The twin-turbo V8 of the BMW M5 snarled as Rudra dropped the throttle along the Bandra-Worli Sea Link.
The needle swung past the hundred mark, pinning him to the ventilated leather bucket seat.
The warm, salty gale whipped through the open windows, tossing his thick obsidian locks across his brow.
“WOOOOOO-HOOOOO!
HELL YEAH, BABY!” Rudra roared into the morning wind, throwing his head back with pure, intoxicating freedom.
His liquid-gold eyes tracked the shimmering Mumbai coastline.
“March 2010…
The absolute golden dawn of modern entertainment.
Instagram hasn’t even launched yet.”
“YouTube is just a budding platform for amateur clips.”
“Spotify is barely a whisper, and OTT platforms haven’t even taken root in India.
“The sheer volume of digital ground waiting to be conquered is insane.”
His mind fired in overdrive.
He didn’t just carry the instincts of a street-smart Casanova.
He possessed the rapid architectural intellect of an elite mind.
He could cross-reference market data, visualize marketing funnels, and map cinematic trends in seconds.
It was that exact lethal combination of effortless brilliance, overwhelming physical magnetism, and dark, intoxicating authority that had driven women like Dr.
Suniti Sharma to abandon their academic composure and open their bedroom doors to his carnal appetite.
Yet beneath the ruthless strategist sat something older, heavier, and sacred.
Rudra’s fingers drifted to the neckline of his shirt, brushing against the strand of dark, polished Rudraksha beads resting against his collarbone.
They had miraculously transmigrated with him, cold and solid against his bronzed skin.
“Why so serious, handsome?
Just enjoy the ride and leave the heavy lifting to destiny.”
The faint, melodic whisper brushed past his ear, carrying the sweet, nostalgic scent of jasmine.
Rudra smiled, pressing the wooden beads with his thumb.
“You never miss a cue, do you, Sati?”
“You’re right.
No point overcooking the strategy when the board hasn’t even been set.”
“First, let’s go see the trenches.
Let’s see the ground reality of Aram Nagar.”
He flicked the indicator, downshifting as he steered the sapphire-black beast away from the highway, cutting through the chaotic traffic toward Versova.
Aram Nagar, Part 2 – Silicon Valley of Bollywood strugglers.
If Bandra was the glittering display window of Bollywood.
Aram Nagar was the grease-stained engine room.
Labyrinthine alleys wound between vintage residential cottages converted into cramped casting offices, independent production cabins, and editing suites.
The air was thick with the scent of cheap filter coffee, burning bidis, auto-rickshaw exhaust, and the desperate, electric hum of thousands of dreams fighting for survival.
Rudra parked the M5 two streets away behind an overgrown banyan tree.
He had no intention of rolling up to an audition strip in a brand-new German luxury sedan; showing off inherited wealth would immediately poison the waters.
Stepping out onto the broken concrete, he took in the scene.
Ahead of a weathered bungalow bearing the faded brass plaque of Maya Mirage Productions.
A line of over a hundred aspiring actors stretched halfway down the cracked pavement.
“Damn…” Rudra murmured, leaning against a rusted lamppost.
“All this just for a couple of secondary character slots.
Half these guys have decent jawlines, decent builds…
but look at their eyes.”
The sheer exhaustion was palpable.
Rudra looked at the crowd.
His mind drifting to the titans of the indie renaissance.
Nawazuddin Siddiqui grinding through decade-long rejections, Manoj Bajpayee enduring absolute poverty, and the transcendent, immortal presence of Irrfan Khan.
‘Just hold on, legends,’ Rudra thought, his golden eyes narrowing with quiet, fierce resolve.
‘
‘Your little brother is going to build a platform where raw craft isn’t traded away for fair skin and cheap connections.’
Rudra adjusted his sleeveless vest and walked toward the tail end of the line.
Standing ahead of him were two men who immediately caught his attention.
One was exceptionally tall, broad-shouldered, and scowling beneath an unkempt mop of curly hair, wearing a faded checked shirt.
Beside him stood a lanky, sharp-featured youth with sunken cheeks, high cheekbones, and nervous, hyper-expressive eyes, fidgeting with a plastic folder.
As Rudra approached, his 6’3″ frame cast a massive shadow over them.
The two actors turned around, blinking in shock as they tilted their heads upward to take in his towering frame.
The dense musculature of his bare arms, and those piercing, liquid-gold irises.
“Excuse me, brothers,” Rudra asked, offering a warm, polite smile.
“Mind telling me what role this call is for?
Are they testing for the secondary lead, or just background ensemble?”
