Bombay, 1985
The 1980s had changed Bombay's heartbeat. The city was louder, bolder, and somehow faster. New faces lined the walls of theaters — Jackie Shroff, Anil Kapoor, Madhuri Dixit — stars of a generation that spoke with energy, not restraint.
For Arjun Malhotra, now sixteen, the film world didn't just feel close — it felt inevitable. The sets, the spotlights, the hurried whispers between producers — all of it was the air he breathed.
He stood outside The Film and Television Institute of India's Bombay branch, clutching a folder of photos and certificates. His palms were sweaty. His shirt was neatly ironed by his mother that morning, and his father's words still echoed in his ears:"Remember, Arjun — everyone here wants the same thing you do. Don't try to be them. Be better."
Inside the audition hall, young hopefuls waited — actors, dancers, dreamers, all rehearsing monologues under their breath. Arjun looked at them, seeing a mix of anxiety and hunger. This was where the race began.
The instructor, a sharp-eyed woman named Meena Kapoor, called his name. She was a former theater actress — mid-forties, strict, and respected for turning nervous students into confident performers.
"Arjun Malhotra," she said. "Your piece?"
He stepped forward, heart pounding. "From Deewar, ma'am."
"Of course," she smirked. "Everyone loves a bit of Bachchan."
But as Arjun began, something shifted. The famous lines — Aaj mere paas gaadi hai, bangla hai… — came alive in his voice, not as imitation but conviction. His delivery was raw, quiet, and mature — too mature for his age. When he finished, silence filled the hall.
Meena studied him for a long moment. "You've done this before, haven't you?"
He smiled faintly. "Only in my head, ma'am."
That was the beginning of Arjun's formal training — long hours of theater drills, diction, and movement classes. He found himself immersed in a world of old cameras, wooden stages, and the smell of dust mixed with ambition. He learned everything — from Shakespeare to Salim–Javed screenwriting.
But the real education came from the people around him — his classmates.
There was Ravi Sinha, a loud, confident boy from Delhi with dreams of becoming the next action hero.Neha Joshi, graceful and sharp, with a natural screen presence that drew eyes without effort.And Devika Menon, a South Indian theater actress whose calm intelligence fascinated Arjun more than he admitted.
Together, they spent evenings at Marine Drive, discussing cinema, arguing over scripts, and predicting who'd rule the next decade.
Arjun mostly listened, smiling to himself. He already knew the answers — which films would break box office records, which actors would fade, when television would boom. But he stayed quiet. Knowing the future was his secret weapon — and he wouldn't waste it on trivia.
In 1987, Arjun turned eighteen. His training was nearly complete, and auditions were beginning to open up. His father managed to get him a few small meetings — assistant directors, minor casting calls, one short ad for a detergent brand.
Nothing serious. Nothing that lasted.
But Arjun wasn't discouraged. "Every failure," he wrote in his journal one night, "is rehearsal for the real debut."
That same night, Devika came over to rehearse a scene for their final showcase. Rain tapped the windows as thunder rolled outside.
"You're too calm for someone who's about to graduate into chaos," she said, smirking as she fixed her script pages.
He chuckled. "I've seen chaos before."
"Seen it? You talk like an old man sometimes."
Arjun looked at her, the rain reflecting in his eyes. "Maybe I am."
Devika didn't press further, but she smiled — the kind of smile that told him she was intrigued, not frightened.
Their showcase performance became a turning point. The audience was filled with casting directors and assistant producers. When the curtain rose, Arjun stepped into his spotlight — confident, measured, and entirely alive.
He didn't just act; he commanded.
After the applause, Meena Kapoor found him backstage. "You're not like the others," she said softly. "You have… timing. The kind that can't be taught. Don't waste it chasing fame. Choose your projects. Build your path."
He nodded. "I will."
And for the first time, he believed it completely.
A week later, at a small coffee shop near Juhu, Ravi slammed a newspaper on the table. "Yaar! They're auditioning for a new youth film — something different, experimental. You should go!"
Arjun took the paper. The ad was simple:Looking for fresh faces for a 1990s drama set in Bombay. Must have experience or training.
He looked up, his mind flashing ahead — he remembered the title. Aarzoo. A cult favorite from the early 90s.
This was it. His chance. His first real step into the Bollywood he remembered — not as a spectator, but as a player.
He folded the newspaper carefully, his pulse steady. "I'll go," he said. "This time, I won't just play a part. I'll start something bigger."
Devika looked at him from across the table, her eyes curious. "You talk like you know the future."
He smiled faintly. "Maybe I just know what's worth fighting for."
Outside, the city lights of Bombay shimmered against the dark sky — restless, alive, full of promise.The next decade was calling.
And Arjun Malhotra was finally ready to answer.
End of Chapter 3