Quick Note
After the heavy emotional rollercoaster of the last chapter, it's time for some pure nostalgia, comedy, and fun!
Special Note: I've made some creative changes to the Chhichhore movie storyline in this chapter to make it even more special. I decided to relive my own Hostel days and insert my real-life memories into these scenes. I hope you enjoy these slight personal touches in Part V!
My Recommendation: To make this experience truly majestic, plug in your earphones and listen to "Woh Din Bhi Kya Din Thae" (or just "Woh Din") from Chhichhore movie while you read. It will make the journey much more beautiful! 🎧✨
Enjoy the Chapter
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Part I: The Workshop Before the Storm
The Mehboob Studios sound stage in Mumbai hummed with nervous energy. Seven actors sat in a semi-circle of chairs, scripts in hand, water bottles sweating condensation in Mumbai's August heat. Behind them, a crew of thirty moved equipment, adjusted lights, prepared for the first day of principal photography.
But everyone's attention kept drifting to the empty eighth chair.
Shraddha Kapoor—fresh off the success of Stree and now transitioning into more serious roles—studied her script for what must have been the hundredth time.
Her character, Maya, was the emotional anchor of the ensemble: the supportive girlfriend and an ex wife who believed in the protagonist even when he'd stopped believing in himself.
It was a smaller role than she was used to, but when Nitesh Tiwari called offering a part in an Anant Sharma film, saying "no" hadn't even occurred to her.
Beside her, Varun Sharma—the comic relief specialist who'd broken out in Fukrey—was doing vocal warmups, his character Sexa's distinctive nervous laugh punctuating the quiet. He'd gained fifteen pounds for the role, cultivating a soft middle and the slightly disheveled appearance of a perpetual screw-up.
Tahir Raj Bhasin, known for his intense performances in films like Mardaani, sat perfectly still, already inhabiting Derek—the chain-smoking senior whose tough exterior hid deep insecurities. A prop cigarette dangled from his fingers, and even in stillness, he radiated the coiled tension his character required.
Naveen Polishetty—the Telugu cinema breakout star making his Bollywood debut—was practically vibrating with contained energy. His character, Acid, was perpetually angry, the kind of guy who viewed every interaction as potential confrontation. Naveen had been studying anger management therapy videos to understand the psychology of constant rage.
Tushar Pandey, cast as Mummy—the sheltered, innocent mama's boy—looked appropriately nervous. This was his first major film role, and he kept glancing at the more established actors like he couldn't believe he was here.
Saharsh Kumar Shukla, playing Bevda, sat with a chess board balanced on his knee, working through problems with the focused silence his character demanded. The drunk chess genius who spoke rarely but thought constantly.
And Prateik Babbar—son of legendary actors Raj Babbar and Smita Patil, carrying his own complicated legacy—had transformed himself into Raggie, the arrogant antagonist from the rival hostel. His posture was aggressive, territorial, even sitting in a workshop circle.
Seven actors. Seven distinct energies.
And one empty chair labeled ANNI - THE PROTAGONIST.
"Okay, people," Nitesh Tiwari called, walking to the center of the circle. At forty-four, the director had already delivered the massive hit Dangal, a film that grossed over ₹2,000 crores worldwide. But even he looked slightly nervous today.
Beside him stood his wife, Ashwiny Iyer Tiwari—herself an acclaimed filmmaker with Nil Battey Sannata and Bareilly Ki Barfi to her credit. This would be the first time the husband-wife directing duo had worked together on a single project, both brought together by the magnitude of what they were attempting.
"First," Nitesh continued, "I want to thank you all for committing to this project. Chhichhore is a story about failure, friendship, and the crushing pressure our education system places on young people. It's deeply personal to me, and I believe it's a story India needs to hear."
"Second," Ashwiny added, her voice warm but firm, "this is an ensemble piece. There are no small roles. Every character is essential to the emotional architecture. We succeed together or not at all."
"Third," Nitesh said, and now his expression turned almost mischievous, "I know you've all been wondering about our lead actor. The one playing Anni, the protagonist whose son suicide attempt kicks off our framing device, whose college flashbacks form the heart of our story."
The energy in the room sharpened. Shraddha leaned forward. Varun stopped his vocal warmups. Even Prateik's aggressive posture shifted to focused attention.
"You've been very secretive about it," Tahir observed, his Derek-voice already roughened from practice smoking. "Four months of casting everyone else, workshops for us, but the lead remains mysterious. That's... unusual."
"There's a reason for the mystery," Ashwiny said, exchanging glances with her husband. "We didn't want to make you nervous during the bonding process. Didn't want the group dynamic skewed by star hierarchy before you'd established chemistry."
They obviously couldn't reveal the deeply personal, tragic reasons behind Anant's involvement.
"But we're shooting today," Naveen pointed out, his natural intensity bleeding through. "We kind of need to know who we're acting opposite."
"You'll meet him soon," Nitesh promised. "In fact, our first shot will be the opening scene. Anni approaching the hostel for the first time, asking Sexa—" he nodded at Varun, "—where to get the admission forms."
"So I'll meet him in character," Varun said, understanding dawning. "That's smart. No awkward introductions, just straight into the work."
"Exactly," Nitesh confirmed. "But before he arrives, I need to prepare you for something."
"For what?" Shraddha asked.
Nitesh seemed to choose his words carefully. "Our lead actor is... high-profile. Very high-profile. When you see him, your first instinct might be shock, or nervousness, or feeling like you're not in the same league. I need you to push past that. He's an actor, same as you. Treat him as a colleague, not as a celebrity."
The seven actors exchanged confused glances.
"How high-profile are we talking?" Prateik asked. "Like, Khans-level? Kapoors?"
"Higher," Ashwiny said simply.
"There's no one higher than the Khans in Bollywood," Tahir said, confused. "Unless you've somehow cast—"
The sound stage door opened.
A young man shuffled in. He looked to be in his early twenties, wearing ill-fitting, faded jeans, an oversized checked shirt, and thick, incredibly dorky wire-rimmed spectacles. A heavy backpack was slung over his hunched shoulders.
