June 1993. Bombay Central Station.
The air hit him first.
It was different from the dry, dusty heat of Delhi. Bombay air was heavy, laden with moisture, salt, and the exhaust of a million struggling dreams. It smelled of rotting fish, burning rubber, and an indefinable electric charge—the scent of a city that was constantly sprinting on a treadmill.
Aarav Pathak stepped off the Rajdhani Express onto the platform.
The noise was deafening. Porters in red shirts swarmed like ants, shouting "Oye! Kuli! Kuli!" The announcements over the PA system were garbled, lost in the cacophony of whistling trains and roaring crowds.
Aarav stood still for a moment, his two heavy trunks by his feet. He was wearing a simple white shirt and jeans, sunglasses shielding his eyes.
In Delhi, if he stood at a station like this, five people would have already approached him asking, "Are you Vijay? Are you Aryan?"
Here, people shoved past him without a second glance. A busy executive with a briefcase bumped his shoulder and didn't even apologize, just muttered "Chalo, chalo" and rushed on.
Aarav smiled. He was anonymous again. It was terrifying, and it was liberating.
He hailed a black-and-yellow Premier Padmini taxi.
"Andheri West," Aarav said. "Lokhandwala."
The driver, an old man with a checkered scarf around his neck, spat a stream of paan juice onto the tracks before nodding. "Meter down."
As the taxi wove through the traffic of South Bombay, passing the gothic architecture of the colonial era and transitioning into the chaotic sprawl of the suburbs, Aarav looked out the window.
This was the beast he had to tame. Bombay.
He wasn't here to sleep on pavements. With ₹45 Lakhs in his bank account, he was wealthier than 90% of the "strugglers" in the city. He checked into a decent mid-range hotel in Juhu for the first week, then spent his time hunting for an apartment.
He found it in Lokhandwala Complex. A 2BHK on the 4th floor of a building named 'Star Dust'. It was the hub of the industry. Writers, assistant directors, and struggling actors lived four to a room here. Aarav rented the whole flat for himself.
He bought a mattress, a gas connection, and a landline phone.
Then, he began the climb.
August 1993. The "Small Screen" Curse.
The monsoon had arrived. It rained with a ferocity that felt personal, turning the streets into rivers of muck.
Aarav sat in the waiting room of Mehboob Studios. He had been waiting for four hours.
He was here to meet a casting assistant for a Subhash Ghai production. He had used his Delhi connections—Manohar Shyam Joshi had written him a letter of recommendation—to get the meeting.
Finally, the door opened. A peon waved him in.
The casting assistant was a man named Ritesh, who looked like he hadn't slept in a week. He was eating a vada pav, crumbs falling onto a stack of photos.
"Aarav Pathak," Ritesh read the resume, not looking up. "Delhi theatre. Gharaunda. Nayi Buniyaad."
He finally looked up. He chewed slowly, inspecting Aarav's face.
"You're the 'Angry Journalist' guy," Ritesh said.
"Yes," Aarav said, summoning his best charm.
Ritesh sighed and wiped his hands on a tissue. He tossed the resume back across the table.
"You have a good face. Good voice. But I can't use you."
"Why?" Aarav asked, keeping his voice steady.
"Because you are free," Ritesh said bluntly. "Every Friday night, people see you in their living rooms for free. They eat dinner while watching you cry. Why will they pay ₹25 for a ticket to see you in a theatre? The mystery is gone, boss. You are 'TV material'."
"Shah Rukh Khan did Fauji," Aarav countered.
"Shah Rukh is a freak case," Ritesh snapped. "And he didn't do a daily soap for two years. He came, did a miniseries, and vanished into films. You... you are 'India's Beta'. The audience sees you as their son, not a hero. They won't accept you romancing a heroine in Switzerland. It will feel like incest."
Ritesh picked up his phone, signaling the meeting was over.
"Try the B-grade producers. The horror guys. They might take a TV face. But big banners? Forget it."
Aarav walked out into the rain. He didn't use his umbrella. He let the water soak his shirt.
This was the refrain. For three months, it was the same story.
