The apartment was completely dark when Sid walked in.
He paused for a moment, one hand resting on the front door, allowing the silence to envelop him.
After the overwhelming noise of the rave, this stillness felt almost eerie.
Carefully, Sid closed the door and took a look around.
The place was definitely bigger than Bunty’s old spot, though calling it luxurious would be pushing it.
It had that mismatched, practical vibe typical of a flat shared by young guys who made just enough to live comfortably but not enough to worry about decorative pillows or color coordination.
A well-worn leather sofa
A low coffee table piled high with old magazines
A television mounted on the wall
A random collection of shoes scattered by the entryway
Three closed doors lined the hallway at the back.
Sid stared at them, exhaling a dry breath.
“Great.
I’m home.
Now, which room do I get?”
He tried the first door handle.
Locked.
Next, he turned the knob on the second door and pushed it open quietly.
Inside, he saw a bed, a heap of clothes, a single heavy dumbbell leaning against the wall, and a series of framed photos pinned next to a cupboard.
He stepped in cautiously, his gaze landing on a framed modeling print on a shelf.
It was a headshot of Sidharth Malhotra.
“Alright.
This is mine,” Sid muttered, closing the door behind him.
He flicked on the light.
The room was surprisingly tidy—much cleaner than Bunty’s usual chaos.
A simple wardrobe took up one wall, while a small wooden desk sat across from the bed, stacked with books, magazines, old scripts, and professional portfolios.
Sid strolled over and grabbed a hefty black binder.
Folder 1: An early portfolio.
Sidharth looked younger here—leaner, almost a bit awkward, yet his striking facial features were undeniable.
Folder 2: A high-fashion commercial shoot.
He appeared more self-assured, with sharper angles.
Folder 3: Editorial spreads showcasing various hairstyles, different styles, and a range of photographers.
The previous owner had meticulously organized and preserved nearly every professional gig he had ever landed.
Sid found himself staring at a glossy print of his own face, feeling a mix of emotions.
Was it narcissism?
A way to keep track of his career?
Or just the careful habit of a young model trying to make a name for himself?
“Creepy might be too harsh,” Sid mused.
The deceased deserved at least a bit of respect.
His gaze shifted to a smaller frame sitting on the bedside table.
He picked it up.
It was a family photo: a middle-aged man with sharp features, a woman with warm eyes, and a younger Sidharth standing comfortably between them.
Suddenly, names popped into his mind—Sunil Malhotra, a former Merchant Navy captain, and Rimma Malhotra, a homemaker.
Parents.
The word carried a strange, ghostly weight.
He didn’t have memories of their voices, their conversations, or family dinners in Delhi.
Yet, deep down, he felt their significance, as if his body recognized them as essential.
Sid frowned, digging through his own thoughts.
Had Bunty read these names in some celebrity gossip magazine ages ago?
Perhaps.
But this felt different; it was like an immediate, subconscious recognition.
He perched on the edge of the bed, his gaze fixed on the glass frame in front of him.
If the real Sidharth had indeed perished in that bathroom last night, then these two people had just lost their son.
And they would remain blissfully unaware, as an outsider named Bunty Sharma was now living in his skin.
Sid hung his head, closing his eyes as he whispered into the stillness of the room, “I’m sorry.”
He wasn’t quite sure who he was apologizing to—Sidharth, the parents in the picture, or some cosmic twist of fate that had tangled their lives together.
He offered a quiet, fleeting prayer for the true owner of this body set the frame back on the table, and opened the wardrobe.
Changing clothes didn’t need an explanation.
He swapped his smoke-stained party outfit for a fresh gray t-shirt and comfy cotton shorts.
The moment his head hit the pillow, exhaustion washed over him like a wave.
He had planned to check his phone, search the room, and figure out why “Student of the Year” was supposedly coming out in 2009.
But instead, sleep claimed him instantly.
The next morning, clattering noises jolted him awake.
Sid groaned as a metal pan clattered to the floor outside, followed by a loud complaint and a carefree laugh.
Sunlight poured through the bedroom window.
For a brief moment, he was disoriented—until his eyes landed on the modeling headshot on the wall.
Reality came crashing back.
The bathroom.
The party.
Sidharth Malhotra.
With a groan, Sid pushed himself up and grabbed the Nokia from the nightstand: 10:07 AM.
He rubbed his face, surprised to feel a bit better.
The feverish heat from the night before had faded.
Another loud crash echoed from the living room, followed by a booming “Arre!”
Sid opened his bedroom door and stepped into the main hall, coming to an abrupt halt.
Two men occupied the space—one near the kitchen with a plate in hand, the other lounging on the sofa.
Sid’s attention immediately locked onto the man on the couch.
Sushant Singh Rajput.
Young, alive, and grinning widely as he animatedly gestured with his hands.
Sid felt like he’d forgotten how to breathe.
Sure, seeing Varun Dhawan or Alia Bhatt was one thing—they were alive and thriving in 2026.
But Sushant…
In Bunty’s world, Sushant’s death had been a national tragedy, a media frenzy, and a whirlwind of conspiracy theories that completely consumed his legacy.
And here he was—twenty-something, glowing, and casually sprawled out on a secondhand sofa.
“Siddharth?” Sushant called out, noticing him.
Sid was frozen in place.
Sushant approached him, a slight frown on his face, and gave his shoulder a gentle shake.
“Sid?
