Part I: The Arrival That Stopped Campus
September 4, 2020. 8:47 AM. National School of Drama, New Delhi.
The NSD campus, usually alive with the energetic chaos of drama students rehearsing, debating, and creating, fell into unprecedented silence as a solitary figure walked through the main gates.
No entourage. No security detail. No luxury car dropping him at the entrance.
Just Anant Sharma, wearing simple jeans and a white kurta, a leather messenger bag slung over his shoulder, walking on foot from the Mandi house metro station like any other student.
But the effect was anything but ordinary.
The first person to notice was a second-year student named Ridhima, who'd been rehearsing lines on a bench near the entrance. She looked up, did a double-take, and her script fell from her hands.
"Oh my God," she whispered.
The man walking toward the main building was unmistakably Anant Sharma – the face that had dominated cinema screens and magazine covers for three years. But seeing him in person, in the flesh, without the mediating lens of camera or screen, was an entirely different experience.
He was taller than she'd expected. The 6'3" height that looked imposing on screen was genuinely intimidating in person. His physique – clearly visible even through the loose kurta – spoke of years of dedicated training. Broad shoulders, tapered waist, movements that suggested controlled power.
But it was his face that truly arrested attention.
The photographs and films had captured his features: the strong jawline, the expressive dark eyes, the perfectly symmetrical facial structure that Forbes had literally analyzed as "mathematically ideal." But in person, there was a quality that cameras couldn't quite capture – a combination of classical handsomeness with an almost ethereal beauty that transcended conventional masculine aesthetics.
And the aura. Even walking casually, even deliberately trying to appear unassuming, Anant radiated presence. Not aggressive or demanding, but undeniable. The kind of charisma that made heads turn involuntarily.
Ridhima wasn't the only one who noticed. Within seconds, a ripple of awareness spread across the campus.
"Is that...?"
"No way."
"It IS him."
"Anant Sharma is here. ANANT SHARMA IS ON CAMPUS."
Students began emerging from classrooms, rehearsal spaces, the library. Faculty members paused in hallways. Within two minutes, over fifty people had congregated at various vantage points, all staring at the man who was now India's most successful actor walking through their campus like a regular student.
The reactions varied:
A group of male students huddled near the drama hall. One whispered, "I'm straight. I'm definitely straight. But looking at him, I wish I was a woman."
Another nodded agreement. "That face. That body. The way he moves. It's not fair that one person got all of that."
"He's not even trying," a third observed. "He's wearing regular clothes, no styling, probably just showered and came here. And he still looks like... that."
Nearby, a group of female students were having similar reactions, though more openly appreciative.
"I can't breathe," one said, fanning herself dramatically. "How is he real?"
"The photos don't do him justice," another added. "The screen doesn't do him justice. You have to see him in person to understand."
"Did you see his face when he smiled at that staff member?" a third asked, clutching her friend's arm. "I nearly fainted. Actually fainted."
"My legs literally went weak," another confirmed. "I had to sit down. That's not supposed to happen in real life!"
An older female professor, known for her stern demeanor, was observed by students to have stopped mid-sentence during a lecture when she saw Anant through the classroom window. She composed herself after a moment, but several students swore they saw her blush.
Part II: The Humbling Reality
Anant, walking through this gauntlet of attention, felt acutely uncomfortable.
He'd anticipated interest – it would have been naive to think his enrollment wouldn't generate attention. But the intensity of the staring, the whispered conversations, the barely-suppressed reactions, all reminded him of something he'd temporarily forgotten:
He wasn't living among normal people anymore.
For the past three years, his daily interactions had been with celebrities, models, extremely attractive actors and actresses, people who were professionally beautiful. In Mumbai film industry circles, while Anant was considered exceptionally handsome, he existed in an ecosystem where everyone was above-average attractive.
Here at NSD, among regular students pursuing drama and theater, the contrast was stark.
Not because NSD students were unattractive – many were quite good-looking – but because Anant's combination of height, physique, facial features, and that indefinable quality of presence created a gap that registered viscerally with everyone who saw him.
He tried to suppress it. Tried to dim the charisma, to move more ordinarily, to smile less prominently. And it worked, partially. The overwhelming effect reduced from "completely overwhelming" to merely "highly distracting."
But even toned down, he was different.
A faculty member approached him as he reached the main administrative building.
"Mr. Sharma, welcome to NSD. I'm Professor Ranjan, head of the first-year program. We're honored to have you."
