December 12, 1990.
Winter descended on New Delhi not with a whisper, but with a suffocating, grey blanket. It was the kind of cold that seeped through layers of wool and settled deep in the bones—a damp, biting chill accompanied by a dense fog that turned the streetlights of Mandi House into hazy, glowing orbs floating in milk.
Inside the basement of the Shri Ram Centre, however, the air was hot, smelling of stale sweat, cheap adhesive, and nervous energy.
It had been six weeks of hell.
Aarav sat on a wooden stool in the makeup room, his eyes closed, his head tilted back. A makeup artist—a chain-smoking man named Rakesh with stained fingers—was dabbing a cold, wet sponge onto Aarav's face.
"Hold still," Rakesh grunted, applying a thick layer of dark, oil-based greasepaint. "We have to hide that glow. You look like you just drank milk and honey."
Aarav didn't smile. He was too tired to smile.
The rehearsals had been brutal. V.K. Sharma was not a director; he was a drill sergeant. He had broken Aarav down, piece by piece. For the first two weeks, Sharma had forbidden Aarav from standing upright.
"Ashwatthama carries the weight of a slaughtered army on his back!" Sharma had screamed, throwing a duster at Aarav. "Don't walk like a hero! Walk like a cockroach that refuses to die!"
Aarav's knees were bruised black and blue. His throat was raw from practicing the guttural screams required for the role. Every night, he would take the bus back to Lajpat Nagar, limp into his empty house, and collapse, too exhausted to even cook. He subsisted on boiled eggs and bread.
But the System had kept score.
[Skill Progress]Acting: Level 59 → Level 61 (Expert) Voice Projection: Level 22 → Level 28 Stamina: 70 → 72
He had crossed the threshold. Level 61. He was now technically better than many working film actors in Mumbai. But tonight, stats didn't matter. Tonight, there was an audience.
"Open," Rakesh commanded.
Aarav opened his eyes and looked in the mirror.
Aarav Pathak was gone.
In his place sat a nightmare. His skin was stained a sickly, charred grey, mimicking the ash of the battlefield. A prosthetic scar, jagged and angry, ran from his left eyebrow down to his cheek—the mark of the gem torn from his forehead. His hair, usually silky and wavy, was hidden under a wig of matted, filthy dreadlocks that looked like they were caked with dried mud.
His eyes, outlined in heavy kohl and red liner, looked feverish.
"Good," Rakesh muttered, stepping back to admire his handiwork. "Now you look like a curse."
Aarav stood up. He was wearing a tattered costume—layers of coarse jute and leather, weighed down with rusted metal plates. It was heavy, uncomfortable, and scratched his skin.
He walked out of the green room and into the wings of the stage.
The auditorium was buzzing. Through the curtain, he could hear the distinct murmur of a Delhi theatre crowd. It was a terrifying sound. This wasn't a cinema hall where people whistled and threw coins. This was the intelligentsia. Critics from The Times of India and The Hindu. Professors from JNU. Veterans of the National School of Drama. They didn't come to be entertained; they came to judge.
"Nervous?"
Aarav turned. It was Sharma. The director was wearing a fresh kurta, but he looked as anxious as a father in a hospital waiting room.
"No," Aarav lied.
Sharma smirked. "Good. Because if you ruin my play, I will personally ensure you never act in this city again." He paused, then softened slightly. "You're ready, boy. Go out there and bleed."
The lights dimmed. The murmur died instantly.
A heavy, ominous drumbeat began—a slow, rhythmic thud that mimicked a dying heartbeat. The narrator's voice floated over the speakers, reciting the prologue of Andha Yug.
"This is the story of the blind age... where victory is defeat, and defeat is death..."
Aarav stood in the darkness of the stage right wing. He closed his eyes.
System.
[Passive Skill Active: Stage Presence (Low)][Adrenaline detected. Focus increased.]
"Ashwatthama," he whispered to himself. "I am Ashwatthama."
He didn't just walk onto the stage; he invaded it.
The spotlight hit him.
A collective gasp went through the front row. They were expecting a generic warrior. They got a monster.
Aarav moved with a disjointed, animalistic gait, dragging one leg slightly, his head twitching as if tracking invisible flies. He didn't look at the audience. He looked at the floor, at the sky, at his own trembling hands.
The play began.
For the next two hours, the Shri Ram Centre ceased to exist. It became the ruins of the Mahabharata.
Aarav didn't recite lines; he vomited them. When he spoke of the injustice done to his father, Drona, his voice dropped to a terrifying whisper that hissed through the microphone, making the audience lean forward. When he screamed his curse at Krishna, he projected with such force that the veins in his neck bulged against the prosthetic scar, looking like they might burst.
He wasn't acting for the back row. He was acting for the ghosts.
There was a scene in the second act—the moment of Ashwatthama's ultimate breakdown. He was alone on stage, bathed in a harsh, blue light.
Aarav fell to his knees. He clawed at the wooden floorboards, his nails scraping audibly.
