Faajal sidled towards the men seated in the studio lounge, cuddling a toddler. Tender chuckles filled the walls as they tickled its chest. Her heels softly clinked against the ceramic tiles. The men were still sitting with their backs to her. The brown-haired one angled his head slightly but straightened again. She stretched her arms towards the brown-haired one, and promptly sheathed his eyes. His partner sprang back, his chocolate brown eyes bulging out. Faajal's keen eyes and bobbing head suggested that he wedge his tongue shut. He picked a knowing grin and smoothly reared with the toddler, who seemed baffled by her abrupt emergence.

"Mehbooba?" The brown-haired one covered her fingers with his warm palms. A wry bow twisted his lips. The powdery scent of chameli reached her nostrils.

He removed her hands and swivelled to her. Lustre suffused her body. "Aa kar hi shaitani shuru?" His nose scrunched. [Started mischief just after arriving?]

"Chor ki daadhi mein tinka!" [The thief scolds the police!]

The toddler swayed its arms, puckering brows like it could assume Faajal's mock rage . "Nananananan!NANANA!"

"Dekha, hamara qadr ek baccha bhi karta hain sivaye aapke." Yusuf boastfully tugged his collar. [See, even a child values me unlike you.]

"Bichare ko aapke iss," Her finger pivoted his cheeks. "Husn ke jaadu se jo pata liya. Vaise yeh chhotu hain kaun?" [Because you have spellbound the poor thing with your allure. By the way, who's this little one?]

"Woh cinematographer Sharma ji ka pota." Pran fondled its chubby cheeks. [Cinematographer Sharma ji's grandson.]

"Hey! Aapka naam kya hain?" She approached the plump face, brimming with glee and innocence. [Hey! What's your name?]  Saliva sheened its red lips.

"Bolo, mere naam hain Pradeep. Bolo, bolo." Yusuf cooed, scooping Pradeep in his arms. [Say my name is Pradeep. Say, say.] "Mera kabh aisa ek jigar ka tukra hoga?" [When will I have a piece of heart like him?]

Faajal stayed quiet, unexpected blood crawling her face, ears and neck. She shifted her gaze elsewhere, blinking briskly. Pran's intent eyes had certainly grasped the pink of her face before she turned away. Warmth vined her chest, quickening her pulse.

"So, at first, we are getting a front shot. So, I want you four posing relaxed but steadily for the camera, okay?" Prakash crouched behind the cameraman. Faajal, Yusuf, Pran and Nimmi positioned at each other's side, their gowns and tuxedos sparkling. Faajal was carrying a baby pink ball gown. A necklace made of a large yellow diamond and smaller white diamonds adorned her neck, along with a pair of drop earrings from Tiffany. Yusuf had attired in a raven black tuxedo embellished with 100 rhinestones. Prakash even made him wear a platinum Cartier bracelet. Beside him, Pran exuded opulence with his gold sequinned tuxedo and a dark silver Rolex. Nimmi pursued a bolder wardrobe with a blue mermaid gown that defined her hourglass figure. Her apparel consisted of black pearls and opals from Van Cleef and Arpels. These dresses alone might have cost thousands.

Three shots were captured from various angles, with and without fans and lighting. Then, Prakash took individual shots on a rotatable wheel. They didn't need heavy makeup, but some touches of powder and lipstick. Faajal and Nimmi posed together in the living room of a faux mansion, whereas Yusuf and Pran posed in a monotone set of beige. A huge chandelier scattered glints at the centre. They imitated some dance steps as there were dance sequences. The shimmering golden fluorescence looked just majestic on Yusuf and Pran—one with his gold-infused milky skin, another with his razor-sharp profile and brown skin. The duality was striking.

Unlike the actors, Faajal and Nimmi's characters differed in fashion preferences, not in skin tint. While Nimmi's astute character liked staid shades, Faajal's one picked pastel tones. Costume designers made them put on several jewellery sets in accordance with their outfits. As Faajal had foreseen, she had to wear part-revealing Western dresses. A little part of her cringed from how much of her skin went exposed. Yet, for assuming characters, an unswerving actress should leap past her comfort. The gowns were leaden to bear, making every motion a labour. Besides, the rickety rhinestones on the fabric added another jitter.

"That's enough for today! Do you guys have suggestions regarding your respective costumes?"

Pran pitched, "About the beach scene, the script says we are to wear bermudas, right?" Prakash cocked his head. Pran swished his hand dismissively. "I want to have boxers or shorts."

"Those are....too short."

Pran's orbs whirled, firing an unimpressed glare. "Not for me. I feel those are perfect for me, and you asked for tweaks. So, here's mine."

Prakash's pinched forehead convulsed deeper, but he sighed in defeat. What Pran wanted, Pran got. After disrobing, the crew and cast treated themselves with assorted confectionery. When Yusuf was ingesting gulab jamuns, Nimmi sloped forward to him. Her eyes gaped at his throat.