Filmistan Studios: "You're too overexposed." Natraj Studios: "You act too much. We need a star, not an actor." RK Studios: "You look too rich. Can you look poor?" (He auditioned looking poor). "Now you look too handsome to be poor."
The feedback was contradictory and maddening. But the undercurrent was clear: The industry looked down on TV actors. They were the untouchables of the caste system.
One producer, a man making an action film, had been more direct.
"Look at you," the producer had said, pointing a cigarette at Aarav. "You are 6 feet. Fair. Sharp features. If I cast you as the villain's brother, you will look better than my Hero. My Hero is short and insecure. He will cut your scenes. I can't hire you because you are too hero-material for a side role, and not 'Film Star' enough for a lead role."
Aarav was in purgatory. Too good for the bottom, not allowed at the top.
[System Alert][Morale: Low][Acting Skill: 65/100 (Stagnant)][Warning: Long periods of inactivity decrease 'Stage Presence'.]
September 1993. The Bhandara at ISKCON.
Aarav needed peace. The rejection was starting to chip away at the armor he had built in Delhi.
He went to the ISKCON temple in Juhu. It was a place where the lines blurred—millionaires and beggars stood in the same line for darshan.
It was a Sunday evening. The temple was crowded. The air was thick with incense and the hypnotic chant of "Hare Krishna, Hare Krishna..."
After the aarti, the bhandara (free food distribution) began in the hall.
Aarav didn't go to the VIP section. He sat on the marble floor in the general hall, cross-legged. A leaf plate was placed in front of him. A volunteer served hot khichdi.
Aarav ate with his hands. It was humble food, grounding him. He closed his eyes, savoring the taste, trying to disconnect from the noise of his ambition.
"Excuse me."
A voice interrupted his meditation.
Aarav opened his eyes. A man was standing over him. He was middle-aged, wearing a linen shirt that was damp with sweat, and he looked incredibly harried. He held a plate of food but looked too stressed to eat.
"Is this seat taken?" the man asked, gesturing to the empty floor space next to Aarav.
"No," Aarav said, shifting slightly to make room.
The man sat down with a heavy sigh that seemed to deflate his entire body. He picked at his food.
"Peaceful, isn't it?" the man muttered, more to himself than Aarav. "Only place in Bombay where no one is asking me for money or dates."
Aarav looked at him. He recognized the face.
It was Lawrence D'Souza. The director who had shaken the industry two years ago with Saajan, the film that revived the romance genre and gave Nadeem-Shravan their legendary status.
Aarav's heart skipped a beat. System, analyze.
[Target Identified: Lawrence D'Souza][Current Status: High Stress][Reason: Production Hell on current project 'Sapne Saajan Ke'.]
Aarav ate another spoonful of khichdi. "You look like a man carrying a mountain," Aarav said softly. His voice was modulated perfectly—empathetic, deep, soothing.
Lawrence looked at him. He paused, spoon halfway to his mouth. He really looked at Aarav—the profile, the eyes, the calm demeanor amidst the chaos of the food hall.
"You could say that," Lawrence said. "Making movies is a sin. God punishes you for it."
"I thought movies were dreams," Aarav said.
"Dreams turn into nightmares when your second lead actor decides to fly to America for a 'break' two weeks before the schedule starts," Lawrence grumbled. Then he frowned. "Wait. I know you. You're the TV guy. Buniyaad?"
"Aarav Pathak," Aarav nodded.
Lawrence squinted. "The angry journalist. My wife loves you. She cried when you went to jail in the show."
"Tell her I'm out on bail," Aarav joked.
Lawrence chuckled. It was a dry sound. He continued to stare at Aarav. He looked at his jawline, his height, the way he sat.
In this timeline (the Butterfly Effect of Aarav's existence or just the universe shifting), the production of Sapne Saajan Ke had been delayed. It was meant to be a 1992 release, but casting issues and financial hiccups had pushed it to late 1993. They were desperate.
"Can you dance?" Lawrence asked suddenly.
Aarav froze.
System Check: Dancing Level 05/100.
"I can move," Aarav said diplomatically. "I have rhythm. I haven't been trained."
