"Would you lift your arms so I can fold the pleats?" One of the assistants asked Faajal. Faajal followed her instruction, hardening her muscles to prevent aches from blooming. The assistant deftly folded six pleats, much to her surprise. She could never surpass four pleats to any extent. The white chiffon hugged her body, seamlessly pinned and nearly invisible, assuming one didn't concentrate enough. Her locks dangled about her shoulders in out-of-bed curls. She always elaborated her tangled streaks in a simple bun, and one or two ringlets would swing at the front. But, thanks to her stylist Bharti, her once web of hair, now glazed in waves. Bharti didn't only do justice to Faajal's hair, she rendered a whole new facet without spoiling Faajal's natural features. She polished her lips cherry-red, a shade Faajal always longed to wear, but backed off, fearing too much makeup would ruin her look. Her brows were distended, defying the current trend. Bharti said keeping her true brow shape suited her face more. Faajal didn't argue further because, after this bewitching enhancement, no doubts prickled that Bharti was one of the most skilled styling hands in the industry.

"Straighten your shoulder." The assistant secured her pallu with a safety pin.

"Just look at yourself...." Bharti whispered, her gaze wide and glazed.

Faajal angled to the life-sized mirror on the wall sideways. Her mind couldn't trust the reflection staring back, too alluring to even look at. Her doe eyes gleamed, a curve of eyeliner running along her eyelids. A feeble shadow of her lashes overcast the narrow of her orbs. A rosy blush tinged her plump cheeks. Her lips were coated in the most breathtaking shade, sparks poised on the edges. The white chiffon saree made its own entrance. Under the translucent creases of the fabric, her clavicles floated. Faajal Kaur never looked this exquisite. It was Madhu Sharma. The lustre on her confidence was fabricated from years of hard work, being like any other girl.

A raven black Rolls-Royce picked Faajal from the studio to William Theatre, one of the largest halls in India. By the time the car fled nearer, vast posters appeared on walls. Yellow strings of light-bordered billboards. Suraiya, Ashok Kumar, Nurjahan, and Bharat Bhushan occupied the painted posters.

The Rolls-Royce screeched to a halt before a wave of bustling heads. Camera flashes squeaked with people's roars. Faajal felt her pulse hum in her throat. Perspiration beaded her hands, cold. How was she to confront, much less carry their amusement as celebrities were skilled in?

The driver pulled her path open, laid with a red carpet. Her name flashed beyond the string of bulbs on the billboard beside Yusuf's. She was the first actress to have her name beside the lead actor's. Her feet rested on the velvety carpet, encouraging her to rise. It's my moment. It's now or never!

Faajal masked in her stage veil and pulled a mild curve on her lips. Her palm shuddered its way up to wave at the frenzied crowd. Shutter flashes quickened, blinding her sight for a while. The uproar billowed that the attendees threatened to surge over the barricade. Security struggled to bar them as people fought their way forward, pen and paper in their hands.

Pride swelled in her chest. Faajal couldn't tell whether she was dreaming or living in actuality. Cameramen positioned closer to photograph while fans screeched her name. "MADHU! MADHU! Please look here!" Faajal broadened her smile, her esteem getting the best of her boldness. She turned to them, and several called her. Boys stumbled on barricades, and girls howled. But, soon, girls overpowered the boys in screaming, bouncing and calling 'RAJAN!!"

Faajal twisted back to notice the rising star at the peak of masculine beauty, smiling and beaming like a comet had landed on earth. His pomaded hair reflected the camera flashes as rosy lips divided in the shiniest smile on earth. The moon would even shy away from his aura. His back towered at five feet nine inches. Ink black tuxedo contrasted his miky hue. If the immense whooping hadn't pierced Faajal's focus, her eyes might have spent an eternity imbibing every detail of his painstaking magnificence.

The splendid Rajan Saxena waved his way close to her. Cameramen asked them to pose together. Yusuf pulled her closer by the waist. His smile reached his eyes. Faajal smiled along, leaning against his warm arm. Clicks took on a rapid storm. Some fans captured with their own cameras. Faajal felt her inward overwhelmed with a mesh of unnamed emotions. It was actuality, not a dream.

Sajid Hasan and other producers joined a while after and entered the theatre. Ravinder was already inside, but at a far corner. When they sat for the show, Yusuf knocked her wrist. She brought her ear to him. "Who's this goddess in a white saree? Faajal always wore rags." He grinned wily, earning a jab on the ribcage. Faajal playfully glowered, "Some people have more work than flirting with their god-gifted beauty." His eyes crinkled in crescents as he tittered. Faajal was to lose her sanity by his grace tonight. Her mind couldn't yield another one as beautiful as him. His orbs seemed like new moons from the mild light of the screen. Pomaded locks shone on his brows, almost blue for the overcast.

The screening began, and anticipating eyes widened with marvel. Capturing the scenes felt paler than the edited picturization. People often don't realise how awkward things might get acting as non-existent personalities. They only savour superficial extravagance. An intricate orchestra thundered in the dismal theatre, and frames entered the screen.

Reshma and Shankar were inseparable in childhood. Whether it was causing mischief or stealing fruit from the neighbourhood, they were each other's partner. As they matured, this mutual bonding ripened into something else they couldn't recognise, but somehow it lingered in their hearts. Reshma's father was transferred to the city when they were 16, and the first sparks of love faded.

Shankar shoved this inexplicable attraction aside and started life anew. 5 years later, when Reshma returned, their sensation revived and through meek touches and glimpses, the fire hit their hearts to discern it was love. For years, these sensations came from love. They confessed and vowed under the moon. Just as Reshma prepared for their wedding, a villager informed her of Shankar's marriage prior to her arrival with a mentally challenged woman. Reshma dashed to his home when Shankar's mother revealed the truth. Heartbroken and angered, she bashed Shankar and broke their marriage, accusing him of hoaxing that woman for money. He denied such allegations and promised never to meet her again. The day after, the insane woman set fire to her mansion. Though Shankar survived, he lost his eyesight while his wife succumbed. Shankar's mother admitted to Reshma that she tricked him into signing the marriage registration without his knowledge. Reshma asked for forgiveness from Shankar, and they eventually reunited.

An immense wave of applause deafened Faajal for the two-hour film. During filming, she insisted on not watching finalised clips to gape at the concise framework. Owing to the attention to the petite details, this film truly diverged from her previous works.

Sangdil would smash box office records in the next couple of months, bagging the apex rank in collection that would take another project of the iconic couple to overshadow. Rajan Saxena would beat Ashok Kumar, being the highest-paid entertainer, and Madhu Sharma would have such stardom that even leading males wouldn't outreach by 1951.

A/N: How's the new cover, pretty people?