The role of Kaya, which I played in 'Dil Kabaddi,' is very close

Host: The studio lights dimmed to a soft glow, leaving only a circle of amber warmth on the rehearsal floor. Mirrors lined the walls, reflecting fragments of movement and breath. The faint echo of music still lingered — something rhythmic, unfinished, like an exhale that didn’t know where to end.

Jack sat cross-legged on the wooden floor, a towel draped around his neck, his shirt damp with the weight of effort. Jeeny stood near the mirror, tying her hair into a knot, her reflection a blend of exhaustion and grace. The air carried the scent of sweat, cologne, and a faint trace of eucalyptus oil.

It wasn’t a set, but it looked like one — half reality, half performance — a place where truth met illusion in equal measure.

Jack: “Payal Rohatgi once said, ‘The role of Kaya, which I played in “Dil Kabaddi,” is very close to my heart as I am also a fitness freak.’”

He smirked faintly. “Funny how people always find themselves in the roles they play.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe the roles find them.”

Host: Her voice was quiet, thoughtful — the kind of voice that belonged more to introspection than conversation. She stepped closer, her bare feet silent on the wood.

Jack: “You think that’s what acting really is? Finding yourself by pretending to be someone else?”

Jeeny: “Isn’t that what life is?”

Host: He looked at her reflection in the mirror, not her — as if searching for truth was safer when seen in reverse.

Jack: “You know, I envy people like her. Fitness freaks. Disciplined, certain, consistent. They don’t just sculpt their bodies; they sculpt their control.”

Jeeny: “Control can be a cage, Jack. You don’t see the bars because they’re made of habits.”

Jack: “Maybe cages are good. Maybe chaos is the real prison.”

Jeeny: “No,” she said softly. “Chaos is life before we choreograph it.”

Host: The mirror lights hummed faintly. Outside, the sky was bruised with twilight — that thin, fleeting line between exhaustion and awakening.

Jack stood, stretching, his silhouette sharp against the mirror’s glow.

Jack: “You know what I think she meant by that quote? That the character wasn’t just a role. It was a mirror. A way of seeing herself — her strength, her obsession, her need to control what she couldn’t.”

Jeeny: “And you see obsession as virtue.”

Jack: “Don’t you?”

Jeeny: “Not when it becomes identity.”

Host: She picked up a water bottle and took a slow sip, eyes still on him through the mirror.

Jeeny: “People who call themselves ‘fitness freaks’ — they’re not just talking about the body. They’re talking about the need to feel alive. To test the edges of their control. To see if they can out-run their own doubt.”

Jack: “And when they can’t?”

Jeeny: “They hide behind discipline. Because pain feels nobler when it’s scheduled.”

Host: He stopped pacing, her words catching him mid-breath. His reflection looked older suddenly — the kind of tired that comes from chasing perfection too long.

Jack: “So you’re saying fitness is just another addiction?”

Jeeny: “No. I’m saying it’s a dialogue between what we are and what we wish to be.”

Jack: “You sound like you’ve lived that.”

Jeeny: “Haven’t we all?”

Host: The silence that followed was not empty — it pulsed. Between the hum of electricity and the distant sound of traffic, there was something sacred in their stillness.

Jack turned back to the mirror and studied himself — the slope of his shoulders, the faint tremor in his hands, the way exhaustion had softened his defiance.

Jack: “You ever think we all act, even offstage? That we’re constantly rehearsing the version of ourselves we want others to see?”

Jeeny: “Of course. Every compliment we give, every apology we fake, every smile we time just right — it’s all performance.”

Jack: “Then what’s real?”

Jeeny: “What’s left when no one’s watching.”

Host: She stepped closer, her reflection aligning with his in the mirror. Two faces, overlapping — hers calm and luminous, his shadowed and restless.

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s why Kaya was close to her heart. Because she got to play the version of herself that was fearless, visible, unapologetic. The woman she wished she could be without needing a script.”

Jack: “You think we all have that version? The secret self?”

Jeeny: “Yes. And every once in a while, life gives us a stage to meet her.”

Host: The rain began to fall outside — steady, delicate, like applause for something quietly understood.

Jack: “Funny,” he said, “how we talk about fitness like it’s just about muscle. But it’s the mind that’s constantly breaking and rebuilding itself.”

Jeeny: “That’s the real workout — surviving your own expectations.”

Host: Her words hovered in the air like incense smoke — thin, invisible, lingering long after the sound faded.

Jack: “So maybe she wasn’t just talking about the role or her abs. Maybe she meant that fitness — discipline, motion — was her language for love. A way to prove she still existed.”

Jeeny: “Yes,” she said quietly. “Because stillness can feel like death to people who need to move to feel alive.”

Host: The lights dimmed further, the mirror reflecting their silhouettes now — not two people, but two outlines searching for form.

Jack: “You ever wish life came with direction notes? Like a script — enter here, cry there, exit gracefully.”

Jeeny: “No,” she smiled faintly. “Because if it did, we’d never surprise ourselves.”

Host: He let out a small laugh — tired, real, almost childlike.

Jack: “You ever think maybe we’re all fitness freaks in our own way? Constantly trying to strengthen the parts of ourselves that keep breaking?”

Jeeny: “Yes,” she said, eyes softening. “And maybe the ones who look strongest are just the ones who keep falling — and getting up again, quietly.”

Host: The rain intensified, a soft percussion outside. The mirror reflected it too — faint rivulets of water sliding down, like tears the glass itself couldn’t hold back.

Jack: “You think acting — or living — ever stops being performance?”

Jeeny: “Only when we stop mistaking the applause for love.”

Host: A quiet moment. The air between them seemed to still.

Jack reached for the stereo and turned the music back on — a slow, instrumental rhythm that pulsed with heartbeat and breath. He began to move — not to perform, but to release — his motions tired, raw, honest.

Jeeny watched, then joined him. No choreography, no dialogue — just two people moving in the amber light, letting the rhythm do what words never could.

When the music faded, they stood still again — both breathing heavily, both smiling