Sitara

Harish sat slouched on the sofa, his long, unkempt hair falling over his face as the television droned in the background. The room was dimly lit, a reflection of his mood. He had been watching the industry he once ruled slipping through his fingers, one success after another belonging to new, rising stars. Every now and then, he’d see a face on screen that reminded him of the stories directors once told him about—roles he was supposed to play. He couldn’t help but feel the sting of his fading relevance. His once muscular frame had become lean and gaunt, a physical manifestation of the mental toll his hiatus had taken on him.

Pooja entered the room, her eyes narrowing with concern. She had watched her brother punish himself for something that was out of his control. "Harish," she called softly, walking toward him. “It’s been months. You need to step out, get some air, start taking care of yourself.”

Harish didn’t reply. His eyes were glued to the television, but it was clear his mind was elsewhere. The silence between them felt heavy.

Pooja sighed, sitting beside him. “At least shave off this beard and get a haircut. You look—” she paused, searching for the right words, “—you don’t look like *you*. Not the Harish everyone adored.”

“I’m not that Harish anymore,” he said quietly, his voice carrying a deep frustration. “No one remembers me. The industry’s moved on, Pooja.”

Pooja’s heart broke hearing those words, but she wasn’t ready to give up on him. That evening, she decided to call up directors Harish had worked with in the past, hoping that someone, anyone, would be willing to give him a chance. However, each call she made brought more disappointment.

“Pooja, I’m sorry,” one director said over the phone, his voice laced with regret. “Harish was brilliant, but the industry has shifted. Right now, action films with faction-heavy themes are all the rage. His chocolate-boy look... it just won’t fit these roles.”

Another director was equally apologetic. “I wish I could help, but there’s nothing I can offer him right now.”

Pooja put down the phone, feeling a crushing weight on her chest. She had exhausted all her contacts, and it seemed like no one believed in Harish anymore. Days passed, and Pooja, though determined, began to lose hope.

One afternoon, as Harish sat on the couch with his long hair loose, lost in thought, the door creaked open. Sneha, Pooja’s childhood friend, tiptoed inside, mistaking Harish for Pooja from behind. She covered his eyes playfully, her voice teasing, “Guess who?”

Harish, startled, spoke in a deep voice, “Who’s this?”

Sneha froze, pulling her hands away in shock. “Oh my God, Harish! I thought it was Pooja! Sorry... sorry... you’ve changed so much,” she stammered, taking a step back.

Harish chuckled softly, though there was little amusement in his voice. “It’s okay, Sneha. Pooja’s in her room, getting ready to meet a director.”

Sneha shot him a concerned glance before heading to Pooja’s room. As she stepped inside, she noticed Pooja sitting in front of the mirror, her face stained with tears, eyes red from crying. Sneha’s playful mood instantly vanished, replaced with empathy.

“What happened, Pooja? Why are you crying?” Sneha asked, rushing to her side.

Pooja wiped her eyes quickly, trying to pull herself together. “It’s nothing,” she muttered, but the strain in her voice was clear.

Sneha wasn’t convinced. “It’s not nothing. Tell me what’s going on.”

Taking a deep breath, Pooja finally opened up. “You know, after our parents died, we had no one. My father’s contacts in the film industry were the only reason we survived. Harish started his career so young, as a child artist, and he worked his way up to become a star. But ever since the accident, his career’s been on hold... and the industry has forgotten about him.”

Sneha listened intently, her heart aching for her friend. “I’m trying everything, Sneha,” Pooja continued, her voice cracking. “I’ve called everyone, but they all say the same thing—Harish’s look doesn’t fit the new trend. They’ve moved on, and I don’t know how to help him.”

Sneha sat beside her, placing a comforting hand on Pooja’s shoulder. “I’m so sorry, Pooja. I wish I could do something... anything.”

Pooja looked up at her with tired eyes. “What about you? You’ve just finished your direction course, right? When are you planning to make your first film?”

Sneha smiled sadly. “I graduated with flying colors, but getting a break in this industry without contacts is nearly impossible. I’m struggling to get my foot in the door too.”

Pooja exhaled deeply, realizing they were both caught in the same web of frustration. The two women sat in silence for a moment, the weight of their struggles hanging in the air. But amidst the gloom, Sneha’s mind began to race with possibilities. An idea was forming—one that could change everything for Harish, Pooja, and even herself.