"Please, just Anant," he replied, folding his hands in respectful namaste. "I'm here as student, not as... anything else. I'd appreciate being treated as such."
Professor Ranjan smiled with understanding that suggested he'd already anticipated this request. "Of course. Though I should warn you – the other students might need time to adjust to having you in their classes. Your presence is... somewhat overwhelming."
"I noticed," Anant said with slight grimace. "I'm sorry about that. I'm trying to be as normal as possible."
"You're trying," Professor Ranjan agreed kindly. "But 'normal' is relative. You're the most successful actor in India, possibly the world, choosing to attend drama school as regular student. That's inherently abnormal, regardless of how you behave."
"Plus," he added with completely unprofessional but entirely human honesty, "you're extremely handsome. I'm a 58-year-old heterosexual man happily married for 30 years, and even I can acknowledge that you're remarkably attractive. The students – particularly the younger ones – are going to be distracted. We'll manage it, but it's a reality we should acknowledge."
Anant laughed despite his embarrassment. "Thank you for being direct about it. I'll do my best not to be too distracting."
"Just be yourself," Professor Ranjan advised. "The novelty will wear off after a few days. They'll adjust. And then we can focus on the actual work."
Part III: The Classroom Dynamic
Anant's first class was "Fundamentals of Acting Theory" – a foundational course required for all first-year students regardless of prior experience.
He arrived five minutes early, took a seat in the back row (deliberately choosing the least prominent position), and pulled out a notebook and pen.
The other students entered gradually. Each one noticed him immediately. Reactions ranged from stunned silence to excited whispers to one girl who actually yelped in surprise before clapping her hand over her mouth in embarrassment.
By the time Professor Malini – a renowned acting teacher with 40 years of experience – entered the classroom, the energy was chaotic.
"I see we have full attendance today," she observed dryly, noting that several students who usually skipped were present. "What a remarkable coincidence."
Light laughter rippled through the class.
"I'm aware that we have a new student joining us," Professor Malini continued, looking directly at Anant. "For those who somehow haven't noticed, Anant Sharma has enrolled in our program. He's going to be treated exactly like every other student – which means he'll receive the same critiques, the same assignments, and the same standards. Am I clear?"
"Yes, ma'am," Anant replied, his voice carrying the respect that made Professor Malini's stern expression soften slightly.
"Good. Now, since we have several new faces this year, let's begin with an exercise. Everyone stand up. We're going to do emotional memory work."
The class proceeded with Professor Malini guiding students through an exercise designed to access genuine emotional responses for performance. Students were asked to recall specific memories – moments of joy, sadness, anger, fear – and allow those emotions to surface authentically.
Anant participated fully, and his work was immediately noteworthly excellent. When asked to access sadness, his expression and body language shifted with subtle precision. When transitioning to joy, the transformation was complete without being exaggerated.
"Anant," Professor Malini called him out. "Can you explain your process? What memory did you access for the sadness exercise?"
"I thought about my father giving up his acting career to support his family," Anant replied. "The sacrifice he made, the dreams he deferred. The sadness isn't for myself – it's empathetic sadness for what he lost."
"And the specificity of that memory allows authentic emotional response," Professor Malini noted approvingly. "This is good technique. However—" her tone sharpened, "—you're controlling the emotion rather than allowing it to control you. The response is technically correct but slightly contained. For stage work, you'll need to release more. Let the emotion overwhelm you a bit."
"Yes, ma'am," Anant said, accepting the critique without defensiveness.
Several students exchanged glances. Professor Malini had just criticized Anant Sharma – National Award winner, the actor whose performances had moved millions – and he'd accepted it graciously. The lesson was clear: credentials didn't exempt anyone from learning.
Part IV: The Foundation Revealed
During the lunch break, Anant found himself surrounded by curious students eager to ask questions.
"How much theater experience do you actually have?" one student asked. "Before the films, I mean."
"I was active in IIT Delhi's Ankahi drama society for four years," Anant replied. "We did full productions – Waiting for Godot, The Importance of Being Earnest, Indian adaptations of classical works. I learned fundamentals there."
"But that's college theater," another student pressed. "Not professional training."
"Correct," Anant agreed. "Which is exactly why I'm here. I have practical experience and natural ability, but I lack systematic training in technique, voice work, movement, classical dramatic theory. That's what I need NSD for."
"You've already won a National Award," someone pointed out. "What more do you need to learn?"
"Everything," Anant replied seriously. "I've succeeded through combination of instinct, preparation, and good direction. But I want to understand the craft deeply – to know why certain choices work, to access different techniques deliberately rather than accidentally, to have comprehensive toolkit for any role."
