“Should I call the casting agencies in Lokhandwala?” Sanjay sat in the dusty office, his pen hovering over a fresh notepad.
“If we want to pull off a society comedy, we need people with good timing.
There are established daily soap actors whose shows just went off the air.
We could probably get their dates if we pay a premium.” “No agencies.
No daily soap actors,” Vihaan said instantly, not even looking up from the set blueprints spread across his desk.
Milind frowned from the corner sofa.
“Vihaan, if you cast amateurs for a comedy, the jokes will fall flat.
You need experienced faces.” “If we hire established TV actors, they’ll bring their TV habits,” Vihaan replied, looking up.
“They take dramatic pauses.
They breathe heavily for effect.
They wait for a background score that isn’t there.
I need raw, natural comedic timing.
And more importantly, if we pay for established names, we won’t have the budget to build Shantivan Society on Lot 3.
We go to the ground.” When the message went out later that afternoon that Malhotra Motion Pictures was reviving and casting fresh faces, it sent a shockwave through the Mumbai film industry.
Rajesh Malhotra might have died with empty pockets, but his prestige was undeniable.
His movies were critical successes, and the industry respected the Malhotra name.
The news that his son was holding open auditions spread like a wildfire across the struggling actor networks of Andheri, Goregaon, and Lokhandwala.
The best and the worst of Mumbai were coming to their gates.
Vihaan structured the chaos ruthlessly.
The auditions would run in strict batches: four days dedicated entirely to casting the men, followed by four days for the women.
By 9:00 AM the next morning, the studio lot was packed.
Inside the large audition hall, a long wooden table had been set up.
Behind it sat the panel of four: Vihaan in the center, flanked by Milind, Prakash, and Sanjay.
In front of them were stacks of printed forms.
Vihaan held a thick black marker.
A Tick (✓) meant you survived.
A Cross (X) meant you went home.
The first few days were a grueling, mind-numbing grind.
Vihaan saw exactly why Milind was worried.
“Action,” Vihaan called out to a muscular, handsome guy auditioning for Ketan (the lead).
The actor puffed out his chest, flared his nostrils, and delivered a simple joke about a broken water pump as if he were declaring war in a historical epic.
He paused, waiting for the panel to be mesmerized by his jawline.
Milind cringed.
Vihaan politely raised a hand.
“Thank you.
Next.” He marked a heavy red ‘X’ on the sheet.
He turned to Milind.
“See?
That’s what happens when you cast a plastic mannequin instead of a real person.” But Vihaan wasn’t relying purely on walk-ins.
He had given Sanjay a specific name to track down.
“Did the studio contact Sunil Grover?” Vihaan asked, rubbing his temples.
“Yes,” Sanjay nodded.
“He’s doing radio and minor voiceovers.
He was surprised we called him directly, but he’s waiting outside.” “Send him in.” Sunil Grover walked into the room, looking slightly nervous.
In 2008, he was a nobody in the film industry.
But looking at him, Vihaan’s upgraded mental library flared to life.
The man who will rule Indian television comedy.
The master of disguises.
Vihaan felt a rush of adrenaline.
He was literally sitting across from a future legend.
“You’re Sunil,” Vihaan said, sliding a script page across the table.
“You’re Suresh Sharma.
A cynical, unmarried crime reporter who is terrified of ghosts.
Here’s a broken umbrella.
Read the scene where the lights go out.” Sunil looked at the page.
He took a breath, and instantly, his entire body language shifted.
He shrank into a hilarious posture of defensive cowardice.
He clutched the broken umbrella like a sword, his voice cracking with the perfect, desperate pitch of middle-class panic.
He didn’t just read the lines; he inhabited the fear so perfectly that it was inherently funny.
Prakash chuckled loudly.
Milind’s eyes widened in surprise.
Vihaan smiled and brought the marker down.
Tick (✓).
Over the next three days, they locked the supporting men.
Ballu (the energetic Punjabi), Dr.
Batra (the jovial doctor), and Rashid (the shopkeeper) were cast from the endless lines of hopefuls.
But by the end of Day 4, the panel was exhausted, and a massive problem remained: they had not found Ketan (the lead) or Kadam (the strict Secretary).
“We move to the women,” Vihaan declared on Day 5.
“We’ll circle back to the men later.” The female casting brought a different kind of chaotic energy to the lot.
Hundreds of actresses lined the corridors.
Vihaan stepped out of the hall to get a coffee and spotted a girl leaning against the wall, fanning herself with a script page.
She looked glamorous, modern, and highly annoyed by the disorganized, sweating crowd.
Vihaan’s mind sparked instantly.
Nushrratt Bharuccha.
The future queen of the ‘Punchnama’ monologues.
He walked up to her.
“You.
Inside.
Now.” Nushrratt blinked, surprised, but followed him into the audition room.
