Chapter 20: "Nights Alone"

Weeks 5–6 of Filming

The set was quiet in a way it never had been before.

The laughter from earlier weeks, the clatter of rigging and the giggling after every booby-trap gag had softened to something subtler. They were now shooting the night scenes. The moments when Dev clever, funny kid—had to be something else entirely: alone.

Lights were dimmed to a warm, melancholy glow. Most of the crew moved more slowly, their voices dropping to whispers. Even the clap of the slate seemed gentler.

This was the stretch of the movie where everything slowed, where jokes faded into long shadows, and the music swelled with a note of ache.

The Scene: Dev Alone

They began with Dev wandering the empty house. The camera followed Ayaan as he tiptoed past the garland-strung staircase into the kitchen and pulled out a cold sandwich—no background score. Just the sound of the fridge shutting and Ayaan chewing in silence.

Rishi sat behind the monitor, arms crossed, not directing—just watching.

Ayaan paused by the window and stared out at the falling snow.

"Cut," the director called softly. "Let's reset and go again."

Each take chipped deeper. Ayaan, so confident in slapstick, now had to carry the weight of stillness.

By the third take, something shifted.

He looked out the window and whispered, barely audible, "I wish someone would come home."

The line wasn't in the script.

Everyone held still. The director looked at Rishi.

Rishi nodded. "Keep it."

The Mirror Scene

The biggest hurdle was the crying scene.

Dev was supposed to stand in front of the bathroom mirror, toothbrush in hand, trying to act normal—until the façade cracked. He'd stare at his reflection, smile, and then whisper something to himself. Then the tears would come.

They tried it four times.

On the fifth take, Ayaan stood frozen, his lower lip trembling. But no tears came. His fists clenched.

Rishi stepped in quietly.

He knelt beside Ayaan, out of the shot, and placed a hand on his shoulder.

"You don't have to pretend to cry," Rishi said softly. "Just remember what it feels like to miss someone."

Ayaan's voice was tight. "I don't want to mess it up."

"You won't," Rishi said. "You already understand it. It's not about the tears—it's about letting people see that you feel them."

They rolled the camera again.

This time, Ayaan didn't cry immediately. He stared at himself, toothbrush in hand, blinking hard. He mumbled, "You're okay," to the mirror. Then, his shoulders shook once. His eyes welled. The tears came—not dramatic, but real.

The director let the shot linger.

When they called cut, no one said anything for a long moment.

Then Hughes, misty-eyed behind the monitor, whispered, "That's the heart of the movie."

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That night, they shot one of the most delicate scenes: Dev sits in the living room, curled up on the couch, clutching a blanket too small for his frame. Outside, the wind howls. Inside, silence.

Initially, the scene was meant to play out with music only. But Zoey—who had sat sketching storyboards between takes—had a different idea.

"What if he sings?" she suggested. "Like… something from his childhood? Not loud. Just soft. Something comforting."

Ayaan looked at her. "Like what?"

Zoey smiled. "You always hum that song when you're stressed. The Hindi one. Teach me the words?"

They spent the afternoon in their trailer, huddled over a notebook, poring over it. Ayaan translated a lullaby his grandmother once sang—"Nindiya Aaye"—into something Dev might remember. Zoey helped smooth the melody into a half-whispered tune.

On set, they rolled the camera.

Wrapped in a blanket, eyes damp from the earlier scene, Ayaan sang.

It wasn't perfect. His pitch wavered. His voice cracked.

But it was real.

And when the final note hung in the silence, even the gaffer had mist in his eyes.

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Later that week, they filmed the quiet conversation between Dev and his grumpy next-door neighbour—played by none other than Rishi himself.

In the story, Dev sits on the porch steps. The older man approaches, carrying a pie no one asked for. They sit side by side.

"You miss your family?" the neighbour asks.

Dev shrugs. "I was mad at them."

"Me too," the neighbour says. "Mine grew up and forgot I existed."

A beat.

Dev looks at him. "That ever stop hurting?"

"No," the man says. "But sometimes, the quiet helps you hear things you forgot."

They shot it in one take.

When they wrapped, the crew clapped—not for the take, but for the feeling that had just been captured. It wasn't a kid's movie at that moment. It was something gentler. Something truer.

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During breaks, Zoey made it her mission to lift the mood.

She snuck little snack packs onto Ayaan's chair with sticky notes:

"For Dev, Defender of the Fridge."

"Emergency chocolate ration: 1 per tear shed."

She joked with the script supervisor. She danced behind the camera to make the sound guy laugh. She sat beside Ayaan between scenes, drawing funny versions of Dev riding a dragon.

And when Ayaan said quietly, "I don't know if I'm doing it right…"

She squeezed his arm. "You're doing it better than anyone else could."

Rishi's Private Reflection

That night, as they wrapped late and the kids were bundled into the studio car for the ride home, Rishi stayed behind.

He walked through the set alone, past the couch where Dev had sat, past the mirror in the hallway. He stopped in the doorway to the porch set and sat down on the steps—just like in the scene.

He looked out at the empty stage beyond.

"My kid," he whispered.

Not just an actor. Not just a performer.

A storyteller.

And Zoey—sharp, kind, fearless.

Together, they were telling a beautiful story.

Rishi closed his eyes.

For all the things that had gone wrong in his life, somehow, he'd ended up right here.

And that… was enough.

End of Chapter 20