The lanky youth blinked, looking Rudra up and down before glancing at his completely empty hands.
“Brother…
are you seriously asking that?” the lanky one chuckled, his voice carrying a dry, distinct Hyderabadi-Bombay cadence.
“You’re standing in the middle of Aram Nagar without even knowing the character brief?
And wait…
where the hell is your portfolio folder?”
Rudra froze, letting out a dry, sheepish cough as he rubbed the back of his neck.
‘Smooth, Rudra.
Real fucking smooth.’
The taller, broad-shouldered man crossed his arms, his deep, baritone voice laced with dry Haryana cynicism:
“Don’t tell me…
You saw a camera van, decided your handsome face was too pretty to keep at home, and figured you could just stroll into the producer’s private cabin on sheer looks?”
Rudra raised his hands in mock defeat, his face flushing with a rare, boyish embarrassment.
“Caught red-handed, gentlemen!” Rudra chuckled, flashing a self-deprecating grin.
“I made a full digital portfolio, but left the physical prints on my study desk.”
“I was just wandering through the lane to see how tough the grind really is for the real actors out here.”
The lanky youth burst out laughing, nudging his friend with an elbow.
“Liar, liar!
Man, you should’ve rehearsed your cover story!
But hey, at least you’re honest about it.”
“Half the models who show up here carry portfolios thicker than the Indian Constitution and can’t even deliver two lines of basic Hindi.”
“It’s a slaughterhouse today, brother,” the broad-shouldered man sighed, his rough features softening slightly as he looked at the endless queue.
“They’ve been auditioning since eight in the morning.
Rejections left, right, and centre.
But if you want to act, you stand in the dust.
That’s the tax.”
Rudra looked into their tired, hungry eyes.
Beneath the cynicism and the worn shirts, he saw an undeniable, simmering fire of raw, stage-honed greatness.
And both looked so familiar, like he had seen them many times before, though he couldn’t place exactly where.
The feeling lingered, unsettling yet strangely comforting, as if destiny had already carved their faces into his memory.
“You two are going to make it,” Rudra said, his velvet baritone ringing with absolute sincerity.
“I can see the fire behind your chest.
Don’t let this dusty queue swallow your spirit.
By the way…
I’m Rudra.”
The two actors smiled, surprised by the total lack of star-kid look like arrogance in the towering youth.
“Good to meet you, Rudra.
I’m—”
Fifty meters up the cracked lane—
Mohini Kashyap was nursing a catastrophic migraine.
At thirty-four, the co-founder of Maya Mirage Productions was a striking, voluptuous woman with sharp, almond-shaped eyes, full lips, and a commanding presence, dressed in an elegant raw-silk kurti and designer slacks.
She held a sleek BlackBerry to her ear, tapping her foot impatiently against the broken stone steps of her production bungalow.
On the other end of the line, the muffled sounds of female giggles and bedsheets rustling leaked through the speaker.
“Damn it, Mohan!” Mohini hissed under her breath, keeping her voice low so the assistant directors wouldn’t overhear.
“I know for a fact you’re currently tangled in the sheets with that new costume intern!”
“Could you at least have the decency to wrap up your little romp until after the casting session?”
“You dumped the entire morning screening on my head!
You owe me an uncut diamond ring for this, you bastard.”
A lazy, amused male chuckle came through the earpiece.
“Thanks, babe.
You’re a lifesaver.
And hey…
don’t be so uptight.”
“Take a look at the audition line.
If you see some young, hungry boy with good stamina, call him in.”
“De-stress yourself, Mohini.
Young energy keeps the skin glowing, you know that.”
Mohini rolled her eyes, cutting the call with an irritated snap of her fingers.
Their marriage was an open, pragmatic arrangement built on fierce creative partnership and mutual hedonism.
They loved each other, ran their production company with an iron grip, and slept with whomever they pleased- so long as protection was used and personal drama never leaked into the trade papers.
“Idiot,” Mohini muttered, slipping the BlackBerry into her leather bag.
“I’m running a film production, not running a casting couch for my own bed…”
Distracted by her ringing phone and the files under her arm, she stepped off the curb—
Directly toward a live, exposed 440-volt municipal power cable dangling from an illegal construction scaffold, sitting right in the middle of a wide, muddy puddle!
“LOOK OUT!” someone screamed from the crowd!
Mohini looked up.
Her high heel slipping on the slick moss!
Her eyes widened in paralyzed horror as she began to fall backward toward the electrified water—
SWOOOOOSH!
A blur of raw kinetic speed cleaved through the crowd!
