The journey from Lajpat Nagar to Mandi House was not merely a commute; in 1990, it was a physical altercation with the city of Delhi.
Aarav stood at the bus stand, the midday sun pricking at the back of his neck. He was wearing his father's HMT watch—a mechanical piece with a white dial and a black leather strap. He checked the time: 11:15 AM.
A low rumble shook the ground before the vehicle even appeared. Then, it emerged from the haze of exhaust and dust—a DTC bus, painted a bruised yellow, leaning dangerously to the left as it careened around the corner. It looked less like public transport and more like a war machine that had seen better days.
The bus didn't stop; it merely slowed down, a growling beast daring its prey to board.
In his previous life, Aarav would have booked an Uber Premier. He would have waited in air-conditioned comfort. Now, his body reacted with an instinct he had forgotten he possessed. As the bus groaned past, he grabbed the vertical metal pole at the rear entrance. His arm muscles—young, taut, and surprising in their strength—contracted. He swung himself onto the footboard, wedging his frame between a man smelling of mustard oil and a college student clutching a heavy engineering drawing board.
"Aage badho! Aage badho!" (Move forward! Move forward!) the conductor screamed, snapping his fingers with the rhythmic precision of a percussionist. He was a small man with a khaki uniform that was two sizes too big, balancing a stack of tickets and a leather bag slung across his chest.
Aarav navigated the crush of bodies. The bus smelled of sweat, hair oil, cheap tobacco, and the acrid, burning scent of the diesel engine that vibrated beneath the floorboards. It was an assault on the senses, overwhelming and raw.
He reached into his pocket and fished out a one-rupee coin.
"Mandi House," Aarav said.
The conductor punched a hole in a small, pink paper ticket and handed it over without looking up. Aarav tucked the ticket into his shirt pocket. The paper felt flimsy, like the currency of a forgotten world.
As the bus gathered speed, rattling over the uneven tarmac of the Ring Road, Aarav held onto the overhead rail. He looked out the window at the city passing by. It wasn't the Delhi of 2025. There were no flyovers cutting through the sky, no glass-facade corporate towers, no Metro pillars. The skyline was low, dominated by trees and government bhawans. The cars were Ambassadors and Premier Padminis, with the occasional Maruti 800 zipping through like a futuristic pod.
It felt slower, yet more intense. People weren't buried in smartphones. They were staring out of windows, talking, arguing, living in the visceral 'now'.
Forty minutes later, the conductor yelled, "Mandi House! Himachal Bhawan!"
Aarav jumped off while the bus was still moving, his leather shoes slapping against the pavement. He stumbled slightly but regained his balance, dusting off his trousers.
He stood at the Mandi House roundabout.
To an outsider, this was just a traffic circle. To an artist, this was Mecca.
The air here felt different. It was thicker, heavy with the smoke of Charminar cigarettes and the weight of intellectual pretension. Aarav walked toward the epicenter—the Shri Ram Centre for Performing Arts and the Triveni Kala Sangam.
Groups of young men and women sat on the low brick walls and the grass verges. The men wore kurta-pajamas or jeans paired with khadi shirts, carrying jholas (cloth bags). They had beards that were carefully unkempt. The women wore cotton saris with silver jewelry, their eyes lined with thick kohl.
Snippets of conversation drifted to him as he walked past.
"...Brecht's alienation effect is totally misunderstood in the Indian context..." "...Om Puri in Ardh Satya wasn't acting, he was channeling the rage of the proletariat..." "...Naseer bhai is visiting next week..."
Aarav felt a thrill shoot through him. This was the breeding ground. This was where Om Puri, Naseeruddin Shah, Irrfan Khan, and Manoj Bajpayee walked, drank tea, and starved before the world knew their names.
And now, he was one of them.
He walked up to the notice board outside the Shri Ram Centre. It was a chaotic collage of flyers, handwritten notes, and typed notices pinned haphazardly.
Workshop on Mime - 20th Oct.Looking for Set Designers - Contact Ravi.Urgent Replacement: Tabla Player needed.
His eyes scanned the board, filtering out the noise. He needed a role. He needed a stage.
Then he saw it. A typed sheet of paper, the edges slightly torn.
AUDITIONS OPENGroup:Yatharth Natya Manch (The Reality Theatre Group) Production:Andha Yug (The Blind Age) by Dharamvir Bharati. Director: V.K. Sharma. Roles: Ashwatthama, Gandhari, Soldiers, Guards. Date: Today. 12:00 PM - 4:00 PM. Venue: Rehearsal Room 3, Basement.
Andha Yug.
Aarav took a sharp breath. This wasn't a light comedy. This was the heavy artillery of Hindi theatre. A verse play set on the last day of the Mahabharata war. It was dark, apocalyptic, and incredibly difficult to perform. It required command over language, immense vocal power, and the ability to project the despair of a dying civilization.
