Chapter 1: The Unseen Writer
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Mumbai—the city of dreams. A city where glistening skyscrapers stand shoulder to shoulder with shadowy alleys, and where hopefuls from every corner of the country come to carve a niche for themselves in the world of cinema. Amidst the flashing lights and crowded streets, Karan found himself drawn to a small café by the Bandra seafront. His evenings were spent here, watching the sunset over the Arabian Sea, scribbling his thoughts in a worn-out notebook, his most cherished possession.
Karan, an orphan, was a scriptwriter. But not just any scriptwriter—one whose words had the power to bring the dead to life and make the living question their own existence. Yet, despite his immense talent and countless sleepless nights, success and recognition were elusive for him.
After years of relentless effort, he had managed to get a break, working as an assistant under an established writer known for creating blockbuster hits. Karan's creativity and innovative ideas were the backbone of their success, yet his name was hidden behind the credits, his contributions swallowed by the shadow of his mentor's reputation. As one hit after another rolled out, Karan remained in the background, his existence barely acknowledged.
But Karan never complained. For him, writing was more than just a career—it was his identity. An escape from the emptiness that had accompanied him since childhood. Raised in an orphanage, he had learned early on that he had to carve out his own place in the world. When the other kids played cricket or chased dreams of becoming doctors and engineers, Karan drowned himself in books and films. Movies became his sanctuary.
It was not Bollywood that fascinated him. Instead, his heart belonged to Korean cinema and drama. It wasn't the faces or the glamour that captivated him but the sheer dedication that the Koreans poured into bringing a character alive from the script. In the Korean film industry, scriptwriters were revered, second only to directors. Their names carried weight and their voices were heard, shaping the very essence of the project. It was a world where a writer like Karan could have been celebrated, not hidden behind veils of anonymity.
Bollywood, on the other hand, treated writers like dispensable commodities. They were often ignored or undermined, their contributions swallowed by the larger-than-life persona of the stars and directors. Karan found this lack of respect disheartening. But he wasn't one to give up. He believed that his hard work, his dedication, would one day shine through. So, he continued—script after script, scene after scene, dialogue after dialogue—each written with the same passion and care, even if no one seemed to notice.
Beyond his professional struggles, Karan was a kind-hearted soul. Perhaps because he knew what it was like to feel alone, he often extended a hand to others who found themselves struggling. Over the years, he had built a small circle of people he called his family—other orphans and individuals who had been abandoned or faced hardships in the ruthless city. He supported them, both emotionally and financially, sharing whatever little he had. To them, Karan was more than a writer. He was a brother, a mentor, a friend.
One evening, after another long day at a production house where his ideas were dismissed and his efforts went unnoticed, Karan found himself walking along a dimly lit street, his mind swirling with thoughts. The winds had picked up, and a soft drizzle began to fall. As he crossed the road, he noticed an elderly man—blind and struggling to navigate the busy intersection.
Without a second thought, Karan rushed forward. He reached the man just as a car came speeding down the street. There was no time to think, only to act. With all his strength, Karan pushed the man out of harm's way. A second later, the screeching of tires filled the air.
People screamed, cars honked, and the world seemed to freeze. Karan lay on the cold asphalt, pain spreading through his body like wildfire. He could hear distant voices—shouting, panicking. But all he could think about was the screenplay he had left unfinished on his desk at home.
As the rain mixed with the blood pooling around him, Karan's mind drifted to a scene from one of his favorite Korean dramas—a scene where the protagonist, a struggling writer, finally received the recognition he deserved. A bitter smile touched Karan's lips. He knew his story would never be like that. Bollywood was not a place for dreamers like him.
The last thing he saw was the blind man he had saved, tears streaming down his weathered cheeks. "Why?" the man whispered, kneeling beside Karan. "Why did you save me?"
Karan wanted to answer, but no words came. He had always believed that actions spoke louder than words. And in his final act, he had written the ending to his own story—a story of selflessness, of hope, of an uncelebrated hero who chose to make a difference, even if it cost him everything.
The rain fell harder, washing away the blood and leaving behind only silence. The city moved on, oblivious, as if it hadn't just lost one of its finest writers—a man whose scripts would never be read, whose words would never be heard.
For Karan, the curtains had closed, but somewhere, in the quiet corners of a dark café or an empty orphanage dormitory, his spirit would live on. In the hearts of those he had helped, and in the dreams of those who dared to hope, his story would continue to be written, long after the lights had faded.
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