Bombay, 1993. March.
The success of Aag aur Ashoka had not just made Madhuri Dixit a star. It had made her a symbol. The nation's sweetheart. The girl next door who danced like a goddess and wept like a monsoon cloud. And in Bombay, symbols were commodities. Highly valued, highly vulnerable.
The party at the Oberoi was Astra Films' celebration of the film's 100-day run. The air was thick with champagne fumes, cigar smoke, and the cloying scent of ambition. Madhuri, in a midnight-blue lehenga that shimmered under the chandeliers, moved through the crowd like a dream. She smiled, accepted compliments, gave soundbites about the director's vision. Her eyes, however, were watchful. A woman who had risen this fast knew the floor could give way at any moment.
He found her near the balcony doors. Vikram Seth, producer of three forgettable action films and one memorable reputation for getting what he wanted. He was fifty, paunchy, with a smile that didn't reach his cold, assessing eyes.
"Madhuriji!" he exclaimed, too loud. "What a performance! A star is born!"
"Thank you, Seth-ji," she said, her smile polite, her body angled slightly away.
He leaned in, the smell of expensive whisky on his breath. "You know, I'm planning my magnum opus. A historical epic. Three parts. The role of the queen… it's written for you."
"That's very kind. My dates are managed by Astra."
"Astra, shastra," he waved a dismissive hand, a diamond ring flashing. "Contracts can be renegotiated. Talent like yours… it belongs to visionaries." His hand, thick-fingered, brushed against her waist as he pretended to adjust his jacket. Something small and hard slipped into the embroidered purse hanging from her wrist.
She froze.
"Think about it," he murmured, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Suite 1204. Tonight. We'll discuss your… career's health. Bring the script they gave you. I'll make it better."
He melted back into the crowd before she could speak. The weight in her purse felt like a stone.
The rest of the evening was a blur of noise and flashing smiles. In her chauffeured Contessa, heading back to her Lokhandwala apartment, she finally opened the purse. A single, gold-plated key. No note. No number needed. The message was the medium.
Her hands shook. She wasn't naïve. She'd heard the stories. The 'friendly meetings,' the 'career advice' that came with unspoken prices. She'd avoided them so far, shielded by her family, her genuine talent, and the protective aura of Astra's legitimate might. But Seth was old-money, well-connected, known for his vindictiveness. Saying no could mean a whispering campaign, stalled projects, the slow poison of industry exile.
Tears of frustration pricked her eyes. She had worked so hard. Not for this. Not to be a key in a man's pocket.
Her driver, Ramesh, glanced in the rearview mirror. "Madhuri-ji? Sab theek hai?"
She didn't answer. Her mind raced through her options. Her father? He'd rage, but he was a professor in Pune, powerless in this glittering jungle. The police? A joke. The Astra brass? They might protect their asset, but the stain, the whispers…
One name surfaced, clear and calm amid the panic.
Rajendra Shakuniya.
He wasn't just her producer. He was the man who had looked at her during the shoot not with hunger, but with calculation, as if assessing the precise emotional resonance of her smile. The man who had spoken to her about mythic archetypes and box office algorithms in the same breath. The man who felt less like a person and more like a force of nature wearing a kurta.
With trembling fingers, she pulled out the sleek, black mobile phone he'd given her—a prototype, he'd said, for 'Astra family.' Only his number was programmed.
She pressed call.
It rang once.
"Madhuri." His voice was calm, as if he'd been expecting her.
"I… I need help." The words tumbled out, choked with shame and fear. She told him about Seth, the key, the implied threat.
There was no outrage on the other end. No empty reassurances. Just a soft, considering silence.
"Where are you?" he asked.
"Near Lokhandwala."
"Pull over at the Café Coffee Day near the signal. Wait in the car. Do not go home. Eight minutes."
The line went dead.
Seven minutes and forty seconds later, a black Toyota Land Cruiser with tinted windows pulled up beside her Contessa. The rear door opened. Rajendra stepped out. He wasn't in a bandhgala or suit. He wore a simple grey linen kurta and trousers, looking like he'd just left a late-night edit. He walked to her window. She rolled it down.
He didn't ask for details. He simply held out his hand, palm up.
Wordlessly, she opened her purse, took out the key, and dropped it into his palm. It looked absurdly small there.
"Wait here," he said. His voice was gentle, but it carried the weight of an imperial decree. "Fifteen minutes."
He got back into the Land Cruiser. It slid into the Bombay traffic and disappeared.
The fifteen minutes were the longest of her life. She stared at the neon sign of the coffee shop, the couples laughing inside, the normal world continuing on its axis while hers had skewed into a nightmare. Ramesh sat silently, a solid, protective presence.
Fourteen minutes later, the Land Cruiser returned. Rajendra got out, walked to her car, and opened the rear door, sliding in beside her. He carried a slim leather folio.
He handed her two things.
First, a bound script. The cover read: "DEVDAS: The Eternal" – Adapted from Sarat Chandra Chattopadhyay. Director: Sanjay Leela Bhansali.
She stared at it. Devdas. The ultimate tragic romance. The role of Paro was a legend-maker, a career-defining mountain.