The cast barely paid him any attention. They assumed he was a production assistant, a stand-in, or perhaps an extra who had wandered onto the wrong set. His body language radiated such pure, pathetic insecurity that he practically blended into the background.
The kid kept his head down, clutching his backpack straps like a lifeline, and nervously approached the circle of actors. He stopped right in front of Varun Sharma, who was trying to stay focused on his 'Sexa' character prep.
"Excuse me, bhaiya," the kid said, his voice cracking with a high-pitched, terrifyingly authentic freshman stutter. "I'm new here. Where do I get the hostel admission forms?"
Varun frowned, immediately irritated by the interruption. He was an established comedy actor trying to prepare for a major Nitesh Tiwari film, and some random extra was ruining his focus as Varun was also feeling very nervous.
"Aye junior, who let you onto the main sound stage?" Varun retorted, waving his hand dismissively. "Can't you see a workshop is going on? We are waiting for our lead actor! Go ask the spot dadas outside for your forms, chal nikal (get out)."
The kid flinched, looking like he was about to cry.
Suddenly, a loud snort of laughter echoed across the room. Nitesh and Ashwiny Iyer Tiwari were standing by the monitors, completely failing to contain themselves. Nitesh was actually holding his stomach, laughing so hard there were tears in his eyes.
"Varun, don't scold the poor boy," Nitesh chuckled, walking over. "You're supposed to be his best friend."
Varun blinked, utterly confused. "Huh? Sir, what are you talking about? Who is this kid?"
Ashwiny smiled, her eyes gleaming with absolute pride. "Varun... meet your Anni."
The entire cast froze. Seven pairs of eyes snapped back to the hunched, terrified freshman.
Slowly, the scared kid smiled.
He reached up and pulled the thick spectacles off his face. Then, he rolled his shoulders back. In less than two seconds, a terrifying, physical transformation occurred right before their eyes.
The hunched spine snapped straight. The terrified, cracking energy completely vanished. He seemed to grow three inches taller, his chest expanding as the majestic, overwhelming, $2.8 billion aura of the Megalodon flooded the sound stage.
The illusion shattered. The boy was gone. The God of Acting had arrived.
Absolute, paralyzing chaos erupted in the room.
Varun Sharma made a sound like all the air had been violently punched from his lungs, stumbling backward and knocking over his own chair.
Shraddha Kapoor gasped so sharply she choked, her script slipping from her nerveless fingers and scattering across the floor as her hands flew to cover her open mouth.
Tahir Raj Bhasin's jaw went slack, the unlit prop cigarette tumbling from his lips to the ground.
Naveen's perpetual intensity evaporated into pure, unadulterated shock.
Tushar collapsed back into his seat like his bones had dissolved.
Saharsh's chess piece tumbled to the floor.
Prateik simply stared, his carefully cultivated antagonist persona completely destroyed.
Near the lighting rig, the shock of seeing the country's biggest superstar seamlessly transform from a pathetic dork into a divine entity was too much.( Clark/Superman)
Two female crew members literally fainted, their knees giving out as colleagues frantically caught them before they hit the floor.
Anant stood in the center of the devastation he had just casually caused, his dark eyes sparkling with warmth.
"Hi," Anant said, his voice returning to its legendary, magnetic baritone. "I'm Anant Sharma. It's an honor to work with all of you."
When he smiled, the sound stage lights seemed to dim by comparison.
India's biggest movie star.
The man whose four films had grossed over ₹12,000 crores combined.
The tech billionaire worth ₹33,594 crores.
The IIT Delhi Gold Medalist.
The NSD Gold Medalist.
Shraddha found her voice first. "You... how... I mean..." She laughed helplessly. "I can't form sentences. This is embarrassing."
Varun opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. No sound emerged.
"Please don't be embarrassed," Anant said warmly, moving to the center of the circle. "I know Nitesh sir kept my involvement secret. That was my request, actually.
I wanted us to meet as colleagues, not as 'Anant Sharma and his supporting cast.' Because that's not what this is. This is an ensemble. We're equals in this story."
"We're not equals," Tahir said bluntly, finding his voice. "You're... you. We're character actors and emerging talent. There's no universe where that's equal footing."
"In terms of box office draw? Sure," Anant acknowledged. "But in terms of craft? We're all here to serve the story. Your Derek is as essential as my Anni.
"Varun's Sexa provides comic relief that makes the tragedy land harder."
"Shraddha's Maya is the emotional anchor. We need each other to make this work."
He turned to each actor in turn, and the specificity of his attention was remarkable—like each person became the only thing in the world while he spoke to them.
" Tahir, " Anant said, "I watched Mardaani three times preparing for this film. Your antagonist in that—the cold intelligence, the way you made the character terrifying without ever raising your voice. I studied that. Derek needs that same controlled menace beneath the chain-smoking senior facade. I'm excited to learn from you."
Tahir blinked rapidly. "You... studied my work?"
"Of course," Anant replied like it was obvious. "You're one of the best character actors working today."
He moved to Naveen. "Your work in Telugu cinema—Agent Sai Srinivasa Athreya. The comic timing, but also the underlying competence. Acid is angry, but he's not stupid. He's angry because he's smart enough to see the systemic failures around him. That requires layering. I can't wait to see what you bring."
Naveen looked like he might cry. "I didn't think anyone in Bollywood had seen my Telugu work."
"I watch everything," Anant said simply. "Cinema is cinema, regardless of language."
To Varun: "Fukrey was lightning in a bottle. Choocha could have been a one-note comic character, but you gave him heart. Made us care about him even while we were laughing. Sexa needs that same balance—funny, but also vulnerable. Real."
Varun was breathing hard, overwhelmed. "I'm going to faint."
"Please don't," Anant said, grinning. "I'll have to carry you, and we should save that for the blooper reel."
To Shraddha: "You're transitioning from commercial cinema to serious roles beautifully. Stree showed you could carry a film. Now Maya shows you can be the emotional anchor in an ensemble. That's range. That's growth."