Lawrence nodded, seemingly talking to himself. "Rahul is out. He has date clashes. I need a face that looks innocent but can carry intensity. You have the intense part... but can you be the lover?"
Lawrence put his plate down. The temple hall faded for him; he was in director mode.
"Come to my office tomorrow," Lawrence said. "Juhu. 10 AM."
"For what?"
"To see if you look good on 35mm film," Lawrence said, standing up. "TV is different. The lighting is flat. I need to see if the big camera loves you."
The Next Day. Sudhakar Bokade's Office (Producer).
The audition wasn't a script reading.
Lawrence D'Souza was there, along with the producer, Sudhakar Bokade.
"Stand there," Lawrence pointed to a spot bathed in natural light coming from the window. "Just look at the camera. Imagine the girl you love is walking away, and you know you can never tell her."
Aarav stood there.
He didn't need lines. He thought of his parents. He thought of the life he left behind in 2025. The permanent separation.
His eyes softened. A glassy sheen appeared, not tears, but the threat of tears. He reached out a hand slightly, then let it drop, a gesture of helpless resignation.
"Cut," Lawrence whispered.
Bokade looked at Lawrence. "He is handsome. Maybe too handsome? He might eat Jackie up."
"Jackie is Jackie," Lawrence dismissed. "But this boy... the camera drinks him in. Did you see his eyes? They have depth."
Lawrence turned to Aarav.
"The role is of Deepak. A young man who falls for the wrong girl. It's a musical. The songs are the hero. You have to romance Karisma Kapoor."
Aarav felt a jolt. Karisma Kapoor. She was young, vibrant, and rising fast.
"But," Bokade interjected, "You are a TV actor. We can't pay you movie star rates."
"I don't want money," Aarav said instantly. "I want the launch."
Bokade smiled. A shark's smile. "Smart boy."
"However," Lawrence added, "There is a catch. The songs. This movie is 60% songs. If you can't dance, we are dead. Can you learn?"
Aarav looked at the director.
"Give me a choreographer and a week. I will learn."
Lawrence nodded. "You're on. But if you fail the rehearsal, we recast you."
[Quest Update: The Bollywood Break][Role Secured: Deepak in 'Sapne Saajan Ke'][Status: Contract Signed]
Aarav signed the paper. It was a three-film contract with Sudhakar Bokade's production house (standard trap for newcomers, but he didn't care).
As the pen lifted from the paper, the System chimed louder than ever before.
[MAJOR MILESTONE REACHED: THE SILVER SCREEN][System Update Initiated...]
[Skill Unlocked: DANCING][Base Level: 05/100][Bonus Applied: 'Musical Era' modifier][New Level: 50/100 (Competent Professional)]
Aarav felt a strange sensation in his legs, a twitch in his muscles. It was as if his body suddenly understood rhythm, counting, and fluidity. It wasn't the grace of a master (Level 80), but it was no longer the stiffness of a novice. He could hold a beat.
[Additional Objective:][Film Release Date: Summer 1994][Goal: Don't get overshadowed by Jackie Shroff.]
October 1993. Rehearsal Hall.
The song was blasting from the speakers. "Yeh Dua Hai Meri Rab Se..."
Saroj Khan, the legendary choreographer (or her assistant in this case), was shouting counts. "One, two, three, turn! Chin up! Look at the girl!"
Aarav spun.
In his head, he was counting. But his body moved with a newfound fluidity. He caught the beat. He extended his arm, his expression shifting into the romantic longing required for the song.
Karisma Kapoor, wearing a salwar kameez for rehearsal, looked at him. She was chewing gum. She had been skeptical of the "TV guy."
But as Aarav completed the spin and landed perfectly on the beat, looking into her eyes with an intensity that felt tangible, she stopped chewing.
"Not bad," she said, a hint of surprise in her voice. "You don't move like a TV actor."
Aarav smiled, sweat dripping down his face.
"I'm learning," he said.
He was in. He was filming a movie. He was romancing a Kapoor.
The TV King was dead. The Bollywood Prince was being born.
But he knew the real test wasn't the filming. It was the box office. In this industry, Friday changed everything.
[End of Chapter 5]