Bombay, 1976
The sun poured gold over the rusted rooftops of Dadar, the city humming like a restless orchestra. Trains screeched in the distance, hawkers called out from narrow lanes, and film posters plastered every wall — Sholay, Deewar, Chupke Chupke. Cinema wasn't just entertainment here; it was breath, dream, and religion.
Arjun Malhotra, now five, stood on a film set for the first time — a small production his father was helping with. The smell of greasepaint, camera oil, and cheap perfume filled the air. Crewmen hurried past him, dragging lights and shouting orders. For them, it was chaos. For Arjun, it was magic.
His father, Raj Malhotra, a minor producer always chasing small projects, leaned against a camera trolley with a cigarette between his fingers. His mother, Anita, sat under a shade, scribbling lines for a late-night television script. They weren't rich, but they lived close enough to the heart of cinema that its rhythm seeped into every meal, every argument, every dream.
Arjun watched a young actor deliver his lines under the scorching lights. He knew this scene. He had seen it before — not here, not in this time, but decades later, as an old rerun. His adult mind, buried inside this small body, hummed with déjà vu. Every frame of the 1970s, every dialogue, every name of the rising stars — Amitabh, Rajesh, Rekha, Hema — it all played like a timeline he already knew the ending of.
"Arjun!" his father called. "Stop standing there like a statue. Come meet Mr. Deshpande. He's the director."
The man turned — middle-aged, balding, with a thick mustache and kind eyes. "So this is your boy, Raj? Looks sharp."
"Sharp and curious," Raj said, grinning. "Can't stop staring at the camera."
Deshpande chuckled. "Good. Maybe one day he'll stand in front of it."
Arjun smiled politely. Inside, his mind flickered — he would stand in front of it, he told himself. Not yet. But one day, in the decade to come, he would be the man on the posters everyone stopped to look at.
That evening, Arjun sat on the balcony of their small apartment. From their third floor, he could see the orange sky bleeding over the sea. Anita's typewriter clicked behind him, each keystroke echoing like a heartbeat of stories being born. Raj came home late, tired and frustrated, mumbling about distributors and unpaid dues.
But even in their worn-out living room, there was warmth — the smell of masala chai, the faint tune of a radio playing Mere Sapno Ki Rani, and his parents' laughter that somehow survived every failure.
Arjun leaned against the railing, lost in thought. In this life, he thought, I'll do more than play the side characters.He remembered the years he had wasted in his previous life — the endless auditions, the cheap serials, the unnoticed performances. Fate had given him a second chance. Not to chase fame blindly, but to build something lasting. To be part of the golden era before it even arrived.
1978.Arjun was now seven, occasionally appearing in small roles — background scenes, fleeting smiles, nameless child parts. His father's connections got him these bits, but what surprised everyone was his natural poise before the camera.
"Your boy doesn't flinch," Deshpande remarked once. "Most kids freeze up. But this one… he looks like he's been here before."
Anita smiled, pride softening her tired face. "He has an old soul," she said. "Sometimes I think he's lived twice."
Arjun didn't react. He just adjusted his costume, eyes reflecting the studio lights.
At night, when the house went quiet, he'd sit by the window with his notebook — a small diary he had bought with pocket change. In it, he wrote movie ideas, copied dialogues, and sometimes even listed future film trends he remembered: Action will rise. Music will change. Heroes will be flawed. 90s will belong to stories that feel real.
He wrote as though building a roadmap for his future self.
By 1979, the Malhotra family moved closer to Andheri, near the heart of Bombay's film district. The neighborhood was full of struggling actors and music composers — dreamers who lived off hope and chai. Arjun watched them, studied them. Every conversation, every failure, became a lesson.
He saw the rise of the angry young man era, the slow shift from romance to rebellion. He couldn't tell anyone that he knew what would come next — that one day, action would evolve, that cinema would find realism again in the 90s. But he could prepare.
And so he did. Dance lessons. Acting workshops. Voice modulation. He begged his father to let him learn under real teachers. Raj laughed but agreed. "Fine," he said. "But remember, acting won't pay the bills unless you're lucky."
Arjun smiled. "Then I'll make my own luck."
One rainy evening, he stood at a roadside tea stall, drenched, watching a theater marquee light up with the words Don — Starring Amitabh Bachchan.He whispered under his breath, "The legend begins."
For a brief moment, he felt the full weight of his strange existence — a man from the future, trapped in a boy's body, standing at the dawn of an era he once only admired through old clips and award shows.
And deep inside, he felt something stir — not just ambition, but gratitude. He was here now. In the age of film reels, raw sound, and real dreams.
The lights of yesterday were burning bright again. And this time, he wouldn't let them fade.
End of Chapter 2