Nagaraju remembered how discussions about Puneet often included his father, Dr. Rajkumar, one of the greatest legends of Kannada cinema.
Normally, people say a child is known because of their father.
That is common.
A famous parent creates a legacy, and the next generation benefits from it.
But in Puneet's case, something remarkable had happened.
He had inherited a great legacy, certainly.
Yet through his own actions, he strengthened that legacy even further.
People didn't remember him only as Dr. Rajkumar's son.
They remembered him as Puneet Rajkumar.
An individual who had earned love through both his work and his conduct.
Nagaraju could still remember conversations from his previous life where people said that his name would never disappear from public memory.
Not because he was a superstar.
Not because he delivered successful films.
Not because he belonged to a famous family.
But because of the positive impact he had left on people.
The industry remembered actors.
Audiences remembered characters.
But society remembered kindness.
And kindness often lasted longer than fame.
Sitting there in the conference room, Nagaraju felt an unusual emotion.
It wasn't sadness exactly.
Nor was it simple admiration.
It was something closer to respect.
The kind of respect that came when a person's actions spoke louder than their achievements.
Looking at Puneet laughing during a casual conversation with the director, nobody would have guessed what future memories Nagaraju carried.
To everyone else, this was simply another successful actor preparing for another film.
But to Nagaraju, he was also someone whose legacy would one day extend far beyond cinema.
Someone who would be remembered not only for entertaining audiences but also for touching lives.
The thought stayed with him as the meeting finally came to an end.
When Puneet shook his hand before leaving, Nagaraju returned the gesture firmly.
"Looking forward to working together," Puneet said with his usual warm smile.
"So am I," Nagaraju replied.
And for a brief moment, he silently hoped that fate would be kinder this time than it had been in the life he remembered.
Because some people were valuable not only to an industry, but to society itself.
The auspicious muhurat ceremony was held a few weeks later.
The atmosphere was filled with excitement as members of the cast, technicians, distributors, family members, and media gathered to witness the formal launch of the film. Cameras flashed continuously as the first clapboard was brought forward.
The director performed a brief prayer before the script was placed before the deity. The first shot was symbolically filmed, followed by applause from everyone present.
Puneet Rajkumar smiled warmly as he greeted the technicians one by one. Nagaraju stood nearby, dressed simply despite being the producer. He accepted everyone's congratulations with humility, never trying to become the center of attention.
When a few reporters attempted to ask him questions about the project, he answered only briefly.
"The audience should remember the film, not the producer," he said with a polite smile. "Our responsibility is to support the team."
Those words earned appreciative nods from many senior technicians.
Soon after the ceremony, regular shooting began.
As promised, Nagaraju became the backbone of the production.
Every payment was released on time.
Equipment never had to wait because of financial delays.
Outdoor schedules were confirmed well in advance.
Accommodation, transportation, permissions, and production logistics were handled efficiently through his production office.
The director often remarked to his assistants, "Half my stress has disappeared because I don't have to worry about production issues."
Nagaraju had deliberately built a capable production team instead of trying to supervise every small detail himself. He believed that hiring good people and trusting them was more effective than interfering constantly.
Although he remained the producer, he rarely visited the shooting sets.
He had no desire to stand beside the camera giving unnecessary suggestions or attracting attention from the media.
He trusted the director.
He trusted the actors.
His role was different.
Every evening, however, he received a detailed production report.
The assistant director would update him about the day's shoot.
The production manager sent expense statements.
The director occasionally called to discuss upcoming schedules or unexpected challenges.
Nagaraju listened carefully, offered practical suggestions whenever required, approved budgets without unnecessary delays, and allowed the creative team complete freedom.
His philosophy was simple.
A producer should support a film, not control it.
As long as everything remained on schedule and within the agreed financial framework, he preferred staying behind the scenes.
Meanwhile, his own schedule became increasingly busy.
Between meetings with writers, financiers, distributors, and legal advisors, his days passed quickly.
He also began quietly studying the Hindi film and television industries. Unlike Kannada cinema, Mumbai offered opportunities on an entirely different scale.
He attended business meetings rather than film parties.
Instead of chasing celebrities, he built relationships with accountants, line producers, distributors, and experienced executives.
He understood that strong business networks often mattered more than glamorous photographs.
Weeks turned into months.
The Kannada film continued progressing smoothly.
Every update strengthened his confidence that the production was moving exactly as he remembered from his previous life.
Mumbai had settled into its usual evening rhythm.
The city outside remained restless, but inside Nagaraju's apartment, silence prevailed.
After returning from a series of meetings, he had changed into comfortable clothes and was resting on the living room sofa with a cup of coffee beside him. The television played softly in the background, though he wasn't really watching it. His thoughts drifted between the Kannada film currently under production and several future investments he had planned.
A gentle knock came at the door.
"Come in," he said.
The door opened slowly.
Akshatha walked inside, holding a thick brown folder close to her chest.
Nagaraju immediately noticed something unusual.
She wasn't her usual cheerful self.
Instead, there was hesitation in every step she took.
He smiled warmly.
"What happened? You look like you're carrying an examination paper."
She gave a faint smile but didn't answer.
Instead, she sat opposite him and carefully placed the folder on the table.
Nagaraju looked at it.
"A story?"
She nodded.
"A complete script."
He raised an eyebrow.
"You wrote it?"
"Yes."
He leaned forward, curiosity replacing his relaxed posture.
"When?"
"I've been writing it for quite some time."
There was another silence.
Normally Akshatha would have begun explaining the story immediately.
Today she simply sat there, staring at her hands.
Nagaraju noticed.
"This isn't only about the script... is it?"
She slowly shook her head.
"No."
He waited patiently.
Finally, she took a deep breath.
"Dad..."
Her voice was softer than usual.
"If I tell you something... something impossible... will you believe me?"
Nagaraju smiled gently.
"I'll listen first."
She looked directly into his eyes.
"I know this story because... I've already seen it happen."
His expression remained calm.
She continued.
"Not in this life."
The room became completely silent.
"In another life."
For several seconds, neither of them spoke.
Nagaraju simply looked at his daughter.
Expecting surprise...
Expecting disbelief...
Expecting questions...
Instead...
He quietly placed his coffee cup on the table.
"I wondered when you'd tell me."
Akshatha blinked.
"You..."
"You already knew?"
He smiled faintly.
"Not knew."
"Suspected."
She stared at him in complete disbelief.
He leaned back comfortably.
"You think I never noticed?"