Chapter 10: Shadows of the Past

The dream always began the same way.

The studio's waiting room smelled faintly of sweat, old upholstery, and crushed ambition. Raghav sat with his portfolio clutched in his lap, trying to flatten the wrinkles on his shirt. He was younger—twenty, maybe twenty-two—eyes bright with the kind of hope only rejection could soften. His number was called.

Inside, three producers looked up at him with boredom already inked into their expressions. He launched into a monologue from Sholay, channelling Amitabh's stoic rage. But halfway through, one of them yawned. Another glanced at the clock.

"Thanks," the lead said without looking up. "We'll be in touch."

He walked out into the humid air of Andheri West, heart thudding—not from nerves, but from the growing dread that he'd never be enough. The honk of autorickshaws, the flicker of neon casting call posters, the vendors shouting over the noise—it all spun around him, loud and indifferent.

And then he'd see it: the billboard across the road, mocking him.

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And it wasn't his face up there.

Ayaan jolted awake, the sheets tangled around his legs. He sat up in bed, panting. It was still dark. The moonlight filtered through the curtains, casting soft silver on his room's familiar walls. Stuffed animals. Posters. Crayons.

He was seven.

But the ache in his chest was thirty years old.

---

The next morning, Ayaan didn't hum during breakfast. He didn't reach for the sketchbook. He barely touched his toast.

"Everything okay, champ?" Rishi asked as he poured coffee.

Ayaan shrugged, staring at his orange juice like it held answers. "Just tired."

Rishi nodded, not pushing. But his eyes lingered a moment longer than usual.

Later, Zoey worked on her latest drawing at the dining table—centaurs with celestial tattoos roaming the Forbidden Forest—but Ayaan wandered outside. She noticed the pause in his step, the way he rubbed his chest absentmindedly as if it ached somewhere deeper.

He sat on the porch steps and watched as cars passed. In his mind, echoes of casting rooms still rang.

You don't have a look.

We're going with someone who has connections.

Maybe next time.

He was doing it again—chasing something he'd already failed at. Hollywood instead of Bollywood. Different streets, same dream.

What if he was doomed to lose again? What if this second chance was just a longer path to the same heartbreak?

The idea clung to him like smog.

---

The sun dipped low, casting a pinkish hue across the porch. Ayaan watched the shadows lengthen, memories curling around him like smoke. He thought of the alleyway behind the old studio in Mumbai, where he once cried after a particularly harsh rejection. A stray cat had sat beside him then, brushing against his ankle like it understood failure, too.

Now, a tabby darted across the sidewalk, pausing just long enough to lock eyes with him before vanishing behind a trash bin.

He skipped TV time that evening. Instead, he dug through his backpack and pulled out his old Bollywood scrapbook. It had survived everything—an entire life, an accident.

Clippings of Madhuri's dances. SRK's iconic arms-stretched pose. Stubs from grainy theatre nights. Even a faded newspaper column:

*"Newcomer Raghav Malhotra on Why He'll Never Quit."*

He stared at it.

He remembered the day it was printed. He'd bought four copies and called his mother. He sent one to his old drama coach.

The photo now looked like it belonged to someone else—a stranger who still had stars in his eyes.

---

"Are you mad at me or something?" Zoey's voice pulled him back.

Ayaan blinked. "No. Just tired."

She stood near the doorway, hesitant. Then she stepped outside and sank beside him on the steps.

"I miss my dad," she said quietly.

Ayaan looked down at his hands. "I miss... everything."

She followed his gaze to the scrapbook.

"You still have all this," she murmured.

"Yeah. But sometimes it feels like I shouldn't."

"Why not?"

He hesitated. "Because it belongs to someone else."

She didn't press for more. She just leaned her shoulder into his and sat in silence. That was Zoey—fierce when challenged, gentle when it counted.

---

That night, the dream changed.

He stood at the edge of Film City, but it wasn't just Mumbai; it was also a part of the city. Somehow, it had merged with Hollywood—rickshaw drivers and extras in business suits strolled the duplicate dusty lots. Spotlights danced above the cracked pavement. Shah Rukh Khan stood beside Tom Hanks, chatting like old friends.

