Tushar Srivastav
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Chapter 1: The Curtain Falls
🕑 Added 2025-06-28 10:43:00 +0000 UTCMumbai, 2024
The ceiling fan above him creaked rhythmically, a tired metronome marking the passage of another day. It was an old fan, the kind you no longer bothered to fix, like Raghav Malhotra.
He sat on the edge of his worn-out sofa, surrounded by relics of a life lived in the shadow of cinema. Film posters peeled off the stained walls—Mughal-e-Azam, Sholay, Anand—their vibrant colours faded with time. Stacked high in one corner were dozens of DVDs in plastic cases, covered in dust but arranged in alphabetical order. A transistor radio, patched together with tape, hummed softly.
"Zindagi ek safar hai suhana…"
Kishore Kumar's voice wrapped the room in nostalgia. Raghav closed his eyes and let the lyrics wash over him. He mouthed the words automatically, his lips moving with the grace of someone who had sung them a thousand times. His voice, once complete and booming, now cracked with the wear of age. Yet there was still magic in it.
At 50, Raghav's life bore the weight of thousands of dreams that had never taken flight.
He had arrived in Mumbai in the summer of 1993 with ₹500 in his pocket and a heart full of ambition. His village in Uttar Pradesh had thrown a small farewell party for him. The local teacher had told him, "Raghav, tu toh hero lage hai, sach mein. Film line mein jayega toh hum sab TV mein dekhenge."
He believed them. He believed in himself.
He had spent his early years sleeping in Gurudwara langars and auditioning for roles that never came. There were moments of hope—a two-line speaking part in a DD serial, a role as a policeman in a background shot of Singham Returns (his scene was cut), voice-over work for dubbed Korean dramas.
Each job was a breadcrumb on a trail that led nowhere.
He'd watched as others, often younger, richer, or simply better connected, leapfrogged him. He'd seen kids of producers walk in straight from acting school and walk out with lead roles.
The industry never said "no" to him. It simply looked right through him.
That morning, Raghav had woken up early. He had laid out his best clothes—a pale blue kurta, neatly ironed the night before. His shoes were polished. He even applied a touch of hair colour to hide the grey at his temples.
The casting call was for a "retired railway clerk" in a low-budget indie film. He'd prepared his lines the night before, whispering them to the bathroom mirror with all the gravitas of a Naseeruddin Shah monologue.
The casting office in Versova was on the third floor of a building that smelled of sweat, incense, and stale samosas. Dozens of men waited in the hallway, each clutching a paper with the same two lines printed on it. A few younger actors laughed too loudly, full of energy and fake bravado. Raghav smiled politely but said nothing.
When his turn came, he delivered the lines with all the sincerity he could muster. He added a slight, impromptu touch—a wistful pause, a trembling smile—that he thought gave the character soul.
The casting assistant, a young woman with blue-streaked hair and a clipboard, watched him for a few seconds.
Then: "Thank you, sir. We'll let you know."
That was it.
He lingered by the door a moment too long.
She added, almost out of habit, "We're kind of looking for someone with more... social media presence."
Raghav nodded as if he understood. He didn't, not really. But he wasn't surprised.
He walked out without saying another word.
By the time he reached his apartment, the afternoon sun had turned golden. He climbed the stairs slowly—there was no elevator. His knees protested, but he didn't mind. It gave him time to think. To forget.
He opened the door to his apartment and was greeted by the familiar smell of old paper, turmeric, and a faint whiff of camphor.
He poured himself a cup of chai and stepped onto the narrow balcony.
From the fifth floor, the city looked like a restless ocean—cars honking, vendors shouting, crows circling over overflowing garbage bins. Somewhere nearby, someone was playing Chaiyya Chaiyya on a loudspeaker.
He looked up at the sky. The clouds were heavy, pregnant with rain.
"Maybe in another life," he whispered.
He imagined a different version of himself. One where he'd gotten that one big break. One where his posters hung in the theatres, his face on Filmfare magazine covers. Where he wasn't just a forgotten extra but a star.
Maybe even loved.
The Phone Call
As he stepped back inside, the phone rang. A landline. No one called anymore.
He answered with a tentative "Hello?"
It was Rajiv, his childhood friend from Lucknow. They hadn't spoken in months.
“Kya haal hai, Raghav bhai? Still chasing dreams?"
"Bas… ab toh sapne bhi kam dekhte hain."
"Come home for Diwali, yaar. We miss you. Maa keeps asking."
"I will. Maybe this year."
They talked for a while. Rajiv mentioned that his daughter was getting married. Raghav congratulated him, trying to sound happy. When he hung up, the silence in the room grew louder.
He stood there for a long time, holding the receiver.
By 8:30 p.m., it had started to rain. Not a drizzle—the monsoon had arrived in full force. Thunder growled in the distance.
Raghav took out his old leather jacket, worn but sturdy. He glanced at the clock. He had a late dubbing shift at a studio near Bandra. It was the only job that paid him regularly these days—voicing minor characters in foreign web series.
He kicked his scooter to life and rode out into the wet streets.
The rain lashed at him, the city shimmering in blurred lights. He passed Marine Drive, where couples huddled under umbrellas. A man in a white kurta danced alone in the rain near a tea stall. Raghav smiled.
He remembered doing the same once, long ago.
At a red light, he looked to his left and saw a hoarding of a new Bollywood film. The hero was the son of a famous producer. Raghav had once auditioned for a role in that producer's very first movie—he'd been rejected then, too.
The light turned green. Raghav accelerated.
He was less than five minutes from the studio when it happened.
A screech of tyres. Headlights. Horns.
A truck had lost control on the wet road, spinning across the divider.
Raghav's scooter slammed into its side. The impact was brutal. He flew through the air, hit the pavement, and everything went black.
------------------------------------------
He felt no pain.
Only a soft, surreal stillness.
Then applause.
Slow, building, thunderous applause.
He opened his eyes—or did he?—and found himself not on the road, not in Mumbai, but on a stage. A vast, golden-lit stage stretching endlessly into darkness. An old-style cinema screen flickered above him, playing scenes from his life—his first audition, his first heartbreak, his mother's laughter, his father's silence.
He saw himself standing in the middle of it all.
But smaller.
Younger.
A boy of seven.
Wearing a tuxedo that was slightly too big, holding a toy microphone.
A voice echoed through the void:
"Mr. Malhotra. You said you wanted another chance."
"Yes," he whispered.
"Then let's take it from the top. Take Two."
A sudden gust of wind. A flash of light.
And then—
Nothing.
End of Chapter 1
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