Before she could hit the ground, a pair of massive, iron-dense arms locked around her waist.
Rudra pivoted on his heel, using the full momentum of his sprint to sweep her off her feet, rotating her body through the air with the breath-taking, fluid grace of an aerial dancer!
He pulled her flush against his broad chest, planting his heavy boots on dry concrete two feet away from the sparking puddle, absorbing the entire kinetic shock through his own dense frame.
SPARK!
BZZZZT!
The construction cable slapped the puddle, sending up a shower of violent blue sparks and sizzling steam right where she would have landed!
Mohini’s breath hitched in her throat.
Her heart hammered like a trapped bird against her chest.
But it wasn’t the near-death experience that sent a molten, suffocating shiver straight down her spine.
It was the man holding her.
She was pressed tight against a wall of pure, immovable muscle.
A rich, overpowering aroma hit her nostrils.
A potent, intoxicating fusion of crushed dark vanilla, wild mountain honey, and burning cedarwood, laced with the raw, tangy heat of masculine sweat.
Mohini tilted her head back, her lips parting.
Looking down at her with genuine, protective concern was the most magnificent masculine specimen she had ever laid eyes upon.
A sun-bronzed, chiselled face carved with razor-sharp symmetry; thick, windblown black hair; and two piercing, hypnotic liquid-gold irises that seemed to strip away every defence in her mind.
“Are you alright, ma’am?” Rudra asked softly, his deep velvet baritone vibrating directly against her chest.
“No burns?
Nothing twisted?”
Mohini stared at him, her pupils blown wide, completely entranced.
Her mind spun, an uninhibited, wanton thought detonating behind her eyes:
‘Sweet mother of God…
Mohan was right.
I need to de-stress…
and this boy looks like the ultimate medicine.’
Slowly, her red-painted lips curved into a sultry, predatory smile.
“I’m fine, darling,” Mohini purred, her voice dropping into a husky, breathless register as she deliberately ran her palms down the rock-solid ridges of his biceps.
“More than fine, actually.”
She straightened her kurti, reached out, and wrapped her manicured fingers firmly around Rudra’s wrist.
Turning toward her bewildered production assistant standing on the veranda, Mohini barked with executive authority:
“Auditions are paused for the next hour!
Clear the hallway!”
Without releasing her grip.
She pulled the towering young man straight up the bungalow steps, dragging him through the carved wooden door and slamming her private air-conditioned cabin shut with a heavy, resounding CLICK!
Outside on the pavement.
The hundred-plus struggling actors stood in absolute, paralyzed silence.
The lanky youth and the broad-shouldered man stood with their mouths hanging open, staring at the closed executive door.
The lanky youth turned slowly toward his companion, his hands twitching in sheer, comedic disbelief:
“Jaideep bhai…
yeh banda toh sach mein chala gaya andar!
Main toh iska mazaak uda raha tha!”
(Jaideep brother…
that guy actually went inside!
And here I was, just making fun of him!)
Jaideep frowned deeply, shooting his friend a sharp, exasperated glare before looking back at the frosted glass window of the producer’s cabin.
“Aur kar tu mazaak, saale!” Jaideep grunted in his thick, dry tone.
“Dekha nahi tune kaise yeh jump kar gaya ekdum hero ki tarah?”
“Talent ek taraf aur look ek taraf…
yahi sachai hai Bollywood ki hamesha se.
Look ko darja hamesha upar milega talent se, hamesha!”
(Go ahead, keep cracking jokes, you idiot!
Didn’t you see how he jumped in there like a full-blown cinema hero?
Talent on one side, looks on the other…
that has always been the brutal truth of Bollywood.
Looks will always get a higher pedestal than raw talent, every single time!)
The two future giants of Indian cinema.
Vijay Varma and Jaideep Ahlawat looked up at the blazing afternoon sun beating down on Aram Nagar.
Sighing in heavy, shared exhaustion, Vijay folded his hands toward the sky, mumbling a desperate prayer:
“Hey bhagwaan…
hamari kismat kab chamkayega?
Audition de-dekar thak chuke hain…
kuch toh rehem kar hum dono par!”
(Oh Lord…
when will you finally brighten our destiny?
We are sick and tired of giving endless auditions…
have a little mercy on both of us!)
Behind the frosted glass of the cabin, the heavy deadbolt clicked into place.
[ Chapter End ]
Hahaha, this chapter made me laugh out loud while writing it.
I hope my beautiful and handsome readers enjoy the surprise as much as I did.
Ohh!
by the Mohini and Mohan are OC.