"The Nataraja dance in Baahubali required months of training in Bharatanatyam and Kathak. I learned those forms specifically for that sequence. Here at NSD, I can learn how to approach any physical performance systematically. That's invaluable."
A quiet student named Rahul, who'd been listening without speaking, finally asked the question others had been thinking: "But you're rich. Like, billions/crores of rupees rich. You could hire private tutors, the best teachers in the world. Why sit in classroom with us?"
Anant considered the question carefully. "Private tutoring has value, yes. But there's something about classroom learning – the group dynamic, the peer feedback, the shared struggle – that individual instruction can't replicate."
"Also," he added with slight smile, "ego management. When you're successful, people around you start treating everything you do as brilliant. You can lose perspective on your actual skill level. Here, Professor Malini will criticize me when I'm not meeting standards. That honesty is valuable."
"Plus," he concluded, "I want to understand what NSD training actually involves. My father went through this program. I'm following his path, understanding what shaped him as artist. That's personally meaningful beyond the technical learning."
The honesty and thoughtfulness of his responses won over several skeptical students.
Part V: The Artistic Foundation
In the afternoon "Voice and Speech" class, the depth of Anant's existing foundation became even more apparent.
Professor Kapoor, a vocal coach who'd trained several prominent theater and film actors, led the class through breathing exercises, resonance work, and articulation drills.
When Anant's turn came to demonstrate breath support through sustained phonation, his control was immediately evident.
"How long have you been doing breathwork?" Professor Kapoor asked.
"Six years," Anant replied. "I practice pranayama daily – yogic breathing techniques. And Kalari training also emphasizes breath control for physical performance."
"It shows," Professor Kapoor acknowledged. "Your diaphragmatic support is excellent. Now let's test your range."
She guided him through vocal exercises spanning his full range. His speaking voice was naturally deep and resonant – the voice that had declared "How's the Josh?" in Uri and commanded armies in Baahubali. But the exercises revealed unexpected range, from that deep bass up through tenor registers with surprising clarity.
"You have approximately two and a half octave range," Professor Kapoor assessed. "That's wider than average for male speaking voice. Have you had formal voice training?"
"Not formal," Anant replied. "But I worked extensively with dialogue coaches on my films. For Dhoni's biopic, I spent weeks matching his specific vocal patterns and speech rhythms. That taught me a lot about voice control."
"And your father's notes," another student interjected, having overheard Anant mention them earlier. "You said he was NSD gold medalist?"
"He was," Anant confirmed. "1990. He kept detailed notes from all his classes – voice, movement, scene study, everything. I've been studying them since I was teenager. They gave me theoretical foundation that I've been applying practically."
Professor Kapoor looked impressed. "So you're not coming to NSD completely raw. You have autodidact foundation built on your father's training plus your own practical experience."
"Yes," Anant agreed. "But autodidact learning has limitations. I've surely developed bad habits, gaps in knowledge, techniques I'm not even aware exist. Formal training will identify and correct those issues."
The combination of humility about limitations and confidence about existing abilities created interesting dynamic. Anant wasn't pretending to be beginner, but he was genuinely here to learn.
Part VI: The Standard Elevated
By the end of the first week, the impact of Anant's presence on NSD's culture was becoming clear.
In scene study class, when Anant performed a monologue from Death of a Salesman, his preparation was evident. He'd memorized the text perfectly, analyzed the character's psychology, made specific choices about blocking and emotional beats.
But more than that, the performance had weight. The transformation into Willy Loman was complete – his posture changed, his voice took on different quality, his eyes reflected the character's desperation and confusion.
When he finished, the classroom was silent for several seconds.
"That," Professor Sen said quietly, "is the standard you should all be aiming for. Not because Anant is famous actor, but because that represents thorough preparation and committed performance."
"Notice he didn't indicate the emotion – he experienced it. Notice the specificity of his physical choices – the way Willy's defeat manifests in his shoulders, his walk. Notice the complete commitment to the character without any vanity about how he looks while doing it."
"This is what serious acting looks like," Professor Sen concluded. "Mr. Sharma, excellent work. Though," she added with critical eye, "your American accent needs refinement. The 'r' sounds are too hard. Soften them for authentic Brooklyn sound."
"Yes, ma'am," Anant replied, making a note. "I'll work on that."
Later, several students approached Anant.
"How do you prepare like that?" one asked. "I mean, we're all working on the same assignment, but your performance was... different. More complete."