What’s going on?”
Sid gulped, trying to get his voice to cooperate.
“Nothing.
Just…
trying to start the engine for the day.”
Sushant’s expression brightened immediately, brushing off the odd vibe.
Just then, a second figure turned from the kitchen counter.
Vidyut Jammwal.
He looked younger, his hair longer, and he was built like a lightweight fighter who could easily kick through a concrete wall.
He raised an eyebrow at Sid.
“How was the party?”
“Fine,” Sid replied, leaning back against the wall.
“What you’d expect from an elite crowd.”
Sushant leaned in, his eyes sparkling with curiosity.
“Drugs?
Booze?”
“Both,” Sid said flatly.
“Almost everyone was out of their minds.”
Vidyut’s face tightened in disgust.
“Idiots,” he muttered, turning back to his cooking.
That reaction made sense—Vidyut was known for his strict discipline when it came to fitness and martial arts.
“Did you do anything?” Sushant asked, narrowing his eyes playfully.
“No,” Sid replied.
“I felt sick, so I left early.
Before the main event even kicked off.”
Sushant glanced at Vidyut, then back at Sid.
“What goes down at the main party?”
“I really don’t want to know,” Sid said dryly.
Vidyut let out a short laugh, but Sushant shook his head, his face lighting up with a huge grin.
“Forget that.
Do you know what happened today?”
“How would I?”
Sushant grabbed Sid by the shoulders, practically buzzing with excitement.
“Kis Desh Mein Hai Meraa Dil.”
Sid blinked in confusion.
“The what?”
“I got the role!
Second lead.
They called me just twenty minutes ago!”
For a fleeting moment, the overwhelming joy in the room chased away Sid’s usual existential worries.
He smiled genuinely and pulled Sushant into a quick hug.
“Seriously?
That’s incredible, man.
Congratulations!”
“See?” Vidyut chimed in, balancing a plate of eggs like a pro.
“Finally, the unemployed guy in this flat has found a job.”
“Shut up, Vidyut.”
“I’m being serious!
You might actually pay your share of the rent on time for once.”
“I do pay rent!” Sushant shot back, grabbing a throw pillow and flinging it across the room.
Vidyut caught it effortlessly with one hand, plate still intact.
Sid observed the playful banter, feeling a twinge of longing in his chest.
Sushant was just a young actor, over the moon about landing a TV gig.
Suddenly, Sushant froze.
“Oh, crap.”
“What’s up?” Vidyut asked.
“I haven’t called my parents yet!” Sushant snatched his phone from the table and dashed toward the balcony.
“Don’t eat all the food!” he shouted over his shoulder before stepping outside to make the call.
Vidyut set the plate down and turned to Sid.
“What are you staring at?”
“Nothing,” Sid replied, watching Sushant animatedly gesture through the balcony glass.
“Just really happy for him.”
“Yeah,” Vidyut said quietly, heading back to the kitchen.
“When are you going to give us some good news?
Maybe about dating that girl from your film, Alia?”
Sid followed him.
“I’m still waiting.
What about you?
Any updates?”
“I auditioned for a Telugu film,” Vidyut said, rummaging through a cabinet.
“Shakti.”
The title rang a bell in Sid’s mind—a project featuring Junior NTR.
“What role?” Sid asked, trying to sound casual.
Vidyut paused, turning around slowly, clearly annoyed.
“I’ve told you five times already.”
Sid felt a jolt in his stomach.
A mistake.
He kept his expression completely neutral.
“Right.
The villain.”
“What else can I say?” Vidyut chuckled, a hint of self-mockery in his tone as he gestured to himself.
“I’m the new guy, no family connections in the industry, no financial backing, just trying to make my way into Telugu cinema.
Playing the villain?
That feels pretty realistic.”
“Are you eating?” Vidyut asked, lifting a carton of eggs.
“Yeah, thanks.”
Sid moved away and settled down at an old desktop computer perched on a desk in the corner.
He powered up the bulky monitor, patiently enduring the slow startup chime of that late-2000s Windows.
He opened the browser and started typing:
Search: Sidharth Malhotra
Result: Modeling portfolios, agency profiles, and articles confirming his role as a lead in Dharma’s Student of the Year, set for an October 2009 theatrical release.
Search: Sidharth Malhotra date of birth
Result: January 16, 1989.
Sid stared at the screen, quickly calculating in his head.
In Bunty’s original timeline, Sidharth Malhotra was born in 1985.
But in this reality, he was born four years later—making him twenty years old right now, perfectly aligning with the accelerated 2009 release date of his debut film.
The broad strokes of the world were still there, but the timeline had been rewritten, shifted, and compressed.
Vidyut strolled over, placing a plate of scrambled eggs and toast next to the keyboard.
“What are you looking at?”
“Just checking out the early reactions to the trailer announcement,” Sid replied smoothly, not missing a beat.
“And?
How’s it looking?”
“Yeah,” Sid said softly, taking a bite of toast.
“Looks really good.”
Vidyut nodded and headed back toward the kitchen.
Sid glanced out toward the balcony, where Sushant was still laughing heartily into his phone, then over at Vidyut, who was humming quietly as he tidied up the counter.
He had twenty years of future knowledge swirling in his mind—but in a world where the rules and timelines had already shifted, that knowledge wouldn’t be a straightforward cheat code.
He couldn’t just stick to a script; he was going to have to navigate this new reality actively.