The set was buzzing with quiet activity. Lights moved. Scripts rustled. And Bani stood there, trying to steady her breath.
It was her first shoot with so many senior actors—faces she had grown up watching on television. Now, they stood around her, in costume and character, calm and composed. Bani, on the other hand, felt every heartbeat in her ears. But she was also watching. Learning.
Bit by bit, she was figuring it out—how to face the camera, how not to blink too much, how to hold a pose until "cut" was called, and how to give her best without showing the nerves underneath. Everyone around her was busy with their own work. After their scenes, they'd casually drop into chairs or sofas, sipping coffee, scrolling through their phones, or chatting softly with crew members.
Bani had to retake a few of her shots. She didn't know where the camera was framed or how to move without blocking light. But no one was rude. No one scolded. The senior actors and the crew were patient with her, knowing she was new, just starting out. It helped her breathe a little easier.
Quietly, she began noting things down on a small notepad—things to remember, like where to stand when the director says "mark," how to pause just long enough before delivering an emotional line, and how to stay focused even with twenty people watching.
She didn't need to take notes, not really—not with her magical space that remembered everything she loved or needed. But this was work. And Bani had promised herself she'd never let her ability make her lazy.
She wanted to grow for real. She wanted to earn her place.
So she acted like any other newcomer—disciplined, observant, and humble. That was professionalism. And Bani was here to learn.
all orchestrated: background actors bustled about with perfect timing, and off-screen, a junior assistant held a steel thermos of coffee meant for the "vendor" walking past the camera.
The station was not real.
But the tension in the air? That was.
Bani stood just outside the marked frame, already in costume—plain kurta, modest earrings, and a worn-out duffel bag over her shoulder. The makeup team had given her a slightly sweaty look, dusted her cheeks, and made sure her hair looked naturally messy.
She was ready.
"Scene 18B," the clapperboard snapped. "Arohi boards the train. Arjun helps her in. They don't see each other's face. Take 3. Action!"
---
The camera followed Bani as she stepped into the frame. She glanced around, portraying Arohi's confusion perfectly—lost in platform announcements, unsure of where her train was.
"Platform 4... Or was it 6? This is so messed up," she muttered under her breath, just loud enough for the boom mic.
The director gave a thumbs up from behind the monitor.
Cue background crowd.
Cue train sound effects.
Bani took off running.
She sprinted along the faux platform as the camera rolled beside her on a dolly track. Her face was filled with urgency, fear of missing the train, breathless anticipation. It was raw. Convincing.
Then—perfectly timed—a hand extended from the open train door.
Karan, fully in character as Arjun, caught her wrist and pulled her in.
It happened in one fluid motion, rehearsed but still alive with tension. They landed face-to-face—but with her head tilted down and his chin slightly turned, their eyes never met. Just like the script said.
"Are you okay?" he asked softly, voice calm, steady—every inch the composed and mysterious Arjun.
"Yeah," she breathed, without looking up. "Thank you."
She moved forward into the train. He turned and walked into his AC coach, his face never shown clearly to her or the camera.
"Cut!" the director called. "That's the one. Beautiful. Save this take!"
---
The coach was quickly transformed for the next scene.
Crew members adjusted the lighting and placed name tags on luggage to match contestant backstories. The show's host character stepped in now—flamboyant, witty, carrying a mic, with a tiny camera team trailing him.
The scene inside was a burst of energy: contestants chatting, adjusting their outfits, nervously humming their warm-up songs.
"Why do you think you'll win the competition?" the host asked one actress playing a quirky contestant.
"There's a shortage of pretty singers these days," she said with a mischievous grin, "but that girl who just got in—she's got that extra factor."
Bani, still in character as Arohi, sat quietly by the window, pretending not to notice.
Another character, a girl styled dramatically, added, "I want to become as famous as Shah Rukh Khan. I need this opportunity."
The host smirked. "Sweetie, this isn't a modeling or acting competition—it's a singing one!"
Laughter broke out among the cast and crew both.
---
As the director reviewed the footage on the monitor, Bani walked past the train coach set, still half in character. Somewhere in a shaded corner, Karan was checking notes with the assistant director about tomorrow's script.
They passed each other near the makeup van.
Beside him Bani was reading her lines again, head down. Karan was attending a call.
They passed each other near the makeup van.
Beside him, Bani walked slowly, lips moving soundlessly as she memorized her lines—completely absorbed. Her fingers tightened around the folded script in her hand, eyes focused downward, as though afraid even a glance away might make her forget her next beat.
Karan stood just a few steps away, one hand holding his phone to his ear.
The set was quieter now.
The fake train was being dismantled piece by piece, and someone had already wheeled off the LED sign from "Platform 4." The steam machine was switched off, revealing the wooden tracks below—more theatre than travel.
But under the halogen rigging and half-shadowed corners of the studio, a different kind of energy lingered.
It wasn't from Arohi and Arjun.
It was from Bani and Karan.
---
They hadn't formally been introduced on Day One.
Just a few nods during the blocking session. A light chuckle over mistimed hand grips during the rehearsal for the pull-in scene. A quiet moment when both fumbled with their scripts at the same time and accidentally swapped copies.
Now, after three takes and one perfect shot, they were seated side by side on a rusted prop bench near the studio's catering cart—paper cups of cutting chai in hand, laughing about how the AC coach smelled like naphthalene and cough syrup.
"No one told me I'd need to do cardio for this role," Bani joked, stretching her legs out.
"You ran like the train was going to vanish into another dimension," Karan said, teasing. "The crew's still talking about your speed."
"Well, the audition scene is tomorrow. Arohi's got to make it in time somehow."
She took a sip. "You've got a good catch grip, by the way. Very believable."
"Thanks," he smiled. "You didn't crash into me either. That's teamwork."
There was a pause.
Not awkward.
Just new.
Then a crew member called out from across the floor. "Bani! Karan! Script discussion in ten. Director wants to walk through Scene 21."
They both stood instinctively, shaking off their brief break.
As they walked toward the folding chairs arranged near the assistant director's notes table, Bani glanced at Karan sideways. "Feels weird, doesn't it?"
"What?"
"How Arohi and Arjun haven't seen each other yet… but we've already rehearsed more lines together than any other pair here."
Karan chuckled. "That's the magic. They don't know each other. We do."
She smiled, small and knowing.
"Let's not let them find out too soon."
---
At the monitor, the director was already pointing at a storyboard.
"Tomorrow, we see Arohi on stage for the first time. Arjun sees her. Still doesn't realize she's the girl from the train. But something clicks. It's subtle, not dramatic. No music swell yet. Save that for later."
Both actors nodded.
They understood.
The characters weren't allowed to meet yet.
But the actors? They'd already found rhythm.