"I read the entire play, not just the monologue excerpt," Anant explained. "I researched 1940s Brooklyn, working-class American life, the psychology of middle-aged masculine failure. I spent probably fifteen hours preparing for a three-minute performance."
"Fifteen hours?!" the student exclaimed. "For a class assignment?"
"Quality doesn't care whether it's class assignment or professional project," Anant replied. "If I'm going to do it, I'm going to do it well. That's just how I approach work."
The statement wasn't boastful – it was matter-of-fact. But it created ripple effect among other students. Suddenly, their own preparation felt below average. If Anant Sharma, with everything he'd already achieved, was investing fifteen hours in a class assignment, what excuse did they have for doing less?
Standards elevated across the program. Students who'd been coasting started working harder. The competitive but supportive atmosphere intensified.
Part VII: Understanding the Struggle
Three weeks into the semester, during a break between classes, Anant sat in the campus café with a group of students. The conversation had turned to post-graduation plans and career anxieties.
"Most of us won't make it," one student said with resigned pragmatism. "We'll graduate from NSD, maybe do some theater work, then end up teaching or finding different careers entirely."
"Theater doesn't pay," another agreed. "Not consistently. You can be talented, trained, dedicated – and still struggle financially because the ecosystem doesn't support theatrical artists."
"How many shows did you do last year?" Anant asked the first student.
"Seven. Small productions, experimental works. Total earnings maybe 80,000 rupees for the whole year."
"And you're talented," Anant observed, having seen the student perform in class. "Genuinely skilled. But you can't survive on 80,000 rupees annually."
"Exactly," the student confirmed. "So I do freelance graphic design to pay rent. The theater work is almost a hobby at this point, financially speaking."
Anant listened as other students shared similar stories. Talented artists taking day jobs, struggling to maintain their practice, dealing with family pressure to abandon theatrical careers for "stable" professions.
The passion was evident. The talent was real. But the infrastructure to support that talent was lacking.
"Why doesn't theater have better economic model?" Anant asked, genuinely trying to understand.
"Multiple factors," a third-year student explained. "Small audiences compared to films. Ticket prices can't go very high or you exclude the audience that actually attends theater. No secondary revenue streams like films have – no streaming rights, no satellite rights, no international distribution."
"Plus," another added, "real estate costs in cities make maintaining theater spaces expensive. Many groups can't afford dedicated venues. They rent spaces for specific productions, which eats into already small budgets."
"And corporate sponsorship is limited," someone else contributed. "Companies sponsor films and TV, but theater? Mostly ignored unless it's big-name production with celebrities attached."
Anant absorbed all this, his analytical mind processing the systemic issues.
"What if the infrastructure improved?" he asked. "What if there were more theater spaces, better production budgets, proper marketing to bring in larger audiences? Would that help?"
"Obviously," one student replied. "But that requires massive investment. Who's going to fund that?"
Anant smiled slightly. "Let me think about it."
Part VIII: The Infrastructure Initiative
Two weeks later, Anant called a meeting with executives from PVR INOX and Cinepolis. The meeting was held at Maya VFX's Mumbai office, with Ronnie Screwvala also in attendance.
"Thank you for coming," Anant began. "I want to discuss partnership opportunity related to theatrical arts – not cinema, but stage theater."
The executives exchanged curious glances. This was unexpected.
"India has rich theater tradition," Anant continued, "but the infrastructure and economic model haven't evolved to support artists properly. Talented actors, directors, writers struggle financially because the ecosystem is fragmented and underfunded."
"I want to change that. And I believe it can be done in way that's commercially viable, not just philanthropic."
He pulled up a presentation:
"Theater Infrastructure Partnership Proposal"
"The concept is simple: Integrate theater spaces with cinema multiplexes."
He displayed architectural mockups showing how multiplex designs could incorporate dedicated theater spaces alongside cinema screens.
"Most multiplexes operate on similar model – build in mall or entertainment complex, multiple screens, shared concessions, shared infrastructure costs. I'm proposing you add one or two dedicated theater spaces – black box theaters, 150-250 seat capacity – as part of your multiplex developments."
"The economics work because the infrastructure costs are shared. You're already building the complex, already staffing it, already marketing it as entertainment destination. Adding theater space is marginal additional cost."
"Revenue streams," he outlined:
"1. Ticket sales: Theater tickets at 300-500 rupees range, similar to premium cinema pricing. Weekly shows, weekend shows, special engagements.
