Page 5 of Okay Boss
Vikram adjusted his cufflinks.
He replied to his PR Manager, Rahul, about tomorrow’s breakfast interviews. Retweeted a critic who had called the performance “career-defining.” He made sure to tag the production house. Visibility mattered.
“Pay attention,” Riya whispered, nudging him gently. “This is the scene everyone’s talking about.”
“I’ve seen it a dozen times in the edit,” he murmured back. “I know where I cry. I know where I collapse. It’s very moving.”
“It’s still your film.”
“And it’s still excellent,” he replied calmly.
On screen, his character staggered through heavy rain and slid down a wall, face tilted upward, eyes filled with helpless grief. The camera moved in slowly. Anguish. Acceptance. Silence. It was powerful work.
His phone vibrated again.
Rahul: “Filmfare wants an exclusive at 9 AM. Confirm?”
He typed quickly: “Make it 10. Send flowers to the director’s wife. Anniversary today.”
Riya glanced sideways at him. “You remember anniversaries?”
“Efficiency,” he said lightly, looking up.
But he wasn’t watching the film. He was watching the audience.
Row five. A middle-aged woman wiping tears. Two seats ahead. A young critic leaning forward, completely absorbed. Across the aisle, a studio executive nodded slowly.
They were reacting to something he had constructed. Every tear, every pause, every breath had been designed. He had built grief from technique. And yet it felt real enough to make strangers cry.
On screen, the funeral scene began. His character stood still under pouring rain, face rigid with pain.
In his seat, Vikram opened Instagram. Fifteen thousand new followers since the red carpet photos. Comments praising his tuxedo. His hair. His smile. Riya’s gold dress was trending. #VikRiya climbing steadily.
On screen, his character dropped to his knees at the grave, mud staining the expensive suit.
“Three takes,” Vikram whispered to Riya. “Ruined two armani suits before we got it right.”
“Shh,” she replied, eyes fixed on the screen.
The climax approached. Music rose. His character, broken and rebuilt, walked away from the cemetery into harsh sunlight. Symbolic. Clean. Beautiful.
The theatre held its breath.
For once, Vikram put his phone face down.
He felt it then. That collective shift. The exact second when an audience realises they’ve seen something special. That moment never lost its power.
The screen faded to black. Three heartbeats of silence. Then applause erupted.
The lights came on slowly. People turned toward him with admiration in their eyes. He stood, smiling modestly, accepting handshakes and hugs.
“Outstanding work.”
“Your finest performance.”
“That funeral scene destroyed me.”
He responded perfectly. Thanked the director. Praised his co-stars. Redirected compliments with polished humility.