Yusuf arched his brows and gave a probing glance. Nimmi marked the centre of his neck. "I can see gulab jamun gliding down your throat!" Faajal flicked her gaze to the remark, piqued by Nimmi's sudden intrigue. She joined Nimmi and spotted red blobs swimming below his waxen skin.

"You are truly a wonder." A mesmerised whisper escaped Nimmi's mouth. Yusuf gave a nonchalant snicker.

"Madhu ji, a call has come for you." A staff member notified. Faajal wandered to the telephone and picked up the mouthpiece. "Hello?"

"Hello, Madhu Sharma! This–this is...Feroz Khan speaking. I was under Talkies once,"

None save for the crew, colleagues, and family members had the number of this studio. And she didn't have any acquaintance named Feroz. "I am sorry, I can't recognise you."

"I was a director there. I had directed Phoolwali!"

The name clicked her memory. It was a mid-budget film under Bombay Talkies in 1945. She had learnt a few gossip about it but not the director's name. "Yes, yes, I remember. How can I help you, Mr Feroz?"

"Can we arrange a meeting tonight? I have a crucial matter to discuss!" The director fumbled through hoarse breaths.

"Well, my schedule is on my father and manager. Please contact them. I am giving you my manager's number–"

"I shall get it from your agent! Thanks for your time."

Faajal banged the telephone off, fuming red. How dare her agent share her personal contact number with an unknown person! Gall seared her throat. She dialled her agent, shoving digit buttons almost inside the phone. "Hello, Kumar!" Her teeth bit out.

"Sat Sri Akal, Madhu—"

"Why did you share my number without my consent?!" She cut off. "You know how baba reacts–"

"I know everything! But, the script he has......You need to see it yourself! Bombay has seen nothing like this one! Uncle may not like that giddy director, so I told him to reach you directly! Have you fixed a meeting?"

"My manager would take care of it. But, this is the first and the last time!" Her voice boomed threateningly.

She stormed back to her seat. "Faajal! You literally missed it! Come on, Pran, tell her!" Yusuf squawked, his eyes dribbled with twinkles.

"Remember I told you Jack Warner had jeeringly proposed to me to work in his studio?"

Faajal shook her head. Pran cleared his throat, a smug grin draped his face as his brows danced. "I got a contract lying on my study room last night. He wasn't kidding after all."

A vivid smile cast her. "That's....that's great! Why didn't you tell us earlier?" She playfully swatted Pran's forearm. Pran's sultriness was competent to couple with glamorous Western actresses. Did he plan to settle in Tinseltown, he would face no peril in heaping fame and notes.

"I wanted a surprise."

"So, what's your decision?" piped up Nimmi.

"For now, my focus is here. But I am keeping the papers. You don't know when you need these, do you?"

"Don't leave me alone, yarra. Tussi jayega toh mainu kaise inn ladkiyon ke bhir sambhalu?" [If you go, how will I manage these crowds of girls?] Yusuf's adorable Punjabi pronunciation and pleading eyes made Faajal giggle. "Adha desh mere piche lage hain." [Half of the country is behind me.]

"Phir tainu aur faida hogi. Tera naam aur log janenge!" [Then, you will benefit for. Your name will spread among more people!]

They raved on until noon and left the studio. Ravinder would join her later in Chopra Studios. Faajal's driver had caught the flu. Yusuf offered a lift, but she politely refused. She could put her driving licence to use to reach Chopra Studios and finish her promotional photoshoot. Thankfully, Ravinder had taught her driving after purchasing their first car in 1950. So even without a driver, she could move on wheels. Setting a mid-gear, her hand wrenched the key and the engine of the red Hillman shuddered to motion. The black car left the winding lane for an open road. Beeping cars and vehicles swept by. She wondered if Ravinder would approve her meeting with that Feroz. Upon sensing Kumar's furtive enthusiasm, her mind also probed how much the scale of Feroz's project might be. Kumar never sounded so fascinated.

Parking in the studio lot, Faajal scurried inside the producer's office and phoned Ravinder. "Baba, sat sri akal."

"Kya hain?" His curt reply vibrated. [What?]

"Woh manager ne aapko bataya koi Feroz ke baare mein?" Her bottom lip slipped into her mouth. Anxiety warped her stomach suddenly. [Did the manager tell you about any Feroz?]

"Nahi, par Kumar ka phone aaya tha kucch pal pehle. Shayad aaj milna chahta hain. Uss bewakoof ne tera number jo de diya!" [No, but Kumar's call had come moments before. Maybe he wants to meet today, that the fool had given your number!]

"Baba par Kumar keh raha hain uska script kaafi accha hain. Mera photoshoot saat baje ke andar hojayegi. Phir aaj hi mil lete hain. Aap. Ke. Saath?" A brief pause descended, accompanied by a faint hiss. [Baba, but Kumar was saying that his script was quite good. My photoshoot will end at 7. Then shall we meet him? With. You?] 