"2. Corporate events: Theater spaces double as corporate presentation venues, training spaces, private event locations during non-performance times. This generates rental revenue.
"3. Educational programming: Partner with schools and colleges for student matinees, drama education programs. Volume business at reduced ticket prices.
"4. Cross-promotion with cinema: Moviegoers become theater audiences and vice versa. You're building comprehensive entertainment ecosystem, not just cinema.
"5. Government and corporate sponsorship: Once you demonstrate successful model, cultural ministries and corporations will sponsor productions for CSR and arts promotion."
The PVR INOX CEO, a sharp businessman named Gautam Dutta, leaned forward with interest.
"The infrastructure makes sense. Marginal cost is maybe 15-20 crores per multiplex to add proper theater space. But what about programming? Who curates content, manages productions, ensures quality?"
"I'm proposing partnership model," Anant explained. "You provide infrastructure. I'll work with NSD, FTII, other drama schools and theater groups to curate programming. We establish quality standards, programming schedules, marketing support."
"I'll personally fund the first year of programming for ten locations – Delhi, Mumbai, Bangalore, Hyderabad, Chennai, Kolkata, Pune, Ahmedabad, Chandigarh, Kochi. That's production budgets, artist fees, marketing. You provide the space and operational support."
"After year one, we assess the model. If it's working commercially, we scale it nationally. If it's not working, we adjust or I continue funding it as cultural initiative."
"How much are you committing financially?" the Cinepolis representative asked.
"Approximately 150 crores for year one," Anant replied. "15 crores per location, ten locations. That covers production budgets for four productions per location, artist fees at professional rates, marketing, and operational cushion."
The room absorbed this figure. Anant was proposing to personally fund the revival of theatrical infrastructure in India to the tune of 150 crores.
"This is more than half your annual technology income," Ronnie observed quietly.
"Yes," Anant confirmed. "But it's worth it. Theater trained me. Theater trained my father. Theater is where many film actors develop their craft. Letting that ecosystem wither because of economic challenges is shortsighted."
"Plus," he added pragmatically, "better theatrical infrastructure creates better-trained actors, which improves the quality of film industry talent pool. This helps cinema indirectly."
Gautam Dutta looked at his team, then back at Anant. "If you're committing 150 crores, we can commit the infrastructure. Ten locations in year one, with option to expand if the model proves viable."
"Cinepolis is in as well," their representative confirmed. "Same commitment – infrastructure for theater spaces in our new developments."
"Excellent," Anant said, extending his hand to shake. "Let's formalize the partnership. I'll work with theater community to set up programming councils for each city. We'll announce this properly, generate public interest, make it a cultural movement rather than just business initiative."
Part IX: The National Theater Initiative
The announcement came two weeks later at a press conference held simultaneously in Delhi, Mumbai, and Bangalore:
"National Theater Infrastructure Partnership"Anant Sharma | Maya VFX | PVR INOX | Cinepolis
The press conference featured Anant, Gautam Dutta, Ronnie Screwvala, and representatives from major theater groups across India.
"Indian theater has produced some of our finest actors," Anant began. "Anupam Kher, Satish Kaushik, Naseeruddin Shah, Om Puri, Shabana Azmi, Irrfan Khan, Nawazuddin Siddiqui, Manoj Bajpai – all came from theater tradition. But today, talented theater artists struggle to sustain themselves financially."
"This initiative aims to change that by creating sustainable infrastructure and economic model for theatrical arts in India."
He outlined the partnership structure, the funding commitment, the programming approach.
"We're not trying to commercialize theater or make it mainstream entertainment that competes with films. We're creating professional ecosystem where talented artists can practice their craft, earn livable income, and reach audiences who appreciate theatrical arts."
"Each city will have programming council including representatives from local theater groups, drama schools, and cultural organizations. They'll curate content, ensure quality, maintain artistic integrity while meeting audience expectations."
The reaction from the theater community was overwhelmingly emotional.
Naseeruddin Shah, the legendary actor who'd spent decades in theater, issued a statement:
"This is the most significant development for Indian theater in my fifty-year career. Anant Sharma is not just funding theater – he's creating infrastructure that could sustain the art form for generations. As someone who's lived through theater's struggles, I'm profoundly grateful."
Directors, actors, writers from theater community across India expressed similar appreciation. Many noted the personal nature of Anant's commitment – he was funding this from his own wealth, not seeking investors or government grants.
"He's using his success to lift up the community that shaped him," one theater director observed. "That's rare integrity."
