Part One — The Man Behind the Poster

The Last Song of Aarav Mehra Part One — The Man Behind the Poster Mumbai had two kinds of nights. There were the nights when the city belonged to everyone—the taxi drivers, the vendors, the lovers sitting on Marine Drive, the office workers returning home with tired eyes, and the children sleeping beneath flyovers while the neon signs of luxury towers glittered above them. And then there were the nights when Mumbai belonged to Aarav Mehra. On those nights, thousands of people gathered outside theatres just to see his face. They carried posters. They carried flowers. They carried photographs of him from films that had made them laugh, cry, dance, and believe that love could conquer anything. Aarav was thirty-six, impossibly handsome, wildly successful, and almost completely inaccessible. For twelve years, he had been Bollywood's golden man. He had played kings, soldiers, lovers, criminals, poets, detectives and even a hopeless romantic who sang to a woman on a moving train while the Himalayas passed behind them. That film had become a phenomenon. The song had become an anthem. And Aarav had become a star. But nobody knew that the man smiling from those posters hated mirrors. Every morning, he woke before sunrise. His apartment overlooked the Arabian Sea. The windows were enormous, the furniture expensive, and the walls decorated with awards. There were Filmfare trophies. International awards. Photographs with presidents, actors, musicians and billionaires. Yet the first thing Aarav did every morning was turn every photograph face down. He would then make black coffee, walk onto the balcony, and stare at the sea. His manager, Kabir Sethi, once asked him why. Aarav had smiled. "Because the sea doesn't know I'm famous." Kabir had laughed. Aarav hadn't. On a humid Monday morning in June, Kabir entered the apartment holding three phones. "Your life is officially ruined." Aarav didn't turn around. "Good morning to you too." "Your new film has been delayed." "Fine." "The brand wants another commercial." "Tell them no." "The producer wants you at a party." "No." "And there's a woman outside." Aarav turned. "What woman?" Kabir hesitated. "She says she knows you." Aarav frowned. "What's her name?" "Meera Kapoor." The coffee cup slipped slightly in Aarav's hand. Only slightly. But Kabir noticed. "Who is she?" Aarav looked toward the sea again. "Nobody." Kabir knew better. "Nobody doesn't usually make you stop breathing." Aarav walked past him. "Send her away." Kabir didn't move. "She said you would say that." Aarav stopped. "What else did she say?" Kabir looked at his phone. "She said, 'Tell Aarav that his mother lied to him.'" Silence. The sea crashed against the rocks far below. For the first time in years, Aarav looked frightened. "Bring her in." Meera was sitting in the living room when Aarav returned. She was not dressed like someone trying to meet a Bollywood star. No designer