Vihaan handed her the scene for Nandini, the sophisticated Bengali wife who is completely out of Ketan’s league.
“Action.” Nushrratt didn’t just stand there looking pretty; she delivered the dialogue with a subtle, sharp arrogance and an effortless modern charm that made Ketan’s crush on her entirely believable.
She commanded the space perfectly.
Tick (✓).
A few hours later, a loud argument echoed from the doorway.
“I’ve been waiting for three hours!
You gave me token 45, and now you’re calling 60?
Are you blind or just bad at math?” A young woman with curly hair was fiercely arguing with a terrified production assistant.
Vihaan looked up.
Taapsee Pannu.
Before the industry knew her as a powerhouse action star, she was just an angry IT professional trying to get an audition.
“Send her in!” Vihaan shouted over the noise.
Taapsee marched in, still visibly furious, ready to fight the panel.
Vihaan didn’t try to calm her down.
He loved the fire.
He handed her the script for Neha, the ambitious, aggressive journalist.
“Don’t calm down.
Channel that exact anger into this reporter’s dialogue.
Go.” Taapsee grabbed the paper, her eyes scanning the lines rapidly.
She looked up and delivered a blistering, fast-paced read that practically pinned the panel to their chairs.
Her fierce energy was raw and captivating.
Milind looked at Vihaan and nodded slowly.
Tick (✓).
By the end of Day 8, the auditions officially closed.
The room was littered with empty cutting-chai glasses and crumpled forms.
They had cast the supporting wives and the kids.
But a heavy silence hung over the panel.
“We don’t have our leads,” Sanjay said quietly, looking at the master sheet.
“No Ketan.
No Kadam.
No Bhavna.
Vihaan, we saw thousands of people.
We have to compromise.
Pick the best from the ‘average’ pile.” “No,” Vihaan said, standing up and grabbing his leather jacket.
“Vihaan, the auditions are over,” Milind sighed, rubbing his temples.
“The open auditions are over,” Vihaan corrected.
“The best actors don’t stand in lines under the sun for eight hours, Milind sir.
They are too busy actually acting.
Come with me.” The local theater in Andheri was cramped, poorly lit, and smelled faintly of damp wood and old costumes.
Tickets were fifty rupees at the door.
The audience consisted of maybe thirty people.
Vihaan and Milind sat in the absolute back row.
On the small stage, a group of young, passionate actors was performing a simple, slice-of-life comedic play.
As Vihaan watched the stage, the ambient noise of the theater faded into dead silence.
His heart hammered against his ribs.
The future knowledge in his brain collided violently with the reality in front of him.
There they were.
Rajkummar Rao.
Rasika Dugal.
Gopal Datt.
Vihaan felt a surreal, dizzying rush of awe.
He was looking at future National Award winners.
He was looking at the future stars of Indian cinema and streaming platforms.
And right now, they were acting their hearts out under terrible lighting for an audience that barely cared, completely unaware of the greatness destined for them.
I’m not just casting a movie, Vihaan realized, a slow smile spreading across his face.
I am assembling the future superstars of India.
Their timing was impeccable.
Rajkummar had an effortless, natural charm that drew the eye.
Rasika’s expressions were a masterclass in innocence and subtlety.
And Gopal Datt was delivering his lines with a sharp, strict intensity that had the small audience in stitches.
They were his Ketan, his Bhavna, and his Kadam.
When the play ended to polite applause, Vihaan didn’t wait.
He led Milind straight to the backstage green room.
It was chaotic.
The actors were wiping off cheap makeup with rough towels, looking utterly exhausted.
Vihaan stepped into the room, his presence immediately shifting the energy.
“Rajkummar.
Rasika.
Gopal.” The three actors turned, looking confused at the well-dressed twenty-year-old and the veteran studio executive beside him.
“My name is Vihaan Malhotra.
I’m a director,” Vihaan said, his voice cutting through the backstage chatter with absolute authority.
“I am casting a feature film for Malhotra Motion Pictures.
I watched your performance tonight, and you three have exactly what I need for my lead roles.” Gopal Datt narrowed his eyes, clearly skeptical of the young boy playing director.
Rajkummar and Rasika exchanged a surprised, hopeful glance.
“I am not holding open auditions anymore,” Vihaan continued.
“I want you three to come to the studio tomorrow morning at 10:00 AM.
It’s a closed session.
Just for you.” He handed Rajkummar a card with the studio address, turned around, and walked out, leaving the three future stars staring after him in stunned silence.
————————————– Rajkummar hadn’t slept a wink.
He sat on the edge of his small, lumpy mattress in his cramped rented room, staring at the small piece of cardstock in his hands.
It had the embossed logo of Malhotra Motion Pictures and an address in Goregaon.
His mind was an absolute, chaotic mess.