Part X: The Harder Conversation
But alongside the theater infrastructure work, Anant was also investigating a darker, more difficult issue: harassment, exploitation, and the casting couch culture in the film industry.
His conversations at NSD had revealed disturbing patterns. Female students spoke cautiously about industry "realities" – expectations that success would require compromises, that advancement meant accepting inappropriate behavior, that saying "no" to powerful men meant career death.
Anant, whose personal ethics and respect for women were deeply ingrained, found this intolerable. But he also recognized he couldn't address it effectively from outside perspective. He needed to understand the issue comprehensively.
He called Yami Gautam. They'd worked together on Uri, and he knew she'd entered the industry as complete outsider without family connections or protective infrastructure.
"Yami, I need to ask you about something difficult," Anant said when they met at a quiet café in Mumbai. "The harassment issue. Casting couch. The exploitation that outsider actresses face. I want to understand it properly so I can address it effectively."
Yami looked at him carefully, assessing his intentions. "This isn't comfortable topic, Anant."
"I know. But it's important. You've experienced this industry as outsider woman. I haven't – I'm man, I had Ronnie's protection from the start, I've never faced what you've faced. I need to hear it honestly."
Yami took a deep breath. "Okay. The truth is, almost every actress who enters this industry without family connections faces harassment at some point. It starts with auditions – directors or casting agents making inappropriate comments about your body, asking you to dress provocatively 'to see how you photograph,' suggesting that 'being friendly' would help your career."
"Sometimes it's explicit – direct propositions, offers of roles in exchange for sexual favors. More often it's implicit – patterns where actresses who refuse advances don't get called back, while those who accommodate powerful men get opportunities."
"There's also the professional harassment that's harder to prove. On sets, male actors or directors getting too physical during intimate scenes, taking extra takes when it's not necessary, creating situations where you're vulnerable."
"And the worst part," Yami continued, her voice carrying anger, "is that the industry knows. Everyone knows. But it's treated as normal, as 'the way things are.' Women who complain are labeled difficult. Men who exploit face no consequences because they're too powerful."
Anant listened, his expression growing increasingly dark.
"Has this happened to you personally?" he asked gently.
"Yes," Yami confirmed. "Early in my career, I auditioned for a role. The director asked me to 'be comfortable' with him if I wanted the part. I refused and walked out. I didn't work for eight months after that because word got around that I wasn't 'cooperative.'"
"Who was the director?" Anant asked, his voice cold.
"It doesn't matter now," Yami replied. "I survived it, built my career despite those men. But Anant, for every woman like me who survived, there are dozens who didn't. Who got exploited, who gave up, who left the industry entirely."
"And it's not just newcomers. Established actresses face different but equally problematic harassment – co-stars who think fame entitles them to behave inappropriately, producers who use their power to make unreasonable demands."
"What would actually help?" Anant asked. "Not symbolic gestures, but practical changes that would make women safer in this industry?"
Yami considered carefully. "Several things. Legal frameworks with real enforcement – harassment clauses in contracts, professional conduct standards, actual consequences for violations. Cultural change – powerful men being held accountable, survivors being believed and supported rather than blamed. Structural support – women in positions of power who can greenlight projects, female directors and producers who create safer work environments."
"And honestly?" Yami added. "Powerful men like you speaking up. When someone of your stature says 'this is unacceptable,' it carries weight that women's complaints don't. That's unfair, but it's reality."
Part XI: The Kerala Conversations
After his conversation with Yami, Anant traveled to Kerala to speak with Parvathy Thiruvothu and her colleagues in the Malayalam film industry.
Kerala's film industry, while smaller than Hindi or Telugu cinema, had reputation for being more progressive on certain issues. But it had also been rocked by recent high-profile harassment cases that exposed how pervasive the problems were.
Parvathy had invited several other actresses to join the conversation – women from different stages of their careers, different backgrounds, creating comprehensive perspective.
They met at Parvathy's Trivandrum home, a dozen women and Anant, sitting in her living room for what would become a four-hour conversation about industry realities.
"Thank you all for being willing to discuss this," Anant began. "I know it's not easy to talk about, especially with someone who hasn't experienced it."
"We trust you," Parvathy replied simply. "You've shown through your actions that you respect women as equals and colleagues. That's rare enough to be notable."
One of the older actresses, a veteran of Malayalam cinema for twenty years, spoke first:
"The casting couch is real. I won't pretend it isn't. Every woman in this room has faced it in some form. Some of us early in our careers when we were desperate for work. Some of us later when we thought we'd achieved enough success to be protected."
