Bombay, 1988
Morning sunlight spilled through the dusty windows of the Sapphire Studios compound in Andheri. Dozens of young men and women crowded outside the casting office, clutching headshots, portfolios, and nervous hope. Posters of past hits — Tezaab, Mr. India, Qayamat Se Qayamat Tak — plastered the walls, reminders that fame could be born here and forgotten just as quickly.
Among the crowd stood Arjun Malhotra, twenty years old, dressed in a white shirt tucked neatly into faded blue jeans. His face carried a quiet confidence — sharp jawline, neatly combed black hair, eyes dark and focused. He wasn't strikingly handsome, but there was something magnetic in his calmness — the kind of presence that made people look twice.
He adjusted his folder and glanced around. Every few feet stood another hopeful actor — each rehearsing lines, fixing their hair, or pretending not to be terrified.
To his right, a man in a leather jacket — tall, broad-shouldered, maybe twenty-five — smirked. "First time, huh?"
Arjun looked at him. "That obvious?"
"Everyone's first time is," the man said, grinning. "I'm Sameer Khan — model, dancer, occasionally broke." His hair was slicked back, his stubble trimmed to perfection. The kind of face that belonged in magazine ads more than gritty films.
"Arjun Malhotra," Arjun said, shaking his hand.
"Good luck, yaar. You'll need it. The director inside's a nightmare."
The director in question, Rajiv Chopra, was a rising name — mid-thirties, tall, with intense eyes and a constant cigarette between his fingers. Known for pushing realism into Bollywood's melodrama, he was hunting for "raw, new faces" for his upcoming project, Aarzoo.
When Arjun's turn came, he walked into the audition room with quiet assurance.
Rajiv leaned back in his chair, flanked by two assistants. One of them, a young woman with thick glasses and long braids, flipped through Arjun's form.
"Hmm. No film credits," she noted.
"Fresh blood," Rajiv said without looking up. "Good. Let's see what you've got, Mr. Malhotra."
Arjun nodded. "Do I read the provided script?"
Rajiv gestured lazily. "No. Improvise. Pretend you're a man who's lost everything — his love, his dream, his identity. Convince me that you still believe in something."
The room went quiet.
Arjun took a slow breath, grounding himself. His voice softened — low, trembling. "When I was a boy," he began, "I thought being seen was everything. I thought if people clapped for me, I'd matter. But the lights go out. The claps stop. And all that's left is… the silence."
He stopped, looking up — not acting now, just being.
Rajiv's cigarette froze midair.
"Cut," the director said finally, exhaling smoke. "Not bad. Not bad at all."
He leaned forward. "Where did you train?"
"Bombay Acting Institute. Under Meena Kapoor."
Rajiv raised an eyebrow. "Ah. The stage purist." He smiled faintly. "Fine. We'll call you back for the second round."
Arjun nodded, calm on the outside but burning inside. He knew what this meant — he had made an impression.
Outside, the afternoon sun glared. Arjun walked toward the small tea stall near the studio gates where several other auditionees had gathered.
Sameer waved him over. "How was it?"
"I think it went well," Arjun said, trying not to sound too hopeful.
A voice cut in behind him — light, melodic, teasing. "Everyone thinks it went well after their first audition."
He turned. A young woman stood there — Rhea Sharma, perhaps nineteen or twenty, dressed in a floral salwar with her hair tied loosely. Her skin was sun-kissed, her features delicate but expressive. She held a script in one hand, her confidence effortless.
"Rhea Sharma," she said, extending her hand. "I'm up next."
"Arjun," he replied.
She smiled. "You look like someone who actually read the script."
"I did," he said, "and the future versions of it too," he added under his breath, smiling faintly at the irony.
"What?" she asked.
"Nothing," he said quickly. "Good luck."
She nodded, then disappeared inside.
Sameer elbowed him. "Careful, yaar. That one's trouble — her father's a studio executive."
Arjun only smiled. "Good to know."
Weeks passed. Arjun went back to training, juggling odd part-time gigs at his father's small production office. He didn't expect to hear back — not really. Bollywood rarely remembered faces without names.
But one evening, while he was helping his mother review a script draft, the landline rang.
"Arjun!" she called from the hallway. "It's for you — some Rajiv Chopra?"
Arjun froze. "Hello?"
"Malhotra," Rajiv's voice crackled through the static. "You're shortlisted. Final reading tomorrow, 10 a.m. Be on time. And bring the same fire."
The line clicked.
Arjun stood there, the phone still in his hand.
This was it. His real beginning.
The next morning, Sapphire Studios felt different. Fewer people, quieter air. Inside the audition hall sat Rajiv, his assistant with the glasses, and a few new faces — the film's casting panel.
Rhea was there too, smiling faintly as he entered. "Back again, I see."
"Seems like it," he said.
Their scene was a confrontation — lovers divided by ambition. As the camera rolled, Arjun forgot the room, the lights, the nervousness. He and Rhea moved with perfect rhythm — her voice trembling, his gaze locked and steady.
When it ended, Rajiv clapped once. "That's the chemistry I was looking for."
He turned to the panel. "Gentlemen, meet our lead — Aarzoo's Rahul."
Rhea's eyes widened. "You got it?" she whispered.
He exhaled slowly. "We got it."
That evening, as the city lights flickered on across Marine Drive, Arjun stood by the railing, watching the sea crash against the stones.
The dream was no longer distant. It had a name, a face, a date on a film slate.
Sameer's words echoed in his mind — Everyone's first time is.
He smiled faintly. And sometimes, the first time is everything.
The waves roared below, the skyline shimmered above, and for the first time since being reborn, Arjun Malhotra felt like he was exactly where he was meant to be.
End of Chapter 4