Chapter 2: Rewind and Rejection

It takes me a moment to realise that I’m on the audition set for "Basant Ki Raat."

The old signboard still hangs, its letters half-peeled, a relic from a thousand student dramas. Somewhere, a chaiwala shouts for change, and the city’s humid air presses thick with memories—sticky, familiar, and restless. And that I’ve been reborn.

For a while, I’m lost—why was I reborn?

The question gnaws at me, making my fingers curl tightly around the script. Is this a second chance? Or some cosmic punishment?

To be honest, my previous life was so perfect, I couldn’t think of any regrets.

Not everyone gets to say that, you know? My Amma always told me, "Beta, zindagi mein sab kuch milta hai kya?" But I—Meera Sharma—had little to complain about.

In my career, I was a dazzling actress, even winning the National Award for Lifetime Achievement.

I remember the weight of the trophy, the fragrance of roses, and Amma’s eyes shining with pride in our old two-bedroom Dadar flat. News channels ran my interviews on loop. Colony aunties sent laddoos, calling Amma to boast.

In my family, although we were a DINK couple, I had a husband who loved me more than anything in the world—Arjun Mehra.

There were whispers—"Why no children?" "Meera, you should think about it, beta." But Arjun would squeeze my hand under the table and say, "Let them talk. Our happiness, our rules." We travelled, we worked, we built a life full of art and laughter.

We met because of "Basant Ki Raat," two nobodies in the industry who rose together to the very top.

Sometimes, at night, we’d sit on our balcony with cheap filter coffee, gazing at the city lights, laughing about our struggling days. Arjun would wave old clippings and say, "Remember this review? They called me a lost poet!" I’d nudge him, "And now they chase you for autographs, haan!"

Everyone said we were a legendary pair, genius matched with genius, an immortal love story in Indian cinema.

People romanticised us, made up stories for gossip columns—"modern-day Guru Dutt and Waheeda Rehman," they said. But our love was simpler: midnight dinners, fighting over the remote, scribbling script notes on tissue paper.

If there was one regret, it was that we worked too hard when we were young, and Arjun passed away at sixty.

Sometimes, I’d wonder—if we’d slowed down, would things have been different? But ambition is a fire, and both of us burned bright.

Before he died, he held my hand and told me, "You were my muse for a lifetime."

That moment is etched in my memory—his thin hand, the beeping machines, the hospital’s antiseptic sting. His eyes, clear as ever. I pressed his palm to my cheek, desperate to keep him anchored to this world.

I sobbed, clutching his hand: "If there’s a next life, I still want to love you."

Tears soaked my dupatta, my voice breaking. The nurse slipped out quietly, understanding the sacredness of our last moments.

Arjun smiled, then closed his eyes forever.

His smile—peaceful, a little mischievous, like he was keeping one last secret from the world.

Not long after he died, I too passed away, broken by grief.

They say the heart can really break. I believe it now. My world turned colourless; even the monsoon seemed to mourn.

When I opened my eyes again, I was back here—

This year, I’m nineteen, a sophomore at the Mumbai Film Academy, about to make my official debut as the female lead in "Basant Ki Raat"—the start of my dazzling path.

The hostel corridors smell of damp books and talcum powder. My roommates fuss over makeup, giggling about some web series star. It’s all so familiar, like a time loop. I’m both giddy and anxious, as if I’ve woken up inside a dream.

I still don’t know why I was reborn, but after a few deep breaths, I accept it easily.

After all, who wouldn’t want another chance to relive their best days? I fold my hands and whisper a silent thank you to whatever cosmic force brought me back.

Such a happy life—why not live it again?

"He’s coming, he’s coming! Director Arjun is here!"

Someone’s voice cuts through the chatter, even the makeup artist pausing mid-lipstick. My heartbeat quickens.

"He’s here to announce the audition results!"

The bustling set falls silent in an instant.

Anticipation hangs thick, almost touchable. Someone’s mobile rings—quickly silenced. All eyes turn to the door.

I look up, my gaze fixed on the young man approaching.

My breath catches. The world narrows, and for a moment, it’s just the two of us, fate pressing rewind and play, all at once.