"The pattern is always the same," another actress added. "Powerful man – director, producer, actor, financier – uses his position to extract sexual favors. Sometimes it's explicit quid pro quo. More often it's coercive environment where you understand that refusing means professional consequences."
"And the system protects these men," a third actress said, anger evident in her voice. "Because they make money for studios, because they have connections, because the industry values their work more than our dignity."
"I was in a film where the male lead kept touching me inappropriately between takes," another shared. "When I complained to the director, he told me I was being 'oversensitive' and should 'adjust' because the actor was a big star. I had to finish that shoot feeling violated every single day."
The stories continued. Each woman shared experiences, some minor, some severe, all contributing to picture of industry where women's safety and dignity were consistently devalued.
Anant listened to all of it, his face growing progressively more troubled.
"I'm sorry," he finally said. "I'm sorry that you've experienced this. I'm sorry that the industry I'm part of has allowed this. And I'm sorry that I haven't been more aware of it earlier."
"You're aware now but don't be sorry Anant" Parvathy replied. "The question is what you'll do with that awareness."
"I want to create mechanisms that protect women," Anant said. "I'm thinking about several approaches:
"First, contractual standards. Every film I work on will have mandatory harassment prevention clauses in all contracts – clear definitions of unacceptable behavior, reporting mechanisms, consequences for violations. And my films will have dedicated compliance officer on set to handle complaints.
"Second, industry-wide initiative. I'll work with other actors, producers, directors who are willing to commit to zero-tolerance policies. Create coalition of productions that meet specific standards for women's safety.
"Third, financial support. Women who face retaliation for reporting harassment need resources – legal support, financial support during the periods they're being blacklisted. I can fund that.
"Fourth, using my platform. When I speak publicly, I'll address this. When I see inappropriate behavior, I'll call it out. Use whatever influence I have to make clear that harassment is unacceptable."
"That's all good," one actress said, "but the fundamental issue is power imbalance. As long as a few powerful men control who gets hired, women will be vulnerable. Real change requires shifting who has power in this industry."
"You're right," Anant acknowledged. "Which is why I'm also thinking about funding women-directed productions specifically. Creating opportunities for female directors, producers, writers. More women in decision-making positions means safer environments and different stories being told."
Parvathy had been listening quietly. Now she spoke:
"Anant, can I ask you something personal?"
"Of course."
"You've never had a girlfriend, never been linked romantically to anyone despite being young, attractive, successful. Is that deliberate choice?" She really want to ask him and this is the best time.
Several women in the room looked curious about the answer.
"Yes," Anant confirmed. "I'm focused entirely on my work right now. Relationships require time, attention, emotional availability. I don't have those to offer currently. Taking on a relationship when I can't give it proper attention would be unfair to my partner."
"But also," he continued honestly, "I'm aware of the power dynamics I exist in. I'm wealthy, famous, considered attractive. Any romantic relationship I enter will have inherent imbalance. The woman might feel pressure to accommodate me, might worry about disappointing me, might compromise her own needs. I don't want that dynamic."
"When – if – I pursue relationship, it will be with someone I consider absolute equal. Someone who has her own achievements, her own power, her own life that doesn't depend on mine. Where the partnership is balanced and she never feels she has to compromise herself for my sake."
"Also," he added with slight smile, "my parents raised me to respect women fundamentally. My mother is strong woman who runs our household. My sister is smart and independent. I was taught that women's dignity is non-negotiable. That's not something I can selectively apply – it's core to who I am."
"That's why this issue matters to me. Not as abstract concern, but as violation of principles I was raised with. Women deserve to work without fear, to advance based on talent rather than compliance, to have their dignity protected. Creating that environment is moral imperative."
The room was silent for a moment.
Then Parvathy stood, walked over to where Anant sat, and embraced him.
"Thank you," she said quietly. "For listening. For caring. For committing to do something."
Anant hugged her back, understanding the emotion behind the gesture.
When they separated, Parvathy looked at the other women in the room with smile of assurance.
As Anant prepared to leave, one of the younger actresses approached him shyly.
"Thank you for being the kind of man you are," she said. "It gives us hope that not all men in this industry are problematic."
"I'm just doing what should be normal," Anant replied. "Treating people with basic respect and dignity. The fact that this is notable says more about the industry's failures than my virtues."
"Still," she persisted, "you're proof that good men exist. That's valuable."
After Anant left, the women continued their discussion.