"You have already signed three more films–"

"Baba, just observing wouldn't hurt the least. Whether to reject or not, it can be done after meeting him." She oughtn't to have interposed, but her reckless side couldn't douse its zest. Quaking mute resided on both sides. Remorse was creeping down the fringes of her spine when he moaned, "Only for half an hour then." The call ceased. Her throat relaxed. Convincing Ravinder was easier than she had anticipated.

─•~❉᯽❉~•─

Twilight scattered the sky as Faajal and Ravinder drove to the location Feroz had sent. Faajal took charge of driving, despite her limbs aching to retire. Freezing in different poses was more wearing than acting. The path was approximately 45 minutes from Chopra Studios. Wheels screeched, and dots of mottled lights traversed by. Ravinder heeded the news on the radio while Faajal turned the wheels into a brick lane. If she chose the main road, they might have to spend the entire night in a sea of traffic jams. "Never heard of Sunset Studios. Who knows where of a scrap we are going?" Ravinder released a shrill breath. Fear roved Faajal's nerves. What if her enthusiasm fell in vain? Her fingers hardened around the steering wheel, trying to stay resolute.

8.07 hit the clock. They ducked out of the Hillman to meet a plain one-story building. No heading or gate implied it was a studio. The watchman snored by a nook of the rusted iron gate. Ravinder tapped his shoulder. "Hey, hey!" The watchman showed no signs of awakening.

"HEY!" Ravinder billowed. The watchman blenched awake, his eyes bulged. His heaving chest consumed gulpfuls of air before responding. "Yes, yes. Who-who are you?"

"Is this Sunset Studios?" Faajal slipped the keys into her purse.

"It is, but–" The watchman's terror morphed into marvel. "Are you Madhu Sharma?"

"I am. Can you kindly inform Mr Feroz of our arrival?"

"Of course, mam! Sure! Come inside!" He impelled the gate aside, and they walked their way into the building Ravinder already seemed to detest. No direct light guided their path; only a pale wash from the office window enabled them to see. Peculiarly, the set was embedded on the front instead of the office. They crossed a half-opened set. Not even a single speck of external light resided there, but under the moonlight, Faajal could spot some glints—prismatic slivers of sheen dancing afar.

They were greeted by a man in his late 30s. His snarled hair bounced in the night breeze. A subtle cleft appeared when he uneasily smiled. "Sorry for the inconvenience, and thank you for lending your time."

"Never heard of Sunset Studios once in my life. Is it developing?" Ravinder glanced around, vague distaste in his orbs. Feroz's office was more humble than the building, containing a musty bookshelf, a mahogany table, a few chairs, chemicals, and film reels dishevelled in a corner, reeking of sour tang.

"Umm, actually, I used to work under Talkies. But, I left and decided to go for my own Production house." Feroz scratched his head. Sweat soaked the edge of his face.

"We usually hold meetings at home. Anyways," Ravinder sighed. "Tell us what you want. We have to go soon."

Feroz opened the door of his office. "The set is enough to tell much. Shall we visit?"

They followed him to the set. Faajal was more unnerved than Feroz himself. If this set couldn't meet Ravinder's desire, barbs awaited her at home. They halted before a half-open gate. Feroz creaked aside the gate, and they stepped inside. Judging by the sharp clinks of her heels, the floors seemed dainty enough to crack under more pressure. The iridescent glimmers grew in number now, flitting across the walls and ceilings. Feroz clapped. "Come on! TURN ON THE LIGHTS!"

Enormous torches erupted awake. The intense lambency blinded Faajal for a split second. Her arm flew to shield her eyes. When she removed her arm, her eyes forgot how to blink. Breaths hitched her throat, pupils dilating to an extent that they might burst out. Words waned in her tongue, entranced by the most majestic set she had ever seen in her life. Anyone might mistake it for a real palace, such huge and flamboyant it was. Shards of chromatic mirrors enveloped the walls and the ceiling, gilded by golden metal. Each wall had its own pattern of glass morsels, caging sparkles in them. The floor wasn't a regular tiled floor. It was fully composed of multi-coloured marble. A massive rangoli design presided in the middle, so pristine that even their reflections floated on its glassy lotus petals. What demanded most focus was the translucent chandelier suspended in the heart of the ceiling, enclosed by smaller chandeliers. It was a prismatic fountain of crystal teardrops, refracting light into millions of tiny rainbows. Its stature might even exceed Feroz's petite office.

"Feroz sahab, hand me the script." Faajal breathed, her pupils still clung to the set. A heavy bundle was passed to her. Golden rays burned the title on the front page, 'Deewar-e-Ishq'. 

A/N: Our girl is getting her grandest oppurtunity!! Vote and comment if you liked this chapter, pretty people!!