Shraddha managed a shaky smile. "Thank you. That means... a lot."
To Tushar: "First major role is terrifying. I remember URI. I was so scared I'd ruin everyone's work. But fear makes you careful, and careful makes you good. Use that nervousness. Mummy is supposed to be nervous."
Tushar nodded, unable to speak.
To Saharsh: "The silent genius is the hardest archetype to play. You have to communicate everything through microexpressions, body language, the rare moments you choose to speak. That requires absolute control. I'm looking forward to watching you work."
Saharsh clutched his chess board tighter, nodding.
To Prateik: "You carry a complicated legacy. Children of legends always do. But you're building your own body of work, your own identity. Raggie is a chance to show range—make the antagonist charismatic enough that we understand why people follow him, even as we root against him."
Prateik's aggressive posture had completely dissolved. "How do you know about everyone's work? About our careers?"
"Because I do my homework," Anant replied. "I've watched everything you've all done that's publicly available. Read interviews, studied your techniques. You're my scene partners. I need to understand how you work so I can complement it, not overshadow it."
He stepped back, addressing the group as a whole. "I know my presence changes the dynamic. I know you're all thinking about my success, my other work, my public profile. But here, on this set, I'm just Anni."
"A guy who failed engineering, who let down his father, who's trying desperately to save his son from making the same mistakes. That's the only role that matters."
Nitesh stepped forward, and his relief was palpable. "See? This is why I wanted you to meet in character. Anant understands ensemble work. He's not here to be the star. He's here to serve the story."
"Though he is also the producer," Ashwiny added with a smile. "So technically, he's everyone's boss."
That broke the remaining tension. Laughter rippled through the group.
"I'm the producer in the sense that Maya VFX and Jio Studios are financing the film," Anant clarified. "But Nitesh sir is the director. Ashwiny ma'am is the creative consultant. You all have creative autonomy. I'm just another actor who happens to have helped fund the project."
"Just another actor who's worth ₹30,000+ crores," Varun muttered.
"₹33,594 crores as of last week," Anant corrected with a grin. "The Maya Codec and Anti Piracy tech licensing revenue keeps growing. But money doesn't make performances. Work does. So let's work."
Part II: The First Shot
They broke for fifteen minutes while the crew finished lighting setup. Anant used the time to walk each actor through their characters' relationships to Anni, building backstory that wasn't explicitly in the script.
"Derek, you're the senior who sees potential in Anni but can't directly help because that would violate hostel hierarchy," he explained to Tahir. "So you push him, challenge him, force him to toughen up. It looks like hazing, but it's actually mentorship."
Tahir nodded slowly. "That adds a layer I hadn't considered."
"Sexa, you're the first friend Anni makes," Anant continued to Varun. "You see past his awkwardness because you're awkward too. But your awkwardness is loud where his is quiet. You complement each other."
"Opposites who bond," Varun said, understanding.
"Acid, you respect Anni because he doesn't back down from your anger," Anant explained to Naveen. "Most people either fight you or avoid you. Anni just... accepts that you're angry and engages anyway. That's new for you. That's friendship."
Naveen's intensity had returned, but now it was focused. Creative. "So I'm testing him constantly. Seeing if he'll fold."
"Exactly."
With each actor, Anant provided specific, character-driven insights that deepened their understanding. By the time cameras rolled, everyone moved with new confidence.
The first shot was simple: Anni approaching the hostel for the first time. A long Steadicam shot following him through the gates, up the stairs, into the common room where Sexa sat reading a magazine.
"Action!" Nitesh called.
Anant transformed. His natural grace disappeared, replaced by the slight shuffle of someone uncertain in their own skin. His shoulders curved forward. His eyes darted nervously, taking in the new environment with equal parts excitement and terror.
He climbed the stairs, paused at the common room entrance, took a breath, and approached Varun.
"Excuse me, bhaiya," Anant said, voice pitched with nervous energy. "I'm new here. Where do I get the hostel admission forms?"
Varun—to his enormous credit—didn't break. He looked up from his magazine with Sexa's distinctive expression: friendly, slightly scattered with pervert smile, immediately willing to help.
"Oh, forms? Yeah, yeah. You go to the warden's office, third floor, but he's not there right now. He's—wait, are you in first year?"
"Yes," Anant's Anni replied, clutching his backpack straps tighter. "Computer Science."
"Computer Science!" Varun's face lit up with Sexa's enthusiasm. "That's my branch! Welcome to hell, bhai. The professors are brutal, the assignments are impossible, and the mess food will give you dysentery at least once a month."
Anant's expression flickered between alarm and amusement—perfectly calibrated to show Anni processing this information.
"But," Varun continued, standing and throwing an arm around Anant's shoulders, "the friends you make here will last forever. Come, I'll show you around. What's your name?"
"Anant," Anni replied. "But everyone calls me Anni."
"Anni! Great name. I'm Sexa."
"Your parents named you Sexa?"
Varun's laugh was perfectly Sexa—loud, unselfconscious, slightly embarrassing. "God, no. Real name's Satyajit. But I'm obsessed with sex—not having it, mind you, just talking about it constantly—so everyone calls me Sexa."
"Cut!" Nitesh called. "Perfect! Print that!"
The crew erupted in applause. Anant and Varun broke character, grinning at each other.
"You're good," Varun said, still slightly awed. "Like, I knew you were good, but doing it in person..."
"You held the scene beautifully," Anant replied. "That laugh—you've got Sexa's entire personality in that laugh. It's brilliant."
They shot the hostel introduction sequence over the next three hours. Anni meeting each member of what would become the "Losers" group. Each introduction carefully calibrated to show the group's dynamics.
Meeting Derek (Tahir) involved a brief, tense confrontation where the senior tested Anni's spine. Tahir's performance was remarkable—menacing without being overtly threatening, commanding respect through sheer presence.
"Seniors don't just let freshers into their space, chhichhora," Derek said, using the Hindi slang for "loser" that would become the group's identity. "You want to sit with us? Prove you can handle it."