"Can he actually pull this off?" one asked in whisper tone. "Industry is resistant to change."
Parvathy's expression became serious, certain. "If anyone can, he can. Anant doesn't make empty promises. When he commits to something, he delivers. I've worked with him. I've seen his dedication."
"He's..." she paused, searching for the right words, "...he embodies principles we thought only existed in mythology. The respect for women, the commitment to dharma, the strength combined with gentleness. He's closest thing to Maryada Purushottam Ram I've encountered in real life."
Some of the women nodded understanding. The comparison to Lord Rama – the mythological ideal of masculine virtue – was not made lightly.
"He's going to change things," one predicted confidently.
"He already is," another replied. "Just by taking this seriously, by listening to us, by committing resources. That's more than most male stars have ever done."
"Parvathy," someone asked, "do you love him?"
Parvathy smiled sadly. "Of course I do. How could I not? But I also know he doesn't see me that way. We're friends, colleagues. And honestly? That's enough. Having him as ally and friend who genuinely respects me – that's more valuable than unrequited romance."
"Besides," she added with pragmatic acceptance, "when he does eventually choose someone, she'll be extraordinary and powerful. He won't settle for less than equal partner not because he is waiting for someone but his destiny will going to attract that person. I'm many things, but I'm not sure I'm at that level."
"You're underestimating yourself," another actress said.
"Maybe but I am realistic," Parvathy conceded. "But either way, what matters is that he's using his power and privilege for good. Creating safer spaces for women, supporting theater artists, maintaining integrity in industry that often rewards compromise. That's the legacy that matters."
The women sat together, united by their shared experiences and their shared hope that maybe, with allies like Anant, things could actually change.
In the taxi back to the airport, Anant looked at his notes from the conversations. The stories, the patterns, the systemic nature of the problem.
It was overwhelming. But not unsolvable.
He pulled out his phone and made a note:
"This couldn't be a rushed, impulsive reaction. The industry's dark underbelly was too entrenched, the predators too legally protected. If he launched a flawed system, they would find the loopholes and destroy the women who stepped forward. He needed a perfect, unbreakable legal framework. He would spend the next several months quietly gathering evidence, using the upcoming Baahubali promotional tour with Parvathy as the perfect cover to strategize in the shadows."
Another half-billion rupees committed to making the industry better.
His accountants would probably despair at how quickly he was spending his technology income on industry initiatives rather than personal accumulation.
But Anant didn't care. The money was useful precisely because it enabled change. What good was being wealthy if you didn't use that wealth to address problems you had power to solve?
The theater initiative. The women's safety program. The technology that was democratizing filmmaking.
These were the legacies worth building.
The billion-dollar box office numbers would be forgotten eventually.
But the structural changes to the industry – those could last for generations.
And that mattered.
Suddenly his phone buzzed in his pocket, pulling him out of his thoughts. It was his business/everything manager.
"Anant, I know you're exhausted from the Kerala trip, but I just got off a call that couldn't wait," his manager said, sounding uncharacteristically breathless.
"Go ahead," Anant replied, rubbing his temples.
"It's from Reliance. Nita Ambani's office. They are officially merging Hotstar and Viacom18 to form Jio Star. It's going to be a massive new OTT conglomerate designed to completely rival international giants like Netflix and Amazon in the Asian market. But they've hit a wall with their infrastructure—they need flawless video rendering on low bandwidth for India."
Anant's eyes widened slightly in the dark cabin of the taxi as the sheer scale of the play clicked in his mind. "They want the Maya compression codec."
"Exactly," his manager confirmed. "They know it's the only tech in the world that can handle their bandwidth requirements. Nita Ambani has personally requested a boardroom meeting with you to negotiate the licensing. If we close this, Anant, Maya VFX's technology literally becomes the backbone of India's largest streaming empire."
Anant leaned his head back against the leather seat, watching the streetlights blur past his window. It was a monumental, industry-shaking opportunity. A deal of this magnitude would cement his tech empire's absolute dominance.
But as he looked down at his notes for the women's safety framework, and then thought about his rigorous acting classes waiting for him at NSD tomorrow morning, a wave of profound, heavy human exhaustion finally washed over him. He wasn't a machine.
"Schedule the meeting for next week," Anant said quietly, letting out a long, tired breath. "Tell her office I am honored, but I need a few days to prepare. Right now, I'm just going home to get some sleep."
He hung up the phone, closed his eyes, and let the quiet hum of the taxi carry him into the night.
[END OF CHAPTER 28]