Sidharth lounged on the living room couch, dressed in nothing more than a fitted black sleeveless vest and slim dark joggers. His lean arms rested behind his head, the quiet strength in them relaxed, not flaunted. A faint sheen of sweat lingered on his collarbones from a short workout he'd finished earlier on the terrace. Even when he was resting, there was a certain deliberate composure in his posture — as though his body always knew it was being watched, even by invisible cameras.
The house hummed around him in its usual rhythm. The smell of fresh coriander from the kitchen, the distant laugh of his mother on a phone call, the soft clang of Nischay's loud footsteps on the stairs as he filmed a goofy reel.
On the coffee table, a thick folder lay open. Pages of look-books, concept sketches, mood boards for the Human Being campaign. He had his first shoot coming up — three days in Jaipur, heritage havelis, sandstone arches, soft gold afternoon light. It wasn't his first time under bright lights by any means, but this was the first time in this life, on this soil, he'd step back in front of a professional lens.
He leaned forward, fingertips brushing over the pictures. The campaign was all about understated royalty. Earthy tones, rich fabrics, poses that spoke of old-world strength. Exactly the kind of brand image he wanted — something clean, dignified, timeless.
"Bro, why're you looking like you're gonna audition for a mafia don?"
Sidharth looked up to see Nischay sauntering in with a grin, camera still in hand, wearing an outrageously bright T-shirt.
"It's literally mood boarding," Sidharth said dryly, arching a brow. "Also, that T-shirt could scare off children. Didn't know clowns were back in style."
"Oof! Hurtful. Just for that, I'm making you feature in my next short. Audience wants Malhan family roast reactions. Come on, give me one of your iconic stoic death stares."
Sidharth simply tilted his head, eyes narrowing ever so slightly. It wasn't exaggerated — just a subtle tightening around his jaw, a quiet challenge in the way he held Nischay's gaze. It was such a naturally cinematic moment that Nischay actually paused, then burst out laughing.
"Bro, you've been like this since you were a kid. Always so intense. I'm telling you, YouTube's loss."
"Trust me," Sidharth replied, a small smirk curling at the edge of his lips, "it's safer for your thumbnails this way."
Later in his room, Sidharth stood before his wardrobe, thoughtfully lining up outfits. When it came to working — interviews, shoots, auditions — he preferred a sleek, formal look. Today, he chose an elegant beige shirt, sleeves rolled crisply to the forearms, paired with dark trousers that tapered neatly at the ankle.
A simple silver watch adorned his wrist. No chains, no loud logos. Just clean lines and confident tailoring. He checked his hair in the mirror — lightly tousled, still somehow disciplined. The kind of look that made people wonder if it was natural or took hours.
Then, with the same calm efficiency, he packed a separate bag. For travel and downtime — joggers, soft linen shirts, white sneakers. Comfort without looking careless. Because even when he roamed around, grabbing street chai or leaning on a railing overlooking a fort wall, he wanted the freedom to move, while still carrying that subtle magnetism.
The flight to Jaipur was a short one, but every minute his phone buzzed — producers, stylists, location managers. Even Jimmy dropped a text from halfway across the world:
Sidharth chuckled, replying with a lazy:
At Jaipur airport, a sleek black SUV awaited. As they drove through the pink city, Sidharth watched old carved windows drift by, sun-bleached children running past on narrow lanes. He rolled down the window to breathe in warm air laced with dust, turmeric, faint jasmine.
By evening, he stood in his heritage hotel room — a courtyard outside with a tinkling fountain, walls adorned with tiny hand-painted elephants. It was breathtaking.
Next morning, he was up before dawn, wearing light joggers and a soft white T-shirt as he sipped black coffee on the veranda. The stylists arrived sharp at six, carrying garment bags of textured kurtas and tailored bandhgalas in deep maroons and subtle creams.
As he changed, Sidharth felt that old familiar hum return — the quiet adrenaline before facing a camera. Not nerves. Focus. A switch flipping inside.
The set was arranged in the inner courtyard of an old haveli. Arches threw long shadows across red sandstone floors. Peacocks shrieked somewhere in the distance. The team moved like clockwork — assistants carrying reflectors, a makeup artist dabbing at the hollow of his cheek to soften natural shadows.
Then the photographer called, "Ready?" and Sidharth stepped forward.
He knew exactly how to hold his body. Shoulders relaxed but squared, chest open, hands either folded lightly or slipped into pockets to elongate the line. Most importantly, the eyes — alive, engaged, telling a silent story.
At one point, they asked for a more intense look. He tilted his face slightly downward, let his eyes lift just enough to catch the light. A ghost of a smirk danced on his lips, as if sharing a secret.
The photographer lowered his camera after the first click.
"Wow. That's… layered. Hold that again."
He held it, effortlessly. For him, it wasn't just posing. It was slipping into small characters — a proud young prince, a traveller from distant lands, a lover with an unsent letter in his pocket. The past life bled through, shaping every shift of his shoulders, every tiny narrowing of his gaze.
During a break, he walked the palace corridors in his joggers and fresh white shoes, sipping nimbu paani. A little boy from the local staff kept stealing glances at him, eyes wide.
"You want a picture?" Sidharth asked, kneeling slightly.
The boy nodded shyly. Sidharth pulled him close, the kid beamed at the camera, then ran off grinning.
That was what he'd missed most in the first life — these quiet, genuine moments away from gushing fans and velvet ropes.
That evening, back in his hotel, he called home on video. His mother picked up first.
"Beta! How was it? They treating you well there?"
"Very well, Maa. Wait till you see the shots. The palace is stunning."
Abhishek popped into the frame.
"Oye hero! Don't forget us small YouTubers when you're posing with international models."
Sidharth just laughed, lifting a casual brow.
"Small? Have you seen your subscriber count? By the way, your thumbnails still give me migraines."
Nischay's voice echoed in the background.
"Ask him if he wore any bright colours or if he's still pretending to be Batman."
Sidharth grinned.
"Tell him muted is classy. Someday he'll learn."
Later that night, he stepped out onto the hotel's high terrace, the entire Jaipur skyline scattered with tiny lamps and the glow of palace domes. He leaned on the cool stone railing, wearing his joggers, a simple shirt unbuttoned at the top, the wind lifting strands of his hair.
His phone buzzed with another message from Jimmy.
Sidharth typed back, smiling faintly.
Then he slipped the phone into his pocket and stood there alone for a while, feeling the night breathe around him.
He closed his eyes, taking in the echo of drums from a distant wedding, the scent of warm stone and marigolds.
"Round two," he whispered to himself again.
But this time, he felt something even more precious than ambition — contentment.