Ayaan—no, Raghav—stood in the centre. Confused. Rootless.

"You'll never belong," whispered a voice. "Not here. Not there. Not even in your skin."

But another voice, quieter, steadier, replied, "I'm not trying to belong. I'm trying to build something new."

The dream splintered into gold. He woke with damp cheeks and a slow heartbeat. The sun hadn't risen yet.

---

The next morning, Rishi knocked on his door. Ayaan was still in bed, the scrapbook clutched like a lifeline.

"You okay?" Rishi asked, hovering at the doorway.

Ayaan nodded slowly. "Just weird dreams."

Rishi smiled gently. "We all get those."

He didn't step in. I didn't press.

And Ayaan didn't explain.

Some truths—like past lives and old heartbreaks—weren't ready to be shared.

Not yet.

---

By afternoon, Ayaan wandered into the backyard, where Zoey was tracing chalk outlines of magical creatures along the patio stones. There was a unicorn in profile, a baby dragon mid-flight, and what might've been a grindylow with big, curious eyes.

He picked up a piece of blue chalk and began sketching slowly. A great bird emerged under his hand—long wings, regal neck, flames licking the edges.

Zoey glanced over. "That's cool. What's it from?"

"It's called Fawkes," he said. "A phoenix. It burns and comes back. Starts over again."

She nodded slowly. "Like you and me?"

He looked at her for a long moment. Then smiled—the kind of smile that cracks the dam, even just a little.

"Yeah," he said. "Like us."

They didn't speak for a while. They just drew side by side, the chalk dusting their fingers, the sun catching the first hints of dusk. Ayaan's phoenix blazed in cobalt and fire-orange. Zoey added stars around its wings.

It wasn't much. But it was enough.

A step forward. A breath after the fall.

And in the warmth of that ordinary afternoon, the shadows of his past didn't disappear.

But they softened.

---

At school that week, Ayaan lingered longer than usual after class. His teacher, Mr. Delgado, a lanky, silver-haired man with a permanent coffee stain on his shirt and a weary arch to his brow, sat at his desk grading papers with red ink that looked like it had been poured straight from a crime scene.

"Need something, Ayaan?" he asked without looking up.

Ayaan hovered by the door. Something about Mr. Delgado reminded him of his old acting coach in Mumbai—blunt, worn down by dreams, but still somehow on fire inside.

"You said you used to be in film school?" Ayaan asked.

Delgado raised an eyebrow, amused. "Yeah. Back when VHS was king Tarantino still worked in a video store. Why?"

"Do you think actors know when they're... not good enough?"

That stopped him. Mr. Delgado set his pen down slowly. "Hmm. Most actors I knew weren't worried about being bad. They were afraid of never being seen at all. But you know what? The good ones... they always doubted themselves. Just enough to grow."

Ayaan nodded, barely.

Delgado tilted his head. "You're a deep one for seven. Ever think of trying out for the winter play?"

Ayaan hesitated. "I don't know. I like watching... but maybe it's not for me anymore."

"Kid," Mr. Delgado said, leaning forward, "you've got the kind of stare old actors fake with decades of training. Think about it."

Ayaan left before he could say more, the comment lingering in his head like an echo from another life.

That afternoon, Ayaan returned to the chalk phoenix in the backyard. Its wings shimmered in sunset tones, but one had been smudged—scuffed by a stray sneaker. Zoey winced.

"Sorry," she said. "I didn't mean to—"

"It's okay," Ayaan said softly.

He picked up the yellow chalk and began sketching flames from the damaged wing. Where the smear had been, he added fire—bold, jagged, glorious. The phoenix seemed to be rising mid-burn.

"It looks even cooler now," Zoey said.

Ayaan nodded. "The phoenix doesn't come back perfect. Just new."

She tilted her head. "You say stuff like that a lot."

"I guess I've had to come back before," he said quietly.

She didn't ask what he meant. She just handed him a red chalk stick and added fire beside his.

And in that small act, surrounded by ash and imagination, Ayaan realized something: maybe this dream wasn't just his second chance.

Maybe it was his first time doing it right.