In 2025, young actors practiced monologues from Pulp Fiction or Joker. In 1990, if you could nail Andha Yug, you were a god.
"Ashwatthama," Aarav whispered. The accursed warrior. The immortal beast roaming the wasteland. It was a role that demanded madness.
He checked his watch. 12:15 PM.
He headed for the basement stairs.
The rehearsal room smelled of damp earth and strong tea. It was a large, windowless hall with wooden flooring and black curtains draped over the mirrors.
About twenty aspirants were waiting, sitting on the floor or pacing nervously. The tension was palpable. Some were muttering lines to the wall, making exaggerated faces. Others were smoking nervously near the exit.
When Aarav walked in, the room shifted.
It wasn't a dramatic silence, but a ripple of attention. Heads turned. In a room full of "character faces"—rugged, unconventional, ordinary—Aarav looked like a glitched graphic. He was too polished. His skin was too clear, his height too commanding, his features too symmetrical.
He could hear the whispers.
"Model lagta hai..." (Looks like a model...) "Must be here for a commercial shoot..." "Chikna hai, theatre kya karega?" (He's a pretty boy, what will he do in theatre?)
Aarav ignored them. He found a spot in the corner and sat down cross-legged, closing his eyes.
He didn't need to memorize lines. He knew the play. He had studied it in his B.A. literature electives, and more importantly, his "Level 57 Acting" skill seemed to come with a library of intuitive knowledge. He could feel the character of Ashwatthama waiting in the back of his mind, like a coiled snake.
System check.
[Quest Active: The First Act][Target: Impress Director V.K. Sharma][Difficulty: Hard][Note: V.K. Sharma despises "Filmy" acting. He prefers raw realism.]
Aarav smiled internally. Perfect.
"Next! Token 12!" a voice bellowed from the inner room.
A scrawny boy stood up and hurried inside.
Time passed slowly. Aarav watched candidates go in and come out. Some looked dejected, some looked relieved, most looked confused.
"Token 19!"
Aarav didn't have a token. He stood up and walked to the assistant sitting at a desk by the door—a young girl with thick glasses and a skeptical expression.
"Name?" she asked, pen hovering over her register.
"Aarav Pathak."
She looked up. Her eyes widened slightly, lingering on his face for a fraction of a second longer than necessary. She blinked, recovering her composure.
"You didn't take a token."
"I just arrived."
"Go in. But Sharma ji is in a bad mood. He hasn't found his Ashwatthama yet."
"Good," Aarav said. "I'm here."
He pushed the door open.
The audition room was dimly lit, illuminated by a single halogen lamp focused on the center of the floor. Behind a long table sat three people. In the center was V.K. Sharma—a man in his fifties with wild grey hair, a thick beard, and eyes that looked like they could drill through concrete. He was smoking a bidi, the smoke curling around his head like a halo.
Sharma looked up. He squinted. Then he frowned.
"Is this a fashion show?" Sharma barked, his voice gravelly. "We are doing Andha Yug, not a Raymond Suit advertisement. Wrong room, boy."
The other two judges—a woman in a sari and a younger man—snickered quietly.
Aarav didn't flinch. He didn't smile. He walked to the center of the lit area, the wooden floor creaking under his shoes. He stood perfectly still, letting the silence stretch.
"I am here to audition for Ashwatthama," Aarav said. His voice was calm, low, and surprisingly resonant.
Sharma stubbed out his bidi. He leaned forward, resting his chin on his hand. "Ashwatthama? You?" He gestured vaguely at Aarav's face. "You look like you've never seen a day of war in your life. Your face is... too soft. Too clean. Ashwatthama is a monster. He is a beast burned by revenge."
"Makeup can dirty a face, sir," Aarav replied smoothly. "But it cannot put fire in the eyes."
The younger judge raised an eyebrow. "Confident. Okay. Do you have a prepared piece?"
"No," Aarav lied. "Give me a scene."
Sharma picked up a script and tossed it toward Aarav. It landed near his feet.
"Page 42. The soliloquy. Ashwatthama realizing his immortality is a curse. You have two minutes. Don't bore me."
Aarav bent down and picked up the script. He didn't look at it immediately. He closed his eyes.
System, activate Acting Skill. Focus: Despair, Madness, Fatigue.
[Skill Activated: Acting (Level 57)][Sub-skill: Method Immersion - ENGAGED]
Aarav felt a cold shiver run down his spine. The room faded. The judges faded. The Delhi heat faded.
He was no longer Aarav Pathak. He was standing on the burning plains of Kurukshetra. The air smelled of roasting flesh and dried blood. He had a jewel torn from his forehead. He was in eternal pain.
Aarav's posture changed.
