It was not a different day for Janki. A day after shooting, emotionally drained and physically exhausted, she returned to her home — or rather, her ivory tower. She lived alone in a vast, palatial bungalow, enclosed by high walls and orderly gardens. Her only true companions — if one could call them that — were her two dogs, Seeta and Geeta, who followed her in silence, sensing moods they could not name.
There were, of course, other human presence: the cook, the gardener, the driver-cum-valet, and Rani, her twenty-four-hour maid. Rani hovered constantly at her mistress’s side, attentive yet careful not to intrude. She cared deeply for her Janki amma, but perhaps distance was her shield. Rani, too, dreamed of a life beyond service — of leaving one day with Raja, her childhood companion, and beginning again elsewhere.
This particular day unsettled Janki more than most. But then, every day carried the same weight. She blamed it on the roles she chose. Janki had no personal assistant or public relations officer to steer her career. She selected her scripts herself — stories driven by emotion, centered on women. The women she portrayed were resilient, courageous, yet they were inevitably worn down by a world that demanded their submission. Strength, in those narratives, always came at a cost.
Janki wondered, sometimes, whether she was acting — or merely repeating herself. Her childhood had been ordinary, even happy. Born into a middle-class family, she was the youngest child of Shankar and Leela. Her brother Mukund was older than her and was everything she was not expected to be: brilliant, charming, dependable. His academic excellence earned him a scholarship abroad — a future bright enough to light the entire family’s hopes.
That future ended one evening. Mukund had come to fetch Janki from college after a social event. Walking together toward the bus stop for the last bus home, they barely noticed the truck until it was too late. It swerved wildly, and within moments Mukund was gone—his body crushed, his life erased in an instant.
Janki did not scream. She did not cry. She stood rooted to the spot, as though the world had paused around her. It was only later, guided home by strangers, that the truth took shape. Mukund was dead. And with him died something irreparable.
Their society, bound tightly by tradition and expectation, offered little space for grief that did not conform. Her parents withdrew into silence, crushed beneath loss and propriety. Janki left soon after. Taking what money and jewellery she could, she fled to another city, seeking anonymity.
The new city offered possibilities. Curiosity followed her, but no one knew her past. She lived in a paying guest accommodation and entered the world of modelling. Films followed naturally. Her beauty and talent brought her work — mostly modest successes, a few notable hits. Over time, she bought a bungalow in an elite neighbourhood, where film stars and industrialists lived behind identical gates.
Fame, however, did not bring companionship. Janki avoided social gatherings. Her days were defined by shooting schedules; her nights by silence. Her staff adjusted to her withdrawn routines, content with their salaries and careful not to ask questions.
Her life stretched ahead of her — wide, empty, unmoving. Shooting had become exhausting, and the monotony weighed heavily on her. She found relief in knowing that the next day marked the final scene of her current film. The climax. The role bore an uncomfortable resemblance to her own existence, though dressed in cinematic excess.
The scene required her character to consume an overdose of sleeping pills, surrendering to sleep in search of peace. The shot was scheduled for 7 a.m. Rani was to wake her at six. Morning arrived quietly.
When Rani entered the bedroom, she noticed at once the unnatural stillness. Janki lay exactly as she had the night before, her face calm, her breathing imperceptible. The alarm clock beside her bed had stopped. Rani called out softly. Then louder, but there was no answer.
For a moment, Rani hesitated — unsure whether her mistress was merely asleep, lost in exhaustion, or somewhere far deeper, unreachable. Outside, Seeta and Geeta whimpered at the door. Sunlight crept slowly across the room, touching Janki’s face as if waiting for a response. Rani stood frozen, caught between action and denial. The final scene remained unshot.
Whether Janki had rehearsed it — or escaped it — no one could say. The final scene had already been performed.