Anant's Anni straightened slightly, finding courage. "I don't want special treatment. I just want friends."
Derek's expression flickered—approval hidden beneath continuing skepticism. "Then you'll get tested. Fail the test, you're out. Pass..." He lit a cigarette, took a drag. "We'll see."
Meeting Acid (Naveen) was a masterclass in controlled chaos. Naveen had embodied the character so completely that even off-camera, he radiated bottled fury.
"What are you looking at?" Acid demanded when Anni accidentally made eye contact.
"Nothing, sorry, I—"
"You think I'm funny? You think my anger is entertainment?"
"No, I just—"
"Everyone thinks the angry guy is a joke until the angry guy punches them!"
Anant's Anni didn't back down or escalate. He just... waited. Let the anger wash over him. Then said quietly: "I don't think you're a joke. I think you're pissed off at something real, and taking it out on me is easier than addressing whatever's actually bothering you."
The silence that followed was electric. Naveen's Acid stared at Anni, reassessing. Finally, grudgingly: "You're smarter than you look."
"Thanks. I think."
Meeting Mummy (Tushar) was sweetness cutting through tension. The sheltered, innocent kid who'd clearly never been away from home before, desperately homesick but trying to hide it.
"Do you miss your family?" Mummy asked Anni during a quiet moment.
"Every day," Anni admitted. "But that's normal, right? We're supposed to be building independence."
"My mom calls every night," Mummy confessed. "I know it's embarrassing, but I can't sleep without hearing her voice."
Anant's expression was pure compassion. "That's not embarrassing. That's love. Don't apologize for loving your family."
Meeting Bevda (Saharsh) happened almost silently. The drunk chess genius who communicated more through strategic gameplay than words. Anant and Saharsh played an actual chess game on camera, both moving pieces with considered strategy while the others chatted around them.
When Anant's Anni finally won—barely—Bevda spoke his first line of the film: "You're better than you think you are. At chess, and probably at life."
It was a small moment, but it landed with weight because of the silence surrounding it.
Meeting Raggie (Prateik) came later, in a scene where the rival hostel's champion confronted the Losers. Prateik had transformed completely—arrogant, charismatic, the kind of guy who commanded a room through sheer force of personality.
"So you're the freshers who think they can compete with H3 in Sports Championship?" Raggie asked, looking at Anni with undisguised contempt. "Cute. We'll enjoy crushing you."
"We're not competing with anyone," Anni replied calmly. "We're just here to learn."
"Wrong answer freshie," Raggie said, stepping into Anni's personal space. "Everyone's competing. The difference is winners admit it, and losers pretend it doesn't matter."
The scene crackled with tension, and when Nitesh called cut, both actors were breathing hard from the intensity.
"That was scary," Anant said to Prateik, grinning. "You've got Raggie's intimidation factor perfect."
"You didn't back down," Prateik replied. "Kept Anni's spine while not escalating. That's harder than it looks."
Part III: The Technical Revolution
Between setups, Anant would disappear to the equipment area, conferring with the cinematography team about the new camera system.
The Dolby Maya Cinematic Camera was Anant's latest innovation—a collaboration between his role as Chief Innovation Officer at Dolby Laboratories and Maya VFX's R&D division.
The camera integrated Dolby Vision HDR and Dolby Atmos spatial audio capture in a single unit, optimized specifically for Indian filmmaking conditions.
"Traditional cinema cameras are designed for Hollywood's controlled environments," Anant explained to a gathering of curious crew members during a break. "Climate-controlled sound stages, massive budgets for lighting, post-production facilities in Los Angeles.
Indian cinema operates differently. We shoot in real locations, in extreme heat, with limited infrastructure. We need equipment that works in our context, not equipment we have to adapt to."
He gestured to the camera rig. "The Maya Cinematic Camera has enhanced heat tolerance, dust resistance, and color profiles optimized for Indian skin tones across all regions.
The Atmos system is calibrated for the acoustic complexity of Indian languages—the tonal variations in Telugu, the aspirated consonants in Hindi, the retroflex sounds in Tamil. It captures our languages as they're actually spoken, not through Western audio engineering assumptions."
The cinematographer, an industry veteran named Ravi, listened with rapt attention. "The image quality is remarkable. I'm seeing shadow detail I'd normally lose, especially in darker skin tones."
"That's the color science," Anant explained. "Western camera companies optimize for lighter skin tones, which means darker skin often appears muddy or loses detail. I worked with Dolby's engineers to build color matrices that handle the full range of Indian complexions—from Kashmir to Kanyakumari—with equal fidelity."
"This could change the entire industry," Ravi said, awe in his voice.
"That's the goal," Anant replied. "Indian cinema shouldn't have to rely on equipment designed for Western faces and Western stories. We deserve technology built for our aesthetic needs."
The fact that Anant was simultaneously acting in the film, producing it, and serving as technical consultant on the camera systems seemed impossible. But he moved between roles seamlessly—Anni the college student one moment, technology innovator the next, collaborative producer the third.
"How do you keep it all in your head?" Shraddha asked during a longer break, watching him discuss a complex lighting setup with Ravi while simultaneously reviewing performance notes with Nitesh.
"Compartmentalization," Anant replied, barely glancing up. "Acting lives in emotional memory. Technical work lives in analytical problem-solving. Producing lives in logistics and people management. Different parts of the brain, accessed sequentially."
"That's not normal," Shraddha said.
"Probably not," Anant agreed with a smile. "But I don't know how else to work. If I'm going to do something, I want to understand every aspect of it. Surface-level engagement feels incomplete."
"That's the IIT training talking," Ashwiny observed, joining them. "The systematic approach to complex systems."
"Partially," Anant acknowledged. "But also just curiosity. I want to know how things work. Cameras, lighting, performance, business models, human psychology. It's all interconnected."
What struck everyone most was the lack of hierarchy Anant enforced. At mealtimes, he insisted everyone eat together—actors, crew, assistants, the catering staff.
He served himself from the same buffet line, sat with whoever had space at their table, engaged junior crew members in technical discussions with the same respect he showed senior collaborators.