It wasn't a large movement. His shoulders dropped, not in relaxation, but as if an invisible mountain had been placed upon them. His knees bent slightly, his spine curving into a question mark of agony.
When he opened his eyes, the "chocolate boy" was gone.
His eyes were dead. They were wide, unblinking, and filled with a terrifying void. His breathing became ragged, a wet, raspy sound escaping his throat.
He looked at the paper, his hand trembling—not with nervousness, but with the palsy of a man whose nerves are shot.
He began to speak.
"Ye main hoon..." (This is me...)
The voice was unrecognizable. It was a whisper, but it carried to the back of the room, scraping against the walls. It cracked, pitch-oscillating like a broken instrument.
"Ye main hoon... jiska bhavishya... ghrina hai." (This is me... whose future... is hatred.)
He dropped the script. He didn't need it. He looked up at the halogen light as if it were the sun mocking him.
"Mere andar ka pashu... abhi zinda hai." (The beast inside me... is still alive.)
He clawed at his own chest, his fingers digging into his clean white shirt, crumpling the fabric. He wasn't acting the pain; he was inviting it. He let out a laugh—a dry, broken, hyena-like sound that had no humor in it, only insanity.
He fell to his knees, the impact loud in the silent room. He looked directly at Sharma.
"Hatya! Hatya! Hatya!" (Murder! Murder! Murder!)
He screamed the words, but he didn't shout. He projected them from his diaphragm, a guttural roar that felt like it was tearing his throat lining. It was the sound of a soul breaking.
Then, abruptly, he stopped.
The silence returned.
Aarav remained on his knees for five seconds, his chest heaving, his eyes still locked in the thousand-yard stare of the immortal warrior.
Then, he blinked. He took a deep breath, exhaled, and stood up. He straightened his shirt. The madness drained from his face, replaced by the polite, handsome boy who had walked in.
"Thank you," Aarav said normally.
The room was dead silent. The woman had her hand over her mouth. The young man was staring, pen frozen in mid-air.
V.K. Sharma sat motionless. He looked at the script lying on the floor, then at Aarav.
"Who taught you?" Sharma asked quietly.
"Life," Aarav answered. It was a cheesy line, but in this moment, it landed with profound weight.
Sharma stood up. He was a short man, but he walked around the table and approached Aarav. He circled him, looking at him from every angle, as if checking for wires or tricks.
"Your diction... it has a slight urban twang," Sharma critiqued, though his tone lacked its earlier bite. "But your emotional recall..." He shook his head. "That was terrifying."
Sharma stopped in front of him.
"You are too good looking for this role," Sharma said bluntly.
Aarav's heart sank slightly. Was he going to be rejected for his face?
"However," Sharma continued, a small, crooked smile appearing in his beard. "If we dirty you up... put some scars... matted hair..." He poked Aarav's chest. "You have the voice. You have the eyes."
Sharma turned to his assistant.
"Write it down. Ashwatthama is cast."
[Mission Complete: The First Act][Rewards Received:][+2 Acting Skill (Current: 59/100)][₹500 System Currency added to inventory][Passive Skill Acquired: Stage Presence (Low) - When on stage, audience attention is naturally drawn to you.]
Aarav felt a warm surge in his chest, the satisfaction of the System rewarding him. But the handshake from V.K. Sharma felt better.
"Rehearsals start tomorrow at 9 AM," Sharma said. "Don't be late. And for god's sake, wear older clothes. You look like you're going to a wedding."
"Yes, sir."
Aarav walked out of the audition room.
The waiting room was still full. As he emerged, the girl at the desk looked up.
"Well?" she asked.
"9 AM tomorrow," Aarav said, allowing a small grin to break through.
He walked up the stairs, back into the afternoon sun of Mandi House. The world felt brighter. The noise of the traffic sounded less like chaos and more like applause.
He walked to a nearby tea stall—a small shack made of tin sheets and bamboo.
"Ek chai," he ordered.
The tea seller, a boy in a vest, poured the thick, sugary brown liquid into a small glass tumbler. Aarav took the glass. It was scalding hot. He blew on the surface, watching the steam rise.
He took a sip. It tasted of cardamom, ginger, and victory.
This was the first step. He had secured the role. Now, he had to perform. He had to build a reputation here, in the dust and heat of Delhi, before he could even think of the air-conditioned studios of Bombay.
He looked at the passersby. Somewhere in this city, Shah Rukh Khan was probably running around too, perhaps packing his bags for Mumbai soon. Somewhere, Manoj Bajpayee was struggling.
"I'm coming," Aarav thought.
He finished his tea, paid the two rupees, and headed back to the bus stop. He had a script to memorize, and he had to explain to his neighbors why the "Accountant's son" was shouting about murder and death in the middle of the night.
[End of Chapter 2]