AN: I try to make stories feel realistic as much as possible.
But do you want a polygamy?
In the bustling heart of Mumbai, tucked away in an executive office at T-Series headquarters, romance was the furthest thing from Bhushan Kumar’s mind.
He was grappling with a headache—a real, throbbing migraine.
His dark mahogany desk was a chaotic mess, littered with files, three empty cups of chai, and enough legal paperwork to make him question his decision to dive into the film industry in the first place.
Aashiqui 2.
That title was legendary.
It carried a sense of nostalgia, weight, and sky-high commercial expectations.
Sorting out the rights had been a nightmare, but finally bringing Mahesh Bhatt on board as a co-producer had given the project a much-needed boost.
Bhushan had thought the toughest part was behind them.
Then pre-production kicked off.
First, they had to part ways with the original director, Vishal Mahadkar, due to creative differences.
Bhushan hated the idea of switching directors mid-project—it wasted money and time.
But Mahesh Bhatt had swooped in with a new choice: Mohit Suri.
Mohit was young, sharp, had a deep understanding of commercial music, and a talent for gritty romance.
He was exactly what they needed.
Director sorted.
Now came the real challenge: casting the male lead.
“We need to lock him in, Bhushan,” Mohit said, pacing the office carpet.
“I know,” Bhushan replied, rubbing his temples in frustration.
“We’re losing production dates.”
“I’m aware, Mohit!” Bhushan snapped, leaning back in his leather chair.
“I’ve given you five names.
Established actors.
Television stars with huge fan followings.
Guys who can actually draw in a crowd!”
Mohit halted his pacing, shaking his head.
“Too old.
Too polished.
Too recognizable.
The audience won’t buy them as a broken, alcoholic rockstar spiraling out of control.”
“So you want a fresh face who can deliver heavy drama, look like a model, sing decently, and cost a fraction of a star’s fee,” Bhushan summarized dryly.
Mohit flashed a faint grin.
“Now you’re thinking like a director.”
“I can’t stand directors.
Especially ones like you who are so demanding.”
Mohit gave a wry smile in return, but Bhushan could see a hint of something else, arrogance.
Mohit knew Mahesh Bhatt was vouching for him, and that gave him confidence to make demands.
Bhushan didn’t want to engage in another scuffle with Mahesh.
Bhushan sifted through the messy stack of papers cluttering his desk.
Someone had mentioned a new kid to him recently.
Who was it again?
Karan!
That was it—Karan Johar.
During a quick phone chat about soundtrack distribution, Karan had casually mentioned this boy, claiming he had a presence that couldn’t be ignored.
Bhushan rummaged through a pile of talent agency profiles until he stumbled upon a handwritten note from his secretary.
He pulled it out and read the name aloud.
“Sidharth Malhotra.”
Mohit turned around, intrigued.
“Karan’s boy?”
“Yep, from Student of the Year,” Bhushan confirmed, his eyes fixed on the attached headshot.
The photo was a modeling shot—sharp jawline, deep dark eyes, perfectly styled hair.
Stunning, no doubt.
“He’s a model,” Mohit said, leaning over the desk to get a better look at the picture.
“He looks like he should be on a billboard, not in a rundown rehab clinic.”
“He’s twenty, tall, and completely off the radar for film audiences, but Karan insists he’s serious about acting,” Bhushan replied, nudging the profile toward Mohit.
“And he’s currently affordable.”
Mohit picked up the sheet, scrutinizing the photograph.
“Screen presence is one thing.
Can he actually convey emotional depth?
Rahul Jaykar isn’t just a pretty face, Bhushan.
He’s a complex character.”
“Have you checked out the Student of the Year trailer?”
“A trailer isn’t a measure of acting skill.
It’s just a montage.”
Bhushan reached for his desk phone.
“Let’s bring him in for an audition and see for ourselves.”
Mohit studied the photo for a few more seconds, tracing the actor’s striking features with his eyes.
Then he nodded, handing the sheet back.
“Go ahead and call him.”
The late afternoon had gently transitioned into early evening by the time Sid walked Alia to her car.
Alia was completely absorbed in her new iPhone, scrolling through pictures with a focused look.
“Delete that,” she frowned, holding the screen away from him.
“Why?
You look just the same,” Sid replied, reaching for the phone.
“I look awful.
Just delete it.”
“I bought it,” Sid reminded her.
“You gifted it,” she shot back, stepping back with a playful grin.
“That doesn’t give you the right to blackmail me.
I’m keeping it.
You’ll thank me later for capturing these memories.”
