Chapter 2: When Memories Go Viral

At the end of June, a documentary suddenly shot up the trending charts.

The monsoon was in full swing outside, traffic horns blaring as autos swerved around puddles. But inside, on every mobile, this new documentary had become the talk of the chawl, the building WhatsApp group, even the security guard at our gate. Even the milkman asked if I’d seen it, shaking his head as he handed over the morning packet.

As soon as the video was uploaded, it attracted widespread attention.

The director, who had passed away ten years ago, had quit his job after being diagnosed with late-stage cancer. Carrying a large bag and a camera, he set off on the last journey of his life, recording the people and events he encountered. He asked his friends to edit and upload it ten years later, as his final message to the world.

A true-blue Indian gesture—to want to leave a message for those you leave behind, as if telling the world, “Dekho, main bhi tha yahan.”

The first two episodes drew mostly comments of regret and admiration, with netizens praising his openness and courage in the face of death.

But when the third episode was released, the documentary suddenly exploded in popularity.

At thirteen minutes and twenty-two seconds into episode three, someone appeared on screen whom no one expected—

—Arjun, now a household name in Indian cinema.

You know how it is in Mumbai—every chaiwala has a story of seeing a star before they were famous. But to see Arjun, in his awkward early days, caught in the grainy focus of that dying director’s lens, was like unearthing a family wedding video you’d forgotten existed.

Back then, he was just another extra in Film City, his face still showing traces of nervousness and inexperience.

But the real focus of the episode wasn’t him. It was me—Ritu, his girlfriend at the time.

The twenty-three-year-old Ritu, eyes brimming with unmistakable love, declared boldly to the camera:

"I guarantee it: Arjun will definitely become a movie star. If not, I’ll do a handstand and crawl around the Gateway of India!"

A crowd behind me must have giggled, and maybe a passing hawker shouted, "Bas karo, madam!" But in that video, my voice rang with the stupid, undiluted hope of someone who hasn’t learned yet what Mumbai does to love stories.