After I finished my degree in Mass Communication in Manipal, I

Host: The studio lights flickered like restless stars, casting long shadows across the empty set. A single camera stood in the center, its lens glinting like a watchful eye. The air was thick with the smell of coffee, paint, and old film reels — the fragrance of a place where dreams are both made and broken.

Jack sat on a worn director’s chair, one leg crossed over the other, a script resting on his lap. Jeeny was beside the camera, her hands tracing the frame, her eyes filled with quiet awe.

Jeeny: “Do you know what Nithya Menen once said? ‘After I finished my degree in Mass Communication in Manipal, I enrolled for a cinematography course in Pune Film Institute. That is when Nandini Reddy, the director of Ala Modalaindi, convinced me to act.’”

Jack: “Convincing a cinematographer to act — that’s quite a paradox. The one behind the lens becoming the one in front of it. Almost poetic, in a tragic sort of way.”

Host: The lights buzzed softly, casting halos on the floor. Jeeny turned, smiling, her shadow merging with the camera’s as though she herself were becoming part of the frame.

Jeeny: “Tragic? No, Jack. It’s beautiful. Sometimes life knows better than we do where we belong. She wanted to capture light, and instead, she became the light.”

Jack: “Or maybe she was just persuaded. Maybe it wasn’t destiny — just coincidence. Someone saw a face, a spark, and thought, ‘She’ll sell.’ That’s not art; that’s manipulation.”

Jeeny: “You’re too cynical. Not every opportunity is exploitation. Sometimes, someone sees something in you that you’ve been too afraid to see yourself.”

Jack: “That’s what they always say before the industry eats them alive. The camera is seductive, Jeeny. It tells you that you matter — until it finds someone prettier, newer, younger.”

Host: Jack’s voice was low, almost bitter, the kind of tone that came not from theory but from memory. The light shifted, illuminating the faint lines near his eyes — regret in the form of experience.

Jeeny: “You talk like someone who’s been burned by the lens.”

Jack: “We all are, in one way or another. Whether it’s the lens of others’ judgment, or our own reflection. The camera just makes it visible.”

Jeeny: “But visibility is the beginning of transformation. Isn’t that what cinema does? It forces you to see yourself — even when it hurts.”

Jack: “Cinema doesn’t reveal; it constructs. It edits truth into illusion. Nithya wanted to tell stories through a lens. Instead, she became one — framed, directed, consumed. Tell me, Jeeny — where’s the freedom in that?”

Jeeny: “Maybe freedom isn’t about control. Maybe it’s about surrender — the kind that lets you discover who you are when you stop hiding behind the camera.”

Host: The sound of distant rain echoed through the hollow hall, tapping lightly on the roof above them. The set lights gave the rain a silver glow, like a million tiny applause falling from the sky.

Jack: “You make it sound romantic. But you forget how many dreams die under those same lights. The film world doesn’t nurture; it devours. Look at Judy Garland, at Heath Ledger — talent turned into tragedy by the very art they gave themselves to.”

Jeeny: “And yet, would you rather they hadn’t tried? Would you erase the magic they left behind just to spare them the pain?”

Jack: “No. But don’t call it destiny when it’s often pressure disguised as purpose. Maybe Nithya didn’t choose acting; maybe acting chose her — and that’s not always a blessing.”

Jeeny: “But that’s what makes it human. The in-between — between choice and chance, fear and faith. Isn’t that what creation is? Being pushed off the edge before you’re ready to fly?”

Host: Jeeny stepped closer to the camera, adjusting the focus as if it were the universe she could control with her fingertips. The lens caught her reflection, a ghost of conviction and doubt.

Jack: “You sound like you’ve felt that push yourself.”

Jeeny: “I have. We all have. Sometimes it’s a voice, a person, a moment that tells you — step into the frame. Even if you’re terrified. Even if you think you belong behind it.”

Jack: “And when the applause fades? When the light turns off? Who are you then?”

Jeeny: “Still the same person — only braver. Because you faced yourself and didn’t look away.”

Host: The fire in Jeeny’s eyes met the cool metal of Jack’s gaze, and for a moment, the space between them glowed with unspoken understanding. The rain grew louder, a steady beat, like a metronome counting the rhythm of their thoughts.

Jack: “So you think transformation is worth the risk?”

Jeeny: “Always. Because the greatest art doesn’t protect you — it strips you. Nithya Menen wasn’t seduced by fame; she was transformed by art. There’s a difference.”

Jack: “Maybe. But transformation has a cost. Every role you play leaves residue. You wear too many masks, and you forget your own face.”

Jeeny: “Unless you let every role teach you something real. She learned that she could feel what she once only filmed. Isn’t that the dream of every artist — to experience the story, not just record it?”

Jack: “Experience is dangerous. Once you start living inside stories, it’s hard to come back to ordinary life.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe we’re not meant to. Maybe art is the only real life — everything else just preparation.”

Host: The lights dimmed slowly, and the set was swallowed in half darkness. Only the camera’s red light still glowed, a tiny pulse in the silence — as if the world itself was still recording.

Jack: “You know, Jeeny… when I hear her story, I wonder if the camera didn’t just find her — maybe she was born inside it. Maybe that’s what Nandini Reddy saw — not an actress, but someone whose truth only made sense when framed.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Some souls don’t fit the page — they need the screen.”

Jack: “And some people need someone to convince them they belong there.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The ones who see potential are as divine as the ones who fulfill it. That’s how art survives — through faith passed from one dreamer to another.”

Host: The rain stopped. The set was silent except for the soft hum of the camera still rolling, capturing the moment beyond performance — raw, honest, human.

Jack: “Maybe that’s what cinema really is — the art of convincing ourselves to live.”

Jeeny: “And maybe that’s what Nithya found that day — not a career, but a calling.”

Host: The camera’s light finally flickered off, leaving them in gentle darkness. The sound of dripping water filled the space, rhythmic and grounding.

Jack stood, walked toward the window, and looked out at the city lights — each one a small story, glowing against the void.

Jack: “Maybe every great artist begins by trying to tell stories… and ends by realizing they are one.”

Jeeny: “Yes, Jack. And the most beautiful ones — like Nithya’s — are the stories that never meant to be told at all.”

Host: The camera rested, its lens now dark, but somewhere within its memory, the scene still lived — two souls, arguing, dreaming, believing — under the quiet echo of rain and the immortal light of art.