"On Baahubali," he explained when someone commented on this approach, "Rajamouli sir maintained this same principle. No separate dining for stars, no hierarchy in creative discussions. The spot boy's observation about a shot is as valuable as the cinematographer's if it serves the story. That culture made Baahubali better. I want the same here."
The impact on set morale was immediate and profound. Crew members worked harder, suggested creative solutions more freely, stayed late to perfect shots not because they were ordered to but because they felt invested in the project's success.
Part IV: IIT Bombay Pilgrimage
The major college portions of Chhichhore were scheduled to shoot at IIT Bombay, and the production coordinator had arranged permission during the summer break to avoid student disruptions.
They arrived at the campus on a Monday morning in September, the heat already oppressive, the grounds mostly empty as post mid term exam vacation kept students away.
Except they weren't empty.
Hundreds of students—maybe thousands—lined the paths, crowded the windows of hostels that were supposed to be vacant, gathered at every vantage point overlooking the shooting location.
"What the hell?" Nitesh muttered, staring at the crowd. "It's post exam vacation. There shouldn't be anyone here."
"It's Anant Sharma," the IIT Bombay liaison explained, looking slightly panicked. "Word got out you were shooting here. Students came back early from vacation just to see him. We've tried to maintain clear shooting zones, but—"
"But I'm IIT royalty," Anant finished with smile, understanding the situation. "AIR 8, Gold Medal, the visible proof that IIT can produce success beyond traditional engineering careers."
The IIT Bombay Director, Professor Subhasis Chaudhuri, approached with a delegation of faculty. His greeting was formal, almost reverential.
"Mr. Sharma, this is an unprecedented honor. Having you film on our campus—it's like welcoming home a conquering hero."
Anant pressed his palms together in respectful greeting. "Sir, the honor is mine. IIT shaped my analytical thinking, taught me systematic problem-solving. Everything I've built stands on the foundation this institution provided."
"We've prepared a small ceremony," Professor Chaudhuri continued. "Just a brief welcome, perhaps a few words to the students who've gathered?"
Anant glanced at Nitesh, who nodded slightly. They could afford thirty minutes for campus relations.
"Of course," Anant agreed.
What was supposed to be a "small ceremony" turned into something closer to a rock concert. They set up a podium in the main quadrangle, and students flooded in—not just from IIT Bombay, but apparently from other Mumbai colleges who'd heard the news and showed up hoping for a glimpse.
Anant stood at the podium, looking out at thousands of faces, and for a moment, he seemed overwhelmed.
"I don't know what to say," he began honestly. "I'm not a motivational speaker. I'm just someone who went to IIT, worked hard, got lucky with opportunities, and tried not to screw them up too badly."
Laughter rippled through the crowd.
"But if I can share anything from my experience," Anant continued, his voice strengthening, "it's this: IIT teaches you to solve problems, but it doesn't teach you which problems are worth solving. That's something you have to discover yourself."
He paused, gathering thoughts. "I came here planning to do conventional engineering. Get a job at Microsoft or Google, make good money, satisfy my parents' investment in my education. That would have been fine—a good life, nothing wrong with it."
"But during my time here, I joined the dramatics society. Not to escape engineering, but because I realized something fundamental: Science and technology can solve the world's problems, but art is what makes people care about those problems. I wanted to learn the Amar Chitrakala—the eternal art of making people understand each other. That was when I found the Ankahi Drama Society, and it gave me hope."
The crowd was completely silent, hanging on every word.
"That realization was terrifying," Anant confessed, his voice echoing over the hushed quadrangle. "I thought choosing acting meant throwing away a stable future. I thought it meant betraying my middle-class parents, who spent their lives running a small, hot kitchen in Chandni Chowk just to afford my education."
He paused, the emotion of his past swelling in his chest. "What I didn't know at the time... was that my father was actually a National School of Drama Gold Medalist."
A collective, audible gasp rippled through the thousands of students. They knew the public version of Anant's life, but hearing this raw truth directly from him hit differently.
"Decades ago, he was hailed as the future of Indian theater," Anant continued, his voice thick with reverence. "But when his father/ my dada ji died, he gave up his acting career to run the family restaurant and keep us afloat. And the most incredible part? He kept it a complete secret from me my entire life. He watched me step onto a stage, watched me fall in love with the exact same art form he had sacrificed, and he never said a word."
Anant looked out at the sea of engineering students, his dark eyes fiercely sincere.
"When I finally discovered the truth years later and asked him why he hid it from me, he said: 'I chose your freedom. I wanted your journey to be purely yours, unburdened by my lost dreams.'"
Anant's voice cracked slightly, the raw power of that memory commanding absolute silence from the crowd. "He buried his own passion so that I could have the ultimate privilege of choice. If I had ignored my calling out of a misplaced sense of duty to society's expectations, I wouldn't have been honoring his sacrifice. I would have been wasting the very freedom he gave up his life to give me."
He gripped the edges of the podium. "So I pursued both. I finished my Computer Science degree with full effort because that education matters. But I also poured my entire soul into the Ankahi Drama Society. I didn't run around Mumbai chasing fame or giving hundreds of film auditions."
"I stayed on my college stage and just focused on perfecting my craft. I honored my Dharma as an artist first, and because of that dedication, cinema eventually found me."
Anant looked across the sea of students, his voice carrying a quiet, undeniable power. "I didn't choose between art and science. I integrated them. I used my coding knowledge to develop camera software while acting, which eventually became the foundation for Maya VFX."
"The point is," Anant concluded, his eyes fiercely sincere, "your IIT degree is not a cage. It is a tool. Don't let a misplaced sense of 'duty' trap you in a life you hate. If you want to be an engineer, be the best engineer you can be."
"If you want to be an artist, an entrepreneur, or a social worker—use the analytical training this institution gave you to be extraordinary at it. Use the freedom your parents bought for you to become exactly who you are meant to be."
"Don't let anyone—including yourself—limit your possibilities because of assumptions about what an IIT graduate 'should' do. Solve the problems that matter to you, using whatever combination of skills works. That's success."