He had just recently graduated from the film institute, stepping out into the massive, terrifying ocean of Mumbai with big dreams and empty pockets.
He knew the drill.
Years of struggling, dropping off photos at casting directors’ offices, standing in endless lines, maybe landing a two-second background role in an advertisement.
That was how the industry worked.
But yesterday, a well-dressed twenty-year-old kid walked into a dingy Andheri theater, bypassed every rule in the book, and handed him a direct ticket to a closed audition for a lead role in a feature film.
How?
What did he see?
Is this a scam?
The questions had tortured him until sunrise.
But as the first light hit his window, Rajkummar pushed the doubts aside.
Scam or not, he was an actor, and this was a stage.
He took extra care getting ready.
He ironed his best shirt—a simple, light blue button-down—twice, making sure the collar was stiff.
He combed his hair meticulously, put on a dab of cheap cologne, and stopped by the small local temple near the station, folding his hands and praying with a fierce, desperate hope before catching the local train.
When he finally reached the gates of Malhotra Motion Pictures, his heart sank just a fraction.
The studio looked like a forgotten relic.
The paint on the outer walls was peeling, the massive iron gates were rusted, and the grand poster boards were empty.
But as he stood there, taking a deep breath, he spotted two familiar faces walking toward him.
Rasika Dugal and Gopal Datt.
They looked just as nervous as he felt.
Rasika was clutching her purse tightly, offering a hesitant smile, while Gopal was adjusting his glasses, looking at the rusted gates with a skeptical frown.
Gopal nodded grimly.
“Let’s see if this is real or just a prank.” The three of them walked up to the security cabin.
A sleepy-looking guard stepped out, holding a lathi.
Rajkummar cleared his throat, trying to sound confident.
“I was invited.
We all were.” He handed the card over.
The guard squinted at the card, then looked at the three of them.
His demeanor instantly changed from bored to respectful.
“Closed audition.
Yes.
Please go straight to the administrative block, first floor.” As they walked onto the massive lot, Rajkummar looked around.
It was undeniably run-down and desperately needed maintenance, but to a boy who had just spent years studying the theory of cinema, the rusting camera cranes and empty soundstages looked like a magical kingdom.
If this works out, he thought, his heart fluttering, this could be my first movie right out of college.
Just like a story from a novel.
They entered the administrative block and found a desk outside a large set of double doors.
A man in his early thirties, holding a clipboard, looked up.
“Hello,” the man said, looking them up and down.
“Who are you guys?” Rajkummar’s throat went dry, but Gopal stepped forward, his theater-trained voice projecting clearly.
“Hi.
We were invited by a young man yesterday for a film audition.” He nudged Rajkummar.
Rajkummar quickly held up the card.
The man’s eyes widened slightly.
“Oh!
You are for the closed audition.
Director sir told us to expect you.” All three of them nodded vigorously, their heads bobbing in unison like chickens pecking at rice.
The man smiled, clearly amused by their nervous energy, and pushed open the double doors.
“Go inside.
Wait here.” It was a massive, empty room with a single long table at the far end.
A few minutes later, an assistant walked in carrying three thin stacks of paper.
He handed one to each of them.
“Five to ten lines,” the assistant instructed.
“It’s a situational comedy scene mixed with fear.
Take thirty minutes.
Prepare here.” Rajkummar looked down at his pages.
He was reading for ‘Ketan’ a man trying to act brave in front of his friends but secretly terrified of the dark.
Gopal looked at his script, his eyes narrowing as he analyzed the strict, rule-obsessed dialogue of ‘Kadam’.
Rasika got a scene for ‘Bhavna’, requiring a delicate balance of innocent superstition and pure comedic panic.
The assistant left.
The room fell dead silent as the three actors immediately zoned out, their lips moving silently as they began to memorize, dissect, and become their characters.
Meanwhile, on the ground floor of the administrative wing, Vihaan was moving like a hurricane.
He was standing in the middle of a makeshift production office, surrounded by blueprints, budget sheets, and ringing phones.
The studio, which had been a graveyard just a week ago, was suddenly humming with frantic, chaotic life.
“The other actors we selected from the open auditions are coming at 3:00 PM for their contract signings,” Sanjay called out over the noise, holding a thick ledger.
“I have the standard newcomer agreements drafted.” “Good.
Don’t lowball them, Sanjay Uncle, but keep it within the budget,” Vihaan replied, looking down at a large architectural drawing on his desk.
Pre-production was moving at breakneck speed.
Outside on Lot 3, a crew of thirty carpenters and painters were already tearing down the rotting remnants of an old set.
In its place, the exterior facades of Shantivan Society were rapidly rising.
“The exterior build is on schedule,” Milind said, pointing to the blueprint.
