Opening the Floodgates: How It All Began
Honestly, when I think back to those first few months in Mumbai, it feels like a whole different world. I had landed in Bandra, a leafy suburb where the traffic jams feel like they’re designed just for you to stare out the window and wonder what you’re doing there. My parents had set me up with a decent rented flat, a small car that kept sputtering out of the market on Sundays, and even a domestic help who would bring me tea every morning. All of that was possible because my family, back in Himachal, believed I was pursuing a Bachelor of Management Studies at Jai Hind College – a fairly safe bet for a stable future.
But secretly, I was slipping into the world of acting workshops. I’d turn off the lights in my room after classes and watch acting tutorials on my laptop, the glow of the screen mixing with the street lights flashing through my window. I felt a strange thrill each time I performed a scene in front of a mirror, mimicking the heroes I grew up watching – Amitabh, Dharmendra, and later, the charismatic Salman Khan.
The College Call and the First Confrontation
Things started to go sideways when my college attendance slipped below ten percent. Imagine a college admin picking up the phone and dialing a number in a remote Himachal village – my father, who was still busy fetching fresh milk from the dairy farm, answered the call with a puzzled tone. He was told, "Your son’s attendance is only nine percent". That was the moment my world cracked open.
My dad flew down to Mumbai, looking a little embarrassed, as if he’d just been called out in front of the whole family. My mother, who had always been the calm in the house, sighed loudly, “What have we not given you? A house, a car, a comfortable life – and now you bring us this shame.” The whole family gathered around the small dining table that evening, the conversation heavy with expectations.
It was there, with my heart pounding, that I finally gathered the courage to say, "Dad, I want to be an actor." I slid a photoshoot printout and a CD of my short performances across the table. I could see my father flipping the CD, his eyebrows raising, the room feeling like a courtroom.
Dad’s Brutal Honesty: ‘Lame Horse’ and No Money for Tickets
His reaction was not the supportive nod I had imagined. Instead, he looked me straight in the eyes and launched into what felt like a monologue from a movie – only he was the antagonist. "Beta, neither are you tall, nor do you have the body, the voice, or the looks. Nobody even looks at you when you walk down a road. Have you ever been told you could become an actor?" He went on, "You are not even close to Bachchan sahab or Dharmendra ji. I won’t even pay fifty rupees to watch you on a screen."
He then said in his thick Himachali accent, "Come back home, join the family business, and stop wasting this money." Instantly, the financial support that had made my Bandra life comfortable was cut off. My bank account froze, and the car was taken back.
That night, I sat on the tiny balcony of my rented flat, watching the traffic lights flicker, feeling like a ‘lame horse’ that no one cared to ride.
When Money Runs Out: Surviving on Twenty Rupees
With my pocket almost empty, I remember counting the last twenty rupees I had left. I could barely think of buying a simple snack, let alone paying rent. It was a bleak moment, the kind that makes you wonder if the dream was even worth it.
Just when I thought I would have to pack my bags and head back to Himachal, a friend of mine, who had just landed a decent job, heard about my situation. He transferred fifty thousand rupees to my account, saying "Don’t give up, yaar." That amount felt like a lifeline, allowing me to stay in a modest chawl for a few more months and continue attending auditions.
It was a small gesture, but in those days, it felt like a grand rescue – like someone handing you a glass of water in the middle of a scorching Indian summer.
The Rs 10‑Crore Pitch: A Bold Move
After a few months of scraping by, I thought perhaps the only way to convince my dad was to show him I was serious. So I went back to Himachal and, with shaking hands, told him, "Dad, I need ten crore rupees to launch myself in Bollywood." I had heard that somewhere in an interview with a famous actor; it sounded like the magic number.
His reply was as sharp as a knife. "Beta, tune kabhi langde ghode pe paisa lagate dekha hai?" he asked, laughing dryly. "Main to chalo 10 crore beta samajh ke de bhi dunga, but tere ko dekhne kaun aayega?" The words were harsh, but they also carried a grudging respect for my audacity. He was essentially saying, "You can ask for any amount, but do you really think anyone will watch you?"
That conversation lingered in my mind, a mix of disappointment and a strange kind of motivation. It made me think deeper about why I wanted to act – not for the applause, but for the chance to tell stories that mattered to people like me.
Grandfather’s Intervention: A Ray of Hope
Just when the tension seemed unbearable, my grandfather stepped in. He was a man of few words, but his presence commanded respect. He told my father, "Beta, this is the first time someone in our family wants to carve his own path. Give him a chance, set a timeline, and see what happens."
My dad, perhaps softened by his father’s wisdom, aGreed to give me a limited amount of money. It wasn’t ten crore, of course, but it was enough to keep me afloat for a while and gave me a deadline to prove myself.
That period turned into a race against time. I attended countless auditions, did a few modeling gigs, and even worked as an extra in some film sets just to soak in the environment. I learned that the film industry is a beast that devours patience, perseverance, and a lot of coffee.
Debut and Beyond: From Loveyatri to Ruslaan
All the struggles finally bore fruit when I landed the role in *Loveyatri* in 2018, a film that was backed by Salman Khan Films. The experience of being on a big set, hearing the director call “Action!” and feeling the lights blaze on my face, was surreal. It felt like the moment a small river finally meets the sea.
Since then, I have been part of a few projects, the latest being *Ruslaan* which released in 2024. Each film has taught me something new – whether it’s the importance of timing, the art of delivering lines with genuine emotion, or simply learning to smile for the camera even on exhausting days.
On the personal front, I got married to Arpita Khan, Salman’s sister, and we now have two wonderful kids, Ahil and Ayat. They are the reason I keep pushing forward, hoping to set an example for them that dreams, even when labeled ‘lame’, can become reality with grit and a little help from family.
Reflecting on the Journey: What I’ve Learned
Looking back, I realise that the raw, sometimes brutal, honesty from my father was a kind of reality check that forced me to confront my own weaknesses. In India, especially in families from smaller towns or mountains, there is a huge pressure to follow the ‘safe’ path – a government job, a family business, or a stable profession.
But those moments when we are told we’re a ‘lame horse’ or that no one will pay us to watch our movies – they become fuel. They push us to tighten our belts, work harder, and prove that the doubt from loved ones can be turned into a stepping stone.
My story isn’t just about fame or a glamorous life; it’s about the everyday struggle of an ordinary boy from Himachal trying to survive in Mumbai’s cut‑throat film world, and eventually making it. If you’re reading this, perhaps you are on a similar path, facing criticism from family or friends. Remember, a little patience, a tiny bit of help from a friend, and the courage to pitch your own ‘ten‑crore’ ideas can change everything.