The applause was deafening. Students rushed the podium, security barely maintaining order. Anant spent two hours signing autographs, taking photos, answering questions about everything from film technique to compression algorithms to career advice.
"How do you balance so many roles?" one student asked. "Actor, producer, tech innovator, business leader. Don't you get overwhelmed?"
"I get exhausted," Anant replied honestly. "But I also get energized by variety. If I only acted, I'd get bored. If I only did technical work, I'd miss creative expression. The combination keeps me engaged."
"Do you ever regret not taking a traditional engineering path?" another student asked.
"Never," Anant said firmly. "But I also don't regret getting the engineering degree. Both choices made me who I am. I refuse to view life as either-or. It's and. Engineering and art. Business and creativity. Success and service. Why choose when you can integrate?"
By the time they actually started filming, the day was half gone. But the energy on set had multiplied. The IIT students watching from designated zones became invested spectators, their reactions to takes providing real-time audience feedback.
The scenes shot at IIT Bombay were the heart of the college flashback—the Losers meeting, bonding, facing challenges together. The real campus environment added authenticity that would have been impossible to recreate on a sound stage.
Anant and the other actors played off the genuine architecture, the real hostel rooms, the actual mess hall. When Anni gave his famous speech about trying despite inevitable failure, delivered in the H4 hostel common room, the watching IIT students erupted in spontaneous applause—which Nitesh kept in the final film.
"This is surreal," Varun said during a break, watching students wave at them from hostel windows. "We're shooting a film about college, at a college, for an audience of actual college students. It's meta."
"It's honest," Anant corrected. "This is their world. They'll call us out if we get it wrong. Having them here keeps us accountable."
Part V: "Woh Din", Boxers, Blushes, and the Saree Dance Masterclass( Please listen the song while reading this segment)
As the days passed at IIT Bombay, the line between acting and reality completely blurred.
Before they could shoot the joyous college montages, Nitesh Tiwari had to capture the quintessential, terrifying rite of passage for every 90s engineering student: the hostel ragging.
The scene required Anni and Sexa to be hauled out of their rooms at 2:00 AM by Derek and the seniors. The crew expected Anant to perhaps request a slight modification to protect his "megastar" image. Instead, Anant walked onto the set wearing absolutely nothing but a pair of tragically uncool, oversized cartoon-printed boxers and a terrified expression.
The God of Acting had completely abandoned his aura.
"Assume the position, chhichhore!" Tahir (Derek) barked, struggling to keep a straight face as he looked at the $2.8 billion tech-titan standing in his underwear.
Anant instantly dropped into the classic 'murga' (rooster) pose, squatting and holding his ears through his legs, looking so genuinely humiliated and pitiful that Varun Sharma (Sexa), who was doing the same pose next to him, actually broke character and snorted with laughter.
But Derek and Acid weren't done.
"Tonight is the H4 Cultural Fest, freshers," Naveen (Acid) sneered, getting dangerously close to Anni's face. "And every cultural fest needs a classic Bollywood item number. Go to the girls' hostel. Bring us a saree. You're dancing tonight."
The transition from the humiliated junior to the nervous romantic was where Anant's terrifying range truly shined. They set up the cameras near the campus pathways for the scene where Anni desperately tries to intercept the campus beauty, Maya, to complete his ragging task.
Shraddha Kapoor stood at her mark, holding her college books. She knew logically that she was acting opposite the most powerful man in the industry. But when Nitesh called "Action," that man vanished.
Walking toward her was just Anni. His shoulders were slightly hunched, his hands sweating as he wiped them nervously on his faded jeans.
"Excuse me... Maya?" Anant said, his voice cracking slightly with adolescent panic. He looked at her with such pure, innocent, starry-eyed reverence—like she was completely out of his league and the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.
"Yes?" Shraddha asked, raising an eyebrow.
"My seniors... they need a saree. For a, um, cultural performance," Anant stammered, looking like he wanted the earth to swallow him whole. "I know this sounds ridiculous, but if I don't bring one back, they are going to make me measure the entire hostel corridor with a matchstick."
Shraddha felt a genuine, unscripted blush creep up her neck. The sheer vulnerability radiating from him was magnetic. She delivered her lines with the perfect mix of amusement and warmth, reacting naturally to the dorky boy trying far too hard to be brave in front of her. She handed over a bright pink saree from her luggage bag, suppressing a giggle.
"Cut! Beautiful chemistry!" Nitesh yelled from the monitor.
Shraddha exhaled deeply, fanning her face as Anant dropped the nervous posture, his usual warm smile returning. "You are dangerous," she laughed. "You actually made me feel like the prettiest girl in college. I completely forgot who I was talking to."
"That's the Amar Chitrakala," Anant smiled gently. "In that moment, you were the center of Anni's universe."
But the true madness happened when they returned to the H4 set to shoot the actual ragging dance.
The cameras rolled as Anant, Varun( Sexa ), and Tushar (Mummy) stood in the center of the hostel common room, clumsily draped in bright women's sarees over their t-shirts and jeans. A classic 90s Bollywood item song blared from a boombox.
The three freshers began doing the most awkward, stiff, tragically uncoordinated feminine dance imaginable. Anant deliberately made himself look incredibly foolish, biting his lip in concentration as he tried and failed to do a graceful hip-shake.
Tahir and Naveen watched from the senior's couch, scowling in character like they were disappointed with their performances . Suddenly, Acid had enough.
"Stop! Stop the music!" Naveen yelled, storming onto the dance floor. "What is this? Are you dancing or having a medical emergency? This is an insult to the art form!"
"Let us show these chhichhores how it's done," Tahir declared, deadpan.
Without breaking their tough, chain-smoking senior personas, Derek and Acid grabbed the pallus of the freshers' sarees and broke into a flawless, perfectly synchronized, hilariously graceful Bollywood heroine dance routine.
The contrast of the perpetually furious Acid and the intimidating Derek hitting perfect thumkas (hip shakes) was absolute comedic perfection.
