"What?"
Manoj Choudhary's voice cut through the room, sharp with disbelief.
He coughed almost immediately afterward, clearing his throat as if embarrassed by his own reaction, then reached up to adjust his glasses. The gesture was familiar, a reflex he'd developed over years of office meetings and parent-teacher interactions.
"A movie?" he asked again, slower this time.
Ahan sat on the edge of the sofa, shoulders squared, hands resting neatly on his thighs. He hadn't chosen the posture consciously, but it resembled an interrogation stance more than a casual one.
Across from him, Paridhi sat rigid, arms folded so tightly it looked uncomfortable. Manoj occupied the far end of the sofa, eyes flicking between adults, while Kajal sat cross-legged on the floor, her earlier ice-cream forgotten, enjoying the tension far too much for her age.
"Yes," Ahan said. "A film."
"Absolutely not," Paridhi said instantly.
The speed of the refusal left no room for discussion, at least not in her mind. She leaned forward slightly, eyes sharp.
"This is not happening," she continued. "We didn't raise you for this."
Ahan inhaled, steadying himself. "Ma, listen—"
"No," she cut in. "You listen. That industry is rotten. Drugs, casting couches, people with no morals. Gangsters—"
"That's exaggerated," Ahan said, his voice firmer now. "Media blows everything out of proportion."
Paridhi laughed once, incredulous. "You think newspapers invent all that for fun?"
"I'm saying it's not all like that," Ahan replied. "And even if some of it is, I won't fall into it."
Everyone paused at that.
Manoj studied his son carefully. "You sound very confident," he said.
"I am," Ahan replied. "I know what I'm doing."
Paridhi shook her head. "Everyone thinks that at the beginning."
Manoj raised his hand slightly—not to silence her, but to slow the conversation. He turned back to Ahan. "Is this genuine?" he asked. "Not some fraud or shortcut scheme?"
Ahan nodded. "I gave a proper audition."
Paridhi's eyes widened. "You auditioned?" she said sharply. "Without telling us? You skipped college for this?"
Ahan didn't respond to her accusation. He kept his gaze on his father. "It's Tips Films. They called me themselves. They called Zayn and he called me."
Manoj leaned back into the sofa, processing. Tips Films wasn't unfamiliar. He had seen the logo before, heard the name in passing. It wasn't some obscure setup operating out of a rented office.
Paridhi turned toward him immediately. "You can't be taking this seriously."
Manoj didn't answer right away.
Instead, he looked at Ahan—really looked at him. Not as a child who needed protection, but as someone standing at the edge of a decision that couldn't be undone easily.
"He's nineteen," Manoj said slowly. "Legally an adult."
Paridhi stiffened. "That doesn't mean—"
"It means," Manoj continued calmly, "that he can choose what he wants to try."
"You're letting him throw away his future," she said.
"I'm not," Manoj replied. "I'm letting him test something. There's a difference."
He turned to Ahan. "But," he added, voice firmer now, "you will not drop out. Engineering stays. Degree comes first."
Ahan nodded immediately. "I promise."
"No delays. No excuses," Manoj said.
"Yes."
Paridhi looked between them, frustration clear, but the fight drained from her shoulders. She sighed. "Fine," she said. "But don't expect sympathy later."
Two days later, Ahan stood inside the reception area of the Tips Films office, acutely aware of how ordinary the place looked.
It was a functional workspace—glass doors, neutral walls, framed posters from earlier films lining the corridor. Zayn stood beside him, barely containing himself, fingers twitching like he wanted to photograph everything. Manoj stood quietly on Ahan's other side, hands clasped behind his back, saying little but observing everything.
They were led into a modest meeting room.
The director arrived a minute later.
Ken Ghosh didn't waste time with theatrics. He shook hands, exchanged brief pleasantries, then sat down and slid a script across the table.
"Ishq Vishq," he said simply.
Ahan picked it up. The pages were thick, professionally bound. Seeing the title printed like that made the whole thing feel suddenly real.
"You fit what we're looking for," Ken continued. "That doesn't mean you're the best. You would need to attend acting workshops to work on dialogue delivery and postures. Also do you know how to dance?"
Ahan shook his head.
"Well then get an instructor. If you want to do a Bollywood film, you better know how to dance."
Ahan nodded, listening carefully.
"This isn't a star vehicle," Ken added. "It's a film about youth. Confusion. Ego. Relationships. You'll need to learn."
"I understand," Ahan said.
The contract came next. Manoj read it carefully, line by line, asking for clarification where needed. Zayn hovered behind Ahan, visibly restraining himself from grinning.
When the pen finally touched paper, Ahan hesitated for just a second—then signed.
Ken smiled faintly. "Welcome to industry."
Later that evening, in another office, Ken sat across from Kumar Taurani.
"Both leads are locked," Ken said.
Kumar leaned back in his chair, thoughtful. "Two completely new faces."
"Yes."
A pause followed.
"This is risky," Kumar said plainly.
Ken nodded. "But necessary."
Kumar studied him for a moment, then gave a small nod. "Alright. I trust your judgment."