"Bani!" A voice called her name. She turned to find the assistant director waving her over. "Come, we're setting up your scene."
Her heart pounded. She followed, weaving through wires and bustling crew, until she was standing at the edge of the platform. The young actor playing Jamal was already there, his expression curious but focused. Bani knew him from the workshops—they had shared moments of laughter between improvisations, but now he looked different. Dressed in costume, with dust smudged on his cheeks, he was no longer just a boy. He was Jamal.
And she—she had to be Latika.
The makeup team fussed over her quickly, dusting her face, adjusting her hair to look unkempt, her clothes slightly torn at the edges. When she glanced into the small mirror they held up, Bani barely recognized herself. She looked less like the girl who stayed up nights studying English grammar and more like someone who had survived the streets of Mumbai.
"Ready?" Danny Boyle's voice was quiet, almost casual, but it cut through the noise.
Bani nodded, though her palms were slick with sweat.
The first shot was simple in theory: Jamal and Latika meeting at the station, their eyes finding each other in a sea of strangers. No words, just emotion. Yet Bani felt the weight of it like a mountain pressing down on her shoulders.
"Action!"
The platform came alive. Extras rushed past, trains screeched in the background, the smell of grease and sweat filled the air. Bani stepped forward, her eyes searching for Jamal's. For a heartbeat, she was just Bani—unsure, nervous, overwhelmed by the crowd. But then something shifted. She remembered the exercises from workshops, Danny's voice urging truth over performance.
She let herself feel the fear. The relief. The fragile hope of seeing someone familiar in a cruel, indifferent crowd. Her eyes locked with Jamal's, and in that moment, she wasn't Bani anymore. She was Latika, a girl who had endured too much, clung to too little, and yet somehow carried hope like a fragile flame.
"Cut!"
The word snapped the air, and the platform froze. Danny lowered his notebook slowly, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "Good. Very good. Let's go again."
Bani exhaled for the first time, realizing she had been holding her breath. Relief washed over her, but only for a second. They reset quickly, extras repositioned, the noise resumed. She had to dive in again, again, and again. Each take demanded the same truth, the same rawness. By the fourth repetition, her throat was dry, her legs ached from standing still, and her head buzzed with exhaustion.
And yet, she loved it.
Between takes, she sat on the edge of the platform, sipping water, watching the crew move with effortless rhythm. She noticed how the cinematographer adjusted lights to catch the reflection in Jamal's eyes, how the assistant director reminded the extras of their paths, how even the smallest detail was crafted for perfection. This wasn't just a film—it was a machine, a symphony where every note mattered.
In the corner of her mind, she thought of her textbooks waiting back in her apartment. English essays, poetry analyses, grammar rules. She had promised herself she wouldn't fall behind, even while shooting. But here, under the blistering heat of the station lights, surrounded by the hum of cameras and shouts of "Quiet on set!", those pages felt a world away.
By the end of the day, her body was screaming for rest. She climbed back into the van with the crew, her hair sticky with sweat, her clothes clinging to her skin. But despite the fatigue, there was a glow in her chest. She had survived her first day. More than that—she had lived it.
As the van rattled back through the noisy streets of Mumbai, Bani pressed her forehead against the cool glass window. She thought of Latika—the way she had to look at Jamal, the way her eyes had carried years of pain in a single glance. Could she really sustain that truth for weeks, months, while balancing her exams?
Her eyelids fluttered shut as exhaustion overtook her. But before sleep claimed her, one thought remained, sharp and steady
The production office was a maze of phone calls, schedules, and clipped instructions. Papers fluttered like restless birds, assistants darted in and out of rooms carrying folders. Bani sat across from the line producer, her hands folded neatly on her lap, her heart pounding harder than it had before any camera.
"Fifteen days?" the producer repeated, adjusting his glasses. His expression was half incredulous, half concerned. "You've just finished a bulk of your scenes. We still need you for the pickups."
Bani leaned forward, her voice steady. "I understand. But this is my 11th grade exam—five papers. I can't miss it. I've been balancing studies with the shoot, but now I need to focus completely."
The man studied her carefully. He was used to excuses—actors demanding holidays for weddings, trips, or sheer exhaustion. But Bani's eyes carried no deception. Only determination.
Finally, he sighed. "I'll speak to Danny. Two to three days of shoot can be postponed, but remember—this film can't wait for long."
Relief swept through her. She nodded, whispering a soft, "Thank you."
That evening, she returned to her apartment with a mind buzzing louder than the Mumbai traffic outside. Her textbooks lay in a messy stack: English Literature, History, Political Science, Sociology, and Psychology. Five subjects, five papers, each demanding hours she no longer had.
She sat cross-legged on her bed, opening the English guidebook. Lines of Shakespeare stared back at her, demanding analysis. She read a page, then flipped to the next, and the next—panic rising. How could she possibly cover everything in fifteen days?
She dropped the book, pressing her palms to her eyes.
That was when it happened.
The air around her seemed to shift, vibrating softly, like invisible threads tugging at the edges of reality. Bani opened her eyes slowly. Her hands tingled, a strange current rushing through her fingertips. On the floor beside her, the English guidebook shimmered faintly—then multiplied.
Another copy appeared, identical in every crease and underline.
Bani's breath caught. She touched the new copy. Solid. Real.
She swallowed hard. She had known since childhood that the universe bent slightly when she truly wanted something. Clothes she admired, a silk scarf, a perfume bottle—they had appeared in her hands before, but she had never dared to use it for studies. This was different. This was her future.
Her mind raced. She closed her eyes, focusing hard. Previous year question papers… with answers… all of them.
A pulse echoed through her chest. When she opened her eyes again, the bed was littered with booklets, bound neatly as if delivered straight from an exam archive.