Anant and Varun burst into genuine laughter on camera, immediately joining in. Within seconds, Nitesh Tiwari was watching the entire cast of H4 boys doing a synchronized, wildly enthusiastic "girl dance" in the middle of the hostel.
The BTS cameraman had to put his camera on a tripod because his hands were shaking too hard from laughing.
With the emotional grounding of the ragging and romance established, Nitesh finally let the cast loose to shoot the montage sequences for Woh Din Bhi Kya Din The (Oh, what days those were)—the soul-stirring anthem of college nostalgia. He barely had to direct them. The cast wasn't acting anymore; they were just living it.
The hostel sequences devolved into pure, unadulterated chaos. During the water-balloon fight scene in the H4 corridors, Varun Sharma (Sexa) completely abandoned the script, launching a full bucket of freezing water directly at Anant's face.
Anant gasped, wiping his spectacles, before his competitive instincts kicked in. Within seconds, the $2.8 billion tech-titan was sprinting down the hallway in a wet vest and baggy 90s jeans, dual-wielding water guns alongside Naveen (Acid), who was screaming hilarious, improvised Telugu curses at the rival hostel actors.
Tahir (Derek) tried to maintain his cool, smoking-senior persona, but broke character completely when Tushar (Mummy) accidentally slipped and took out three cameramen like bowling pins.
They shot the legendary towel-dance sequences, the late-night Maggi-noodle bonding sessions, and the ridiculous sports practices where Anant deliberately had to un-learn his Kalari training just to look hopelessly uncoordinated.
Between takes, sitting on the rusted iron beds of the hostel, Anant felt a profound wave of nostalgia hit him. Listening to the cast sing off-key Bollywood songs while banging spoons on steel plates, his mind drifted back to the Ankahi Dramatics Society at IIT Delhi. He remembered the late-night rehearsals, the terrible mess food, and the absolute freedom of being a nobody with a dream.
But the most hilarious—and legendary—moments happened entirely off-script, during the breaks.
Because they were shooting on an active campus, IIT Bombay students constantly hovered around the sets. One afternoon, while waiting for the lighting crew to reset a complex shot, Anant noticed a group of final-year Computer Science students stressing over a whiteboard in the common room. They were struggling with a complex spatial-computing algorithm for their final project.
Anant, still dressed as the insecure 'Anni', wearing an oversized checked shirt and a wet towel draped around his neck from the previous water-fight scene, casually walked over.
"Your rendering loop is creating a bottleneck," Anant observed, picking up a whiteboard marker.
For the next forty-five minutes, the shoot was completely forgotten. Anant Sharma—the Chief Innovation Officer of Dolby and the creator of the Maya Vfx—began casually rewriting their entire neural network architecture. He explained advanced machine-learning compression with the effortless ease of someone reciting the alphabet.
Word spread across the campus like wildfire. IIT gold medalist is giving a free lecture in Hostel 4!
By the time Nitesh Tiwari came looking for his lead actor, he stopped dead in his tracks. The common room was packed with over two hundred students sitting on the floor in absolute silence. But what made Nitesh's jaw drop was the front row.
Three senior IIT Bombay Professors, including the Head of the Computer Science Department, had pulled up plastic chairs and were furiously taking notes in their leather-bound diaries.
"Excuse me, Mr. Sharma," one of the gray-haired professors asked respectfully, raising his hand like a student. "Regarding the latency reduction in the P-node... how did Maya VFX bypass the thermal throttling on standard processors?"
"Excellent question, Sir," Anant replied warmly, adjusting his prop spectacles before diving into a masterclass on hardware-software integration, occasionally pausing to wipe the dripping hostel-water from his neck.
Standing by the door, Ashwiny Iyer Tiwari nudged the BTS (Behind The Scenes) cameraman.
"Are you getting this?" she whispered in disbelief.
"Every second, Ma'am," the cameraman grinned, keeping the lens focused on the surreal sight. "The world is going to lose its mind when they see the 'Loser' Anni teaching PhD-level tech to IIT professors."
Anant wasn't just shooting a movie about college life; he was single-handedly mentoring the next generation of engineers between action and cut. The crew realized they weren't just filming a nostalgic blockbuster. They were documenting a modern legend.
A few hours later, in the pristine, hyper-corporate boardroom of Reliance Industries in Mumbai, the atmosphere was entirely different.
Isha Ambani sat near the head of the massive glass table, presiding over a highly sensitive Q3 telecommunications strategy meeting. The room was filled with serious executives in sharp suits, debating multi-billion-dollar 5G spectrum allocations.
Her secure private tablet buzzed silently on the table. It was a direct message from Ashwiny Iyer Tiwari: "Thought the producer should see her lead actor's off-screen performance."
Attached was a raw, unedited video file.
Isha discreetly tapped play, keeping her device muted so as not to interrupt the Chief Financial Officer's presentation. She expected to see a heavy, emotional acting take or a complex camera setup.
Instead, the screen lit up with Anant.
The terrifyingly intelligent CIO of Dolby, the Megalodon who regularly intimidated Silicon Valley billionaires, looked like an absolute clown. He was wearing an oversized, violently uncool checked shirt, a wet towel draped around his neck, and his hair was plastered to his forehead from a hostel water-balloon fight.
But it wasn't his outfit that made her stop. It was what he was doing.
This hunched, awkward "loser" was furiously scribbling advanced neural network architecture on a whiteboard, casually gesturing with a marker while three senior, gray-haired IIT Bombay professors sat in the front row, furiously taking notes like obedient school children.
The visual contrast was too much. The sheer, ridiculous absurdity of the man she loved—the $2.8 billion tech titan—dressed like a 90s hostel dork while casually teaching PhD-level tech to the HODs of Computer Science struck her like a lightning bolt.
A sudden, very audible snort of laughter escaped Isha's lips.
The entire Reliance boardroom went dead silent. The CFO, who had been mid-sentence explaining spectrum costs, froze in place.
Twenty senior executives slowly turned to look at the heiress in pure shock. Even Mukesh Ambani, sitting at the head of the table, raised an eyebrow in surprise. Isha was famous for her absolute, ice-cold composure during board meetings. She never broke character.