"I have no past! I have no future!" he roared, tears cutting clean tracks through the greasepaint on his cheeks. Real tears. "I am just a wound that will never heal!"
The emotion he channeled wasn't just Ashwatthama's. It was the grief of losing his parents in a car crash. It was the loneliness of waking up in a different timeline. It was the frustration of a forty-five-year-old soul trapped in a restart.
He poured all of it—every ounce of his personal trauma—into the character.
The silence in the hall was absolute. No one coughed. No one shifted in their seats. It was the kind of silence actors kill for. The 'Pin-Drop Silence'.
When the final scene ended—Ashwatthama wandering into the darkness, condemned to live forever in pain—Aarav walked off into the shadows at the back of the stage.
The lights went black.
For three seconds, there was nothing.
Then, the applause began.
It started as a ripple, then exploded into a roar. It wasn't polite clapping. It was thunderous.
The lights came up for the curtain call. The cast walked out. The soldiers, Gandhari, Dhritarashtra. They bowed. The applause was polite.
Then Aarav walked out.
He was still limping, still half-trapped in the character. He reached the center of the stage and straightened up, shedding the beast to reveal the man.
The audience stood up.
A standing ovation. In Delhi theatre, this was rare. People here were stingy with their praise. But they were on their feet—grey-haired men in tweed jackets, women in shawls, students in jeans.
Aarav blinked, the bright stage lights blinding him. He bowed low, his hand on his heart.
He saw V.K. Sharma in the wings, weeping openly.
[Quest Complete: The First Act][Performance Rating: S (Stellar)][Bonus Reward: Reputation (Delhi Circuit) +50][Skill Upgrade: Acting Level 61 → 62][New Title Unlocked: The Rising Star]
One Hour Later.
The green room was chaos. People were flooding in—friends, family of the cast, aspiring actors wanting to touch the feet of the seniors.
Aarav was in the corner, wiping the paint off his face with baby oil and cotton. His skin was red and irritated. He just wanted to go home and sleep for a week.
"Excuse me."
Aarav turned.
Standing there was a woman in her late forties. She wore a crisp cotton saree and carried a notepad. She had an air of authority that cut through the noise of the room.
V.K. Sharma, who was laughing with a group of people nearby, suddenly went quiet. He rushed over.
"Kavita ji! You came!" Sharma sounded nervous.
This was Kavita Nagpal. The critic. Her pen could make or break careers. A bad review from her meant empty seats for the rest of the run.
She ignored Sharma and looked directly at Aarav. She studied his face—now half-clean, revealing the handsome features beneath the monster's mask.
"You," she said. "What is your name?"
"Aarav Pathak, ma'am."
"Pathak," she tested the name. "I haven't seen you before. Where did you train? NSD? FTII?"
"No, ma'am. This is my first play."
Her eyebrows shot up. "Your first?"
She looked at Sharma, then back at Aarav. She closed her notepad.
"You have a terrifying stillness, Mr. Pathak," she said. "It is rare to see a young man comfortable with silence. Most actors just want to shout."
She reached into her bag and pulled out a card.
"I don't give these out often. But if you decide to do this seriously... keep doing it."
She turned and left without another word.
Sharma grabbed Aarav's shoulder, shaking him violently. "Do you know who that was? That was God! If she writes about you tomorrow, you are made!"
Aarav smiled weakly. "I'm just tired, Sir."
"Go home!" Sharma laughed. "Go sleep! But come back tomorrow. We have fourteen more shows!"
The Next Morning. December 13, 1990.
Aarav woke up at 11 AM. His body felt like it had been run over by the DTC bus he took to rehearsals.
He dragged himself out of bed and walked to the front door. The newspaper was lying on the floor. The Hindustan Times.
He picked it up and went to the kitchen to boil water for tea. He opened the paper, flipping to the 'Delhi Times' / Culture section.
There it was. A half-page review.
"THE BLIND AGE FINDS NEW SIGHT"Review by Kavita Nagpal
He scanned the text, his heart thumping. He skipped the paragraphs about the set design and the direction. He found the paragraph he was looking for.
> ...But the revelation of the evening is the unknown debutant, Aarav Pathak, in the role of Ashwatthama. In a production filled with veterans, it is this twenty-year-old who holds the center of gravity. Pathak does not play the immortal warrior; he haunts the stage like a living wound. His physical transformation is startling, but his vocal modulation—shifting from a warrior's roar to a broken child's whimper—is masterclass. It is a performance of such raw intensity that it makes one uncomfortable to watch. A star has not just been born; he has arrived fully formed, screaming.
Aarav lowered the paper.
He looked around his kitchen. The same old gas stove. The same chipping paint. But the air felt different.
The phone in the hallway rang. The loud, trilling ring of a landline.
It had barely rung in the last two years.
Aarav walked over and picked up the receiver.
"Hello?"
"Is this Aarav Pathak?" A voice asked. Professional, brisk.
"Yes."