"Bhansali has been begging to make this for years," Rajendra said quietly. "I've just greenlit it. You are his only choice for Paro. Shooting starts in six months. It will be the most beautiful film ever made in India."
Her breath caught.
Then, he handed her a single sheet of crisp, official letterhead. It was from Vikram Seth Productions. The text was concise:
To Whom It May Concern,
*I, Vikram Seth, offer my unconditional and public apology to Ms. Madhuri Dixit for any misunderstanding or discomfort caused by my actions at the Oberoi event on March 12, 1993. My remarks were entirely inappropriate and unprofessional. I withdraw any and all suggestions of a professional meeting and reiterate my utmost respect for Ms. Dixit's talent and character. I have decided to immediately embark on a long-term documentary project focusing on tribal welfare in the Andaman Islands, and will be unavailable for mainstream film production for the foreseeable future.*
Sincerely,
Vikram Seth
It was signed, with a flourish.
Madhuri looked from the script to the letter, her mind struggling to process. The threat was not just neutralized. It was transformed. The predator was being shipped to a documentary in the Andamans. She had been handed a crown instead of a key.
"How…" she whispered.
"Mr. Seth had a sudden… epiphany," Rajendra said, his face impassive. "About the transient nature of power. About the importance of charity. He won't bother you again. In fact, he won't bother anyone in this industry again."
The cold, clean efficiency of it was more terrifying than any threat. This man hadn't fought Seth. He had edited him. Rewritten his storyline.
"Why?" she asked, the tears finally falling, but now from a surge of bewildered relief. "Why do this for me?"
Rajendra looked at her, and for a fleeting second, the merchant-king mask slipped. She saw not pity, not lust, but something akin to a curator's appreciation.
"Because you're not a commodity, Madhuri," he said, his voice softer now. "Commodities are traded. Used. Discarded. You are a classic. A rare, perfect expression of something this culture needs—beauty that feels true, grace that feels earned. Classics don't belong in hotel rooms. They belong in temples of light and sound, where millions can come to remember what wonder feels like."
He tapped the Devdas script. "This is your temple. My job is to keep the vandals out."
He opened the car door. "Go home. Sleep. Your driver will take you. Ramesh," he said, nodding to the man in the front seat, "is now permanently on your detail. He reports to me. You are safe."
As he stepped out into the humid Bombay night, she finally found her voice. "Rajendra…"
He paused, looking back.
"Would you… like to come up? For a drink? To talk?" The invitation was impulsive, born from a whirlwind of gratitude, awe, and a dizzying attraction to the absolute power she had just witnessed.
He considered it, then gave a small, almost sad smile. "Another time, Madhuri. The edit never sleeps."
He closed the door. The Land Cruiser pulled away.
Two nights later. Juhu Penthouse.
He came at midnight. She'd called, saying she had questions about the Devdas script, about Paro's motivation in the third act. A flimsy pretext. He'd agreed.
He stood on her terrace, looking out at the dark sea, a glass of single malt in his hand. She joined him, the breeze playing with her hair.
"You didn't just scare him, did you?" she asked quietly. "You showed him something."
Rajendra took a slow sip. "I showed him a balance sheet. His life, his secrets, his future, on one side. A quiet retirement and a legacy of charitable work on the other. He's a businessman. He chose the better deal."
"You have that on everyone?"
"I have the market price of everything," he said, not looking at her. "Including fear. Including silence."
She moved closer. "And what's my market price?"
Now he turned. The moonlight etched the planes of his face, making him look both ancient and unnervingly present. "You're not on the market. You're the standard against which the currency is measured."
It was the most romantic and chilling thing anyone had ever said to her.
She kissed him then. It wasn't the desperate kiss of a rescued damsel. It was the deliberate, curious kiss of an artist meeting a new, fascinating medium. His lips were firm, his response controlled, but she felt the immense, banked power beneath the stillness, like a reactor humming at idle.
When they parted, she rested her forehead against his. "You don't feel real," she whispered. "You feel like a scene from a film that hasn't been written yet."
He brushed a strand of hair from her face, his touch surprisingly gentle. "Maybe it's being written right now."
He stayed for an hour. They talked about films, about myths, about the strange alchemy of turning light and shadow into emotion. He showed her something on a sleek, black tablet—a shimmering, petal-shaped vessel moving against a starfield. It looked like a special effect, but felt too real, too cold.
"What is it?" she breathed.
"A new kind of projector," he said, his eyes distant. "For a much bigger screen."
She didn't press. The mystery was part of the magnetism.
When he left, the terrace felt emptier, the night quieter. Madhuri Dixit, the Dreamgirl of India, hugged herself, not from cold, but from the profound dislocation of touching something—someone—truly otherworldly.
She had a protector now. Not a knight in shining armor, but a dark architect who rebuilt realities. And she knew, with a thrilling and terrifying certainty, that her life had just become part of a story far larger, stranger, and more dangerous than any script she would ever hold.
The key was gone. In its place was a door to a universe she was only beginning to glimpse. And she had just stepped through.