Chapter 1: Five More Months
The rejection email remained open on Atharv's laptop screen.
He didn't read it.
He had learned, over the years, that reading rejection letters carefully only made the wound deeper. The words were always the same—polite, distant, rehearsed. Appreciation without respect. Encouragement without opportunity.
"Interesting concept."
"Needs stronger character depth."
"Does not fit our current vision."
Atharv leaned back on the chair, which let out a tired creak, as if protesting his weight and his existence at the same time. The ceiling fan above him rotated lazily, making a rattling noise that had long replaced silence in this one-room apartment.
"No depth," he muttered.
The same excuse. Every time.
What hurt wasn't the rejection itself—it was the hypocrisy behind it. The same production houses rejecting his scripts were the ones green-lighting films like Mohenjo Daro and Grand Masti. Bloated budgets, cardboard characters, stories stitched together with noise and skin show.
And his work lacked depth.
The irony was sharp enough to laugh at, but Atharv didn't laugh. He had laughed enough over the years. At some point, laughter turned into something hollow.
He closed the laptop gently, as if anger might spill out if he slammed it shut.
It was 2017.
Five… no, almost six years had passed since he had first arrived in Mumbai with a backpack full of dreams and a head full of cinema. Six years of shared rooms, unpaid writing gigs, assistant work that had nothing to do with writing, and meetings that ended with the same sentence:
"We'll stay in touch."
They never did.
As a child, cinema had been magic to him. The dark theater, the glowing screen, the way stories made strangers cry together—it felt sacred. Films were his stars back then, something to look up to when everything else felt small.
He wanted to tell stories.
Not to be famous.
Not to be seen.
Just to write.
To put emotions on paper and let them breathe through characters.
But somewhere along the way, the world made it clear—stories alone were not enough.
Atharv stared at the wall opposite his bed. Old posters clung there, their colors faded. Directors he once admired. Films that once made him believe.
Maybe I was delusional, he thought.
Maybe he had mistaken obsession for talent. Maybe writing was never his path—just an escape he refused to let go of.
His phone rang.
The sudden sound startled him.
He glanced at the screen.
Maa.
His fingers hesitated for half a second before answering.
"Hello, Maa."
Her voice flowed through the phone—soft, familiar, carrying a warmth that no rejection ever could erase. "Did I disturb you?"
"No," he said quickly. "I was… writing."
Not a complete lie. Just incomplete.
"Hmm," she hummed. Mothers always knew. "Did you eat?"
Atharv looked at the untouched biscuit packet on the table. "Yes."
Another lie. She let it pass.
"I saw a film today on TV," she said. "Such noise. No story. Everyone shouting."
A faint smile touched Atharv's lips. "That's cinema now."
"You used to say even bad films teach you something," she continued.
He paused. "I used to believe that."
Silence stretched between them—not awkward, just heavy.
Atharv's mind drifted backward.
To his father.
He had died when Atharv was too young to understand the full weight of loss, but old enough to remember the aftermath. His father had been a stuntman—an aspiring one—in an industry where nepotism wasn't hidden, just accepted.
An equipment malfunction during a shoot.
That was all the explanation they ever received.
No compensation worth mentioning. No responsibility taken. Just another name erased before it could matter.
His mother never spoke bitterly about it. She never filled Atharv's ears with hatred. Instead, she filled his childhood with stories—about courage, about dreams, about standing up even when the ground beneath you was unstable.
Ironically, she hated the industry.
But she never hated his dream.
"Atharv," she said now, gently, "you sound tired."
He exhaled slowly. "Maa… I've been thinking."
Her silence sharpened. She listened.
"I'll try," he said. "Just five more months."
The words felt heavier once spoken out loud.
"If nothing happens in five months," he continued, forcing steadiness into his voice, "I'll find a proper job. I'll settle. I won't keep chasing this blindly."
There it was.
The fear he had been avoiding.
On the other end, she didn't interrupt. Didn't argue. Didn't try to convince him otherwise.
After a moment, she said, "Do you remember what your father used to say?"
Atharv closed his eyes.
If you fall, fall forward.
"He said," she went on, "that failure is still movement. Standing still is the real defeat."
Atharv swallowed. "I don't know if I'm moving forward anymore."
"The world," she said quietly, "is very good at convincing honest people that they are useless. Especially when they refuse to change themselves for approval."
He let out a small, humorless laugh. "You make it sound noble."
"It is," she replied without hesitation. "Just not profitable."
That was his mother. Gentle, but never sugar-coated.
"Five months," she repeated. "Okay. Try."
No pressure. No guilt.
Just belief.
"And Atharv," she added, "my support was never an investment. It doesn't need results."
Something broke inside him.
His vision blurred. He looked away, embarrassed by his own weakness. "I just wanted to prove to you that believing in me wasn't a mistake."
"You already have," she said simply.
The call ended soon after.
Atharv sat still for a long time, phone resting loosely in his hand.
Outside, Mumbai continued as always—fast, loud, indifferent.
He stood up.
Pulled out a fresh notebook.
On the first page, he wrote:
Five months. One script. No compromise.
If this was the end, he would end it on his terms.
And if the world still refused to listen—
At least one person would know
that her son never stopped writing.