“Memories of me blinking and looking like I’m about to fall asleep?”
She burst out laughing, tucking the phone into her bag as they approached her waiting car.
Sid took a moment to admire the sleek vehicle and the uniformed driver standing by, ready and waiting.
The contrast struck him hard.
Alia was the daughter of Mahesh Bhatt and Soni Razdan; she had grown up surrounded by generations of comfort and privilege.
Suddenly, Sid felt acutely aware of the auto-rickshaw he had taken to Bandra, and the fact that his anniversary gift to her had essentially been funded by Varun Dhawan.
Alia noticed him staring.
“What?
You’re doing that thing again—overthinking.”
“Go home,” Sid said with a soft smile.
“You’ll be late for your fancy events.”
“Idiot,” she said, playfully punching his arm.
She stepped closer, reaching up to adjust his collar—a gesture that felt more personal than practical.
“Call me tonight.
You promised last time and didn’t.”
Sid winced at the reminder of Original Sidharth’s old habits.
“I will.
I promise.”
She leaned in, kissed his cheek, and slipped into the backseat.
As the car started to pull away, she rolled down the window, held up the iPhone, and snapped one last photo, calling out, “Bye, Siddhu!”
Sid stood on the pavement, his gaze fixed on the red taillights disappearing into the bustling traffic.
A familiar knot of self-consciousness tightened in his chest.
In his previous life as Bunty Sharma, he had faced financial struggles.
But now, he wasn’t interested in amassing a collection of twenty watches or five luxury cars; what he craved was independence, authority, and the freedom to choose his projects without constantly worrying about the financial gap between them. This story is hosted at novelping dot com.
His Nokia rang, jolting him from his thoughts.
It was Reshma Shetty.
“We got a call,” she said, diving right in.
“T-Series wants you to audition for Aashiqui 2 in two days.
Mohit Suri saw your photos.”
Sid’s fist shot up in excitement.
“Yes!”
A middle-aged passerby flinched at his sudden outburst, and Sid quickly lowered his hand, clearing his throat.
“Sorry about that.”
“Did you just celebrate?” Reshma asked, her voice laced with dry amusement.
“Maybe.”
“Don’t overdo it.
Mohit is looking for someone young and fresh.
You’ve got the looks, but remember: it’s just an audition, not a guarantee.
Karan put in a good word for you.”
“I’ll be there,” Sid replied, determination creeping into his voice.
Once he hung up, the weight of the task ahead settled heavily on him.
Rahul Jaykar wasn’t your typical clean-cut debutant; he was a brooding, self-destructive, alcoholic singer whose career was on the brink of collapse.
Sid had just two days to convince a director that he could embody that struggle, despite his polished exterior and barely a week of acting classes under his belt.
The next forty-eight hours flew by in a whirlwind of intense preparation.
Barry John was relentless.
“Stop trying to become an alcoholic and a musician in two days,” he snapped during their session.
“Find what you truly understand.”
Sid dug deep into his most profound fear: irrelevance.
He knew all too well the feeling of watching opportunities slip away, the anxiety of being left behind while others raced ahead.
“There,” Barry said, noticing the shift in Sid’s eyes.
“Use that.
Don’t just put on a face.
Listen, react, and portray the struggle of a drunk person desperately trying to seem sober.”
Sushant stood in the kitchen, watching as Vidyut took the call.
He could see the calm look on Vidyut’s face morph into sheer disbelief.
“When?
…
Hyderabad?” Vidyut asked, pacing back and forth.
“Yes.
Yes, I’m free.
Thank you.”
After hanging up, he stared blankly at his phone, lost in thought.
“What’s going on?” Sushant leaned in, curiosity piqued.
“I got it,” Vidyut whispered, a huge grin spreading across his face.
“The villain role in Shakti!”
Sushant couldn’t contain his excitement and shouted, rushing over.
In a burst of joy, Vidyut threw a celebratory punch that landed right on Sushant’s upper arm.
“OW!” Sushant recoiled, cradling his arm.
“You punched me!
You’re a martial artist; your happy punches pack a punch!”
Vidyut erupted in laughter, unable to muster a proper apology until Sushant finally relented and pulled him into a hearty bear hug.
It felt like doors that had been shut for ages were finally swinging open.
Meanwhile, across Mumbai, Sid stepped out of his auto-rickshaw and stood in front of the T-Series office building.
He took a slow, deep breath, mentally recalling Barry’s advice.
Listen.
React.
Use your eyes.
With a quick adjustment of his shirt, he pushed open the glass doors and stepped inside.