Chapter 2: The Ghost of Mandi House
The transition wasn't cinematic. There were no swirling tunnels of light, no orchestral swells, and no divine voice welcoming him back. There was only the sudden, violent intrusion of sound—the rhythmic, metallic 'clack-clack-clack' of a ceiling fan struggling against its own rusted bearings.
Jai's eyes snapped open. He gasped, his lungs burning as if he had just been pulled from the bottom of the Yamuna. His hands scrambled over his chest, searching for the jagged glass and twisted metal of the SUV. But there was no blood. No pain. Only the scratchy sensation of a thin, cotton bedsheet and the stifling heat of a Delhi summer.
"Jai? Arre, Jai! Uth gaya? (Are you up?)"
The voice hit him like a physical blow. It was a voice he hadn't heard in five years—not since the day he had been escorted out of his father's house by the police. It was soft, melodic, and smelled faintly of ginger and dried rose petals.
Jai turned his head slowly. The room was small, the walls covered in peeling yellow paint and posters of plays he hadn't thought about in a decade. Tughlaq, Andha Yug, Waiting for Godot. In the doorway stood a woman in a simple cotton salwar kameez, a steel tumbler of tea in her hand.
"Maa?" his voice cracked, a fragile thread of sound.
"What 'Maa'? You've been screaming in your sleep again," his mother said, walking over to place the tea on a rickety wooden bedside table. She pressed her palm to his forehead. "No fever. Just the heat. I told you not to stay at the rehearsal so late. Mandi House is like an oven this time of year."
Jai didn't hear her words. He was staring at her hands—unlined, healthy, and moving with the grace of a woman who hadn't yet been hollowed out by her son's disgrace. He reached out, his fingers trembling, and touched her wrist. She was warm. She was real.
"Maa... what day is it?"
She laughed, a sound that made his heart ache. "It's Tuesday, Jai. The 14th of July. Your final audition for the Apex Films project is tomorrow. Have you forgotten? Your father has been grumbling all morning about how you're chasing shadows instead of finishing your degree."
July 14th.
Jai felt the world tilt. This was the day it all began. In twenty-four hours, he would walk into a glass-walled office in South Delhi, deliver a monologue that would go viral, and sign the contract that would eventually destroy his soul. This was the moment before the "Brat of the North" was born. He was twenty-one years old again.
"Drink your tea," his mother said, patting his cheek before leaving the room. "Your father is in the study. Don't make noise; he's grading papers."
Jai sat up, his head spinning. He looked at the bedside table. Next to the tea sat a script—heavy, bound in a cheap plastic folder. The title was embossed in bold letters: *'SULTAN OF THE STREETS'*. It was the film that had made him a superstar and a monster.
He picked it up. His hands were smooth, free of the expensive rings he used to wear. He walked over to the cracked mirror hanging on the wall. The man staring back was Jai, but not the Jai who had conquered London or won awards in Hollywood. This was a Jai with fire in his eyes and a hunger that hadn't yet turned into greed. He looked innocent.
A sudden surge of nausea hit him. He remembered the arrogance that would follow. He remembered how, after signing this script, he would stop visiting Mandi House. He would stop calling his theater guru. He would eventually stop being a son.
"One more chance," he whispered to his reflection, the words he had prayed as he fell into the abyss. "You asked for it."
He walked out of his room and into the small living area. The house was filled with the familiar, comforting scent of old books and incense. At the far end, in a nook filled with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, sat a man with white hair and thick glasses, meticulously marking a stack of exam papers.
Professor Ishwar Vardhan. The man Jai had killed with shame.
Jai's legs felt like lead as he approached. He stood at the edge of the study, his breath hitching. His father didn't look up, his red pen moving across the paper with academic precision.
"If you've come to ask for more petrol money, the answer is no," his father said, his voice deep and stern, yet lacking the coldness Jai remembered from their last encounter. "A theater actor should learn to walk. It builds character."
Jai didn't ask for money. Instead, he did something he hadn't done since he was a child. He walked forward and knelt, touching his father's feet in a traditional pranam.
The red pen stopped mid-stroke. The Professor froze, then slowly looked down over the rim of his glasses. The silence in the room became heavy.
"What is this?" Ishwar asked, his voice suspicious but softened by confusion. "Did you break something? Or have you finally realized that your Shakespeare won't pay the electricity bill?"
"I just..." Jai struggled to keep his voice steady, his forehead still resting against his father's worn leather sandals. "I just realized I haven't been a very good son, Papa. I'm sorry."
The Professor was silent for a long time. He sighed, a sound of weary affection, and placed a hand on Jai's head. "It's the audition nerves talking. Go. Wash your face. Your friend—that noisy boy, Kabir—has been honking his scooter outside for ten minutes."
Jai stood up, his vision blurred by tears he refused to let fall. He turned toward the door as a loud, aggressive honk echoed from the street below.
Kabir. His best friend, his former manager, and the man Jai had eventually fired in a fit of drug-fueled rage. Kabir was waiting for him.
Jai looked back at the script on the table, then at his father, and finally at his own trembling hands. The "retake" had begun. Tomorrow, he was supposed to become a star.
But as Jai stepped out into the chaotic, vibrant heat of the Delhi streets, he knew one thing for certain.
He wasn't going to play the villain this time.