"Apologies," Isha gasped, her face instantly burning a brilliant shade of crimson as she frantically flipped her tablet face-down against the glass table. She cleared her throat, trying desperately to regain her corporate stoicism, though her shoulders were still visibly trembling with suppressed giggles. "Please, continue with the 5G rollout timeline."
The executives awkwardly returned to their reports, pretending nothing had happened.
But Mukesh's eyes flicked to the upside-down tablet, then back to his daughter's furiously blushing face. A knowing, hidden smile touched the patriarch's lips. He didn't need to see the screen to know exactly who was responsible for making his brilliant daughter completely lose her composure in front of the board.
Only one man could do that.
Part VI: The Viral "Wet-Towel" Masterclass
A few days later, Jio Studios' marketing team decided to give the fans a taste of the behind-the-scenes magic. They uploaded the raw, unedited 4-minute video of Anant to YouTube and Twitter with a simple, unassuming title: BTS: Anni teaches IIT Bombay.
They expected a good response. They did not expect to completely break the internet.
When the notification went out, millions of fans clicked on the video, expecting to see Anant Sharma in his usual terrifying, majestic aura, perhaps giving a serious lecture at a podium.
Instead, they saw a hunched, wildly uncool "loser" in baggy 90s jeans and an oversized checked shirt, dripping wet with a towel wrapped around his neck, furiously scribbling on a whiteboard.
The visual whiplash was absolutely hilarious.
At first, the comment sections were filled with pure, unadulterated confusion. Why does the God of Acting look like a bullied freshman? Why is he wet?
But as the video played, and the internet realized that this dripping-wet dork was casually rewriting advanced neural network architecture while three senior IIT Computer Science professors sat in plastic chairs furiously taking notes... the collective minds of social media completely short-circuited.
Twitter erupted into an avalanche of memes, laughter, and pure awe.
@TechBroMumbai: "I pay $500 to attend tech seminars in five-star hotels, and this guy is giving away the future of spatial computing while wearing a wet towel in a rusty hostel room. I am crying. 😂😭 #AnantSharma"
@IITBMemes: "Bro... only Anant Sharma could make the terrifying HOD of Computer Science sit on a plastic chair and raise his hand like an obedient first-year student. THE MEGALODON AURA IS INSANE! 💀🔥"
@VarunSharma90(SEXA): "I threw that water balloon. Technically, I hydrated his brain to maximum capacity before this lecture. I expect a 5% royalty on Maya VFX's new valuation."
@IITBombay_Official: "To clarify: Mr. Anant Sharma is not a visiting professor, and no, you cannot select 'Wet Towel Spatial Computing 101' as an elective next semester. Please stop crashing the student portal."
But the absolute peak of the internet chaos happened when Anant's previous directors—the men who had spent years turning him into a terrifying, unstoppable force of nature—saw the footage.
@SSRajamouli: "I spent three years transforming this boy into a 95kg mythological demigod who can carry a Shiva Lingam on his bare shoulders. Nitesh Tiwari puts him in a wet towel and baggy jeans and breaks the internet in 4 minutes. I am questioning all my cinematic choices today. 😂🤦♂️ #WetTowelMasterclass"
@AdityaDharFilms:"Major Vihaan led surgical strikes and struck absolute terror into enemy camps. Today he looks like he's about to cry because he can't find the hostel canteen. Look how they massacred my para commando officer. 😭🤣 Nitesh sir, what have you done?! #AnantSharma"
Even the legendary "Captain Cool" himself, MS Dhoni—whose ₹1,200-crore biopic Anant had famously starred in—couldn't resist stepping out of his usual social media silence to join the roast.
@msdhoni: "I spent six months teaching this boy how to stay absolutely calm under the pressure of a World Cup final. One single water balloon in an engineering hostel and he completely loses his aura? Captain Cool is very disappointed today. 🤣🚁 #WetTowelMasterclass"
The #WetTowelMasterclass hashtag took over the number one global trending spot on Twitter within two hours.
Memes flooded Instagram. Split-screen images comparing "What a Tech Billionaire Usually Looks Like" (showing Elon Musk in a suit) versus "What Our Tech Billionaire Looks Like" (showing Anant looking completely miserable in his wet towel) went massively viral.
Another popular meme format showed four pictures side-by-side: Major Vihaan holding an assault rifle, Amarendra Baahubali holding a massive broadsword, MS Dhoni hitting the World Cup helicopter shot, and Anni holding a blue whiteboard marker while dripping wet. The caption simply read: "The Mount Rushmore of Indian Cinema."
The cultural impact was instantaneous and ridiculous. In Bangalore, several tech startups officially declared "Wet Towel Wednesdays," where CEOs showed up to pitch meetings with damp towels draped around their necks, hoping to channel even a fraction of the Megalodon's raw intellect.
Engineering college group chats across India were paralyzed with laughter. Common people, who usually viewed tech billionaires as cold and disconnected, suddenly saw Anant as the most relatable, hilarious genius on the planet.
Stock markets reacted with their own bizarre logic—Jio Studios' parent company saw a 3% uptick, and Maya VFX's valuation jumped by ₹2,000 crores overnight, entirely fueled by the viral goodwill of a wet towel.
"Anant Sharma's next film after Baahubali is a college drama?" one entertainment journalist reported breathlessly on national television, struggling to suppress a laugh as the BTS clip played in the background.
"Industry insiders were calling it a massive risk. But looking at this engagement? The man could film himself reading a telephone directory in that towel and it would cross ₹100 crores on opening day."
The speculation surrounding Chhichhore became an unstoppable force. Industry reactions were mixed with pure disbelief. Established stars felt threatened—Anant's consistent success and effortless internet dominance were making traditional PR machinery completely irrelevant.
But everyone watched. Everyone laughed. Everyone speculated.
And everyone waited to see what Anant Sharma would deliver next. But one thing was absolutely certain—the God of Cinema was about to shatter his own Box Office records all over again.
End of Chapter 35