"This is Ramesh Sippy's office... no, not the film director, Ramesh Sippy from Doordarshan programming. We read the review. We are casting for a new serial. Can you come to the CP office tomorrow?"
Aarav gripped the phone.
The first domino had fallen.
"Yes," Aarav said, his voice steady. "I'll be there."
Three Months Later. March 1991.
The play Andha Yug ran for three weeks. Every show was housefull. By the second week, people were standing in the aisles. Aarav became a minor celebrity in the Mandi House circuit. Girls from Lady Shri Ram College would wait outside the green room.
But theatre didn't pay the bills. The entire run earned him ₹5,000.
Now, he stood outside the Doordarshan (DD) office in Connaught Place.
He was here for his first screen role.
The serial was titled Rishte (Relationships). It was a weekly drama.
He wasn't the lead. The lead was a famous TV actor of the time. Aarav was cast as "Vikram," the rebellious younger brother of the main protagonist.
He walked into the studio. It was different from the theatre. It was cold, filled with cables, heavy lights, and cameras the size of cannons.
The director, a harried man named Mr. Taneja, pointed at a mark on the floor.
"Okay, new boy. Stand there. Camera 2 is yours. Don't look at the lens. Just say the line. And tone it down. This isn't a stage. The camera is close."
Aarav stood on the mark.
System.
[New Quest: The Small Screen][Objective: Deliver a 'One Take' performance.][Reward: +1 Acting, +10 Charisma with Housewives.]
"Action!"
The scene was simple. Vikram (Aarav) had to argue with his elder brother about money.
Aarav looked at the lead actor. He dialed down the projection. He didn't need to shout. He used his eyes. He let a subtle smirk play on his lips—the arrogance of youth.
"Bhaiya," Aarav said, his voice smooth like velvet. "You worry about the family honor. I just worry about the cash."
"Cut!" Taneja yelled.
Aarav froze. Did he mess up?
Taneja walked out from behind the monitor. He looked at the cameraman. "Did you get the focus?"
"Yes, sir."
Taneja looked at Aarav. "Okay. Good. Next scene."
The lead actor, a man named Vinay, looked at Aarav with a hint of insecurity. "You have a good camera face, kid," he muttered. "Don't steal my light."
Aarav smiled politely. "Never, sir."
But he knew. The System knew.
The camera loved him.
When the episode aired two weeks later, on a Wednesday night at 9 PM, half of Lajpat Nagar watched it because "Pathak ji's son" was on TV.
The next morning, when Aarav went to the milk booth, the auntie from the ground floor stopped him.
"Arre Aarav beta!" she exclaimed, pinching his cheek. "You were so bad in the show! So rude to your brother! But..." she giggled, "you looked very handsome in that black shirt."
[Reward Received: +10 Charisma with Housewives]
It had begun. The aunties loved him. And in 1991 India, if the aunties loved you, you were safe.
But Aarav wasn't satisfied with being the "bad brother."
He spent the next four months shooting Rishte. He stole every scene he was in. He added nuances—a twitch of the jaw, a softening of the eyes—that made the audience sympathize with the rebellious brother more than the righteous hero.
By the 15th episode, the writers noticed. The scripts started changing. Vikram's role grew. He got more lines. More close-ups.
But just as he was getting comfortable, the System pinged.
[Career Alert][Staying in a side role too long will stagnate your growth.][Recommended Action: Quit 'Rishte' and seek a Main Lead.]
Aarav sat in his makeup chair, staring at the blue text.
Quit? He was earning ₹2,000 per episode now. It was stable.
"No," he whispered. "I'm not here for stable."
He found Taneja that evening.
"Sir, I'm leaving the show next month."
Taneja dropped his tea cup. "What? Are you mad? The ratings are up because of the brother arc! We are planning to marry you off in the show!"
"I want to do lead roles, Sir."
"You are twenty-one! You are a kid! You have to wait your turn!"
"I can't wait," Aarav said gently.
He left the show. It was a gamble. For two months, the phone didn't ring. The 10 Lakhs in the bank kept him secure, but the silence was deafening. Had he been too arrogant?
Then, a letter arrived. Not a phone call. A letter.
From: Manohar Shyam Joshi (Writer of Hum Log, Buniyaad)To: Aarav Pathak
Subject: Audition for New Daily Soap 'Gharaunda'
Dear Aarav,I saw you in 'Andha Yug' at Mandi House. I didn't know you were the boy on TV until my wife pointed it out. You have range. I am writing a new show. A family drama, but grounded in a small town. The lead is a complex character—a young man torn between duty and ambition. It runs for one year.Come see me.
Aarav held the letter. Manohar Shyam Joshi. The legend of Indian Television.
This was it. The First Main Lead.
He looked at the System panel.
[Opportunity Detected: 'Gharaunda' (The Nest)][Potential Impact: High][Success Prediction: 88%]
Aarav packed his bag. He took out his best shirt—a black one, similar to the one the aunties loved.
He looked at his parents' photo.
"Watch me," he said.
[End of Chapter 3]