“We have the ground floor ready for the Desai Electronics shop facade, the society clubhouse doors, and Rashid’s All-In-One General Store near the main gate.
It’s cost-effective.” “What about the interiors?” Vihaan asked.
“The inside of the flats?” “Renting,” Prakash confirmed, walking into the office with a cup of tea.
“Building interiors here will waste time and lumber.
I’ve blocked a few pre-built middle-class apartment sets in Film City.
We shoot the exterior compound scenes here for twenty days, then move to Film City for the remaining fifteen days for the indoor scenes.” “Perfect,” Vihaan nodded, rolling up the blueprint.
It was a flawless, tight logistical plan.
The door opened, and the assistant popped his head in.
“Vihaan sir.
The three actors you brought from Andheri have been in the waiting room for forty minutes.
They are prepared.” Vihaan paused.
He looked at Milind, Prakash, and Sanjay.
The three veterans had been highly skeptical of Vihaan bringing in unknown theater actors for the absolute lead roles, especially when they had seen hundreds of people during the open auditions.
“Let’s go,” Vihaan said, grabbing his thick black marker.
“In ten minutes, I’ll show you the heart of our movie.” A short while later, the heavy double doors of the audition room opened.
Rajkummar, Rasika, and Gopal instantly stood up, their spines snapping straight.
The nervous energy in the room spiked as Vihaan walked in, followed by three older, intimidating men who looked like they had been making movies since the dawn of time.
Vihaan took the center seat behind the long table, resting his chin on his hands.
He didn’t smile.
He needed to see how they handled the pressure of a real panel.
“Alright,” Vihaan said, his voice echoing in the large room.
He pointed his marker.
“Gopal.
You first.
Then Rasika.
Then Rajkummar.
In that order.
Take your marks.” Gopal Datt stepped forward, taking a deep breath.
“Action.” The transformation was instantaneous.
Gopal didn’t just read the lines; his posture stiffened, his face contorted into a hilarious mask of rigid, bureaucratic panic, and he delivered the dialogue of the strict secretary, Prakash Kadam, with a sharp, nasal intensity that was perfectly calibrated.
It was loud, but completely grounded.
Vihaan kept his face blank, but internally, he was cheering.
“Thank you.
Rasika, your turn,” Vihaan called out.
Rasika stepped up.
The moment Vihaan said action, her nervous, modern demeanor vanished.
She became the innocent, highly superstitious Bhavna.
When she delivered the punchline about ghosts hiding in the washing machine, her timing and facial expressions were so effortlessly natural that even Prakash had to bite the inside of his cheek to stop from smiling.
“Good.
Rajkummar.” Rajkummar stepped to the center.
His hands were trembling slightly, but he took a breath, closed his eyes for a fraction of a second, and opened them.
He didn’t just say Ketan’s lines.
He used his entire body.
He embodied the false bravado of a man trying to look tough while his knees were physically shaking.
He fumbled with an imaginary flashlight, his voice cracking at the exact right comedic pitch when the fictional skeleton dropped in the scene.
The physical comedy was raw, energetic, and completely mesmerizing.
“Cut,” Vihaan said quietly.
The three actors stood in a line, panting slightly, looking at the panel with desperate, hopeful eyes.
Milind looked at Prakash.
Prakash looked at Sanjay.
None of the veterans showed any emotion on their faces, maintaining the strict, intimidating aura of an audition panel.
But Vihaan didn’t need to see their faces.
He looked down at the master sheet on his desk.
Next to all three names, he brought the heavy black marker down.
Tick (✓).
Tick (✓).
Tick (✓).
Vihaan looked up at the three exhausted actors.
He maintained a poker face.
“Thank you for your time,” Vihaan said, his tone professional and unreadable.
“You will know our decision in one hour.
Please wait outside.” The three actors nodded, their shoulders slumping slightly, and walked out of the room, preparing themselves for the agonizing wait.
The moment the doors clicked shut, Milind let out a heavy breath, pulling off his glasses and rubbing his eyes.
“Well?” Vihaan asked, leaning back in his chair with a faint smirk.
“The boy…” Prakash muttered, shaking his head in disbelief.
“Rajkummar.
His physical timing…
I haven’t seen an amateur move like that in front of a camera in twenty years.” “They aren’t amateurs, Prakash sir,” Vihaan corrected gently.
“They are actors.
We just gave them a stage.” Sanjay grinned, tapping his pen against his ledger.
“I’ll go prepare three more contracts.” Exactly sixty minutes later, the assistant walked up to the three actors sitting nervously on a bench outside the studio lot.
“Rajkummar.
Rasika.
Gopal,” the assistant said, a wide smile breaking across his face.
“Vihaan sir would like to see you in the main conference room.” Rajkummar’s heart leaped into his throat.
“For…
for another read?” “No,” the assistant said, handing them each a pen.
“For the signing.”