth the fight, establishing clear boundaries, and knowing when to bend without losing your sense of self.
A toilet flushed behind him.
Sid glanced up at the mirror just as a stall door swung open.
A man stepped out, adjusting his cuffs.
Sid’s hands froze under the running water as his gaze locked with Shah Rukh Khan’s in the reflection.
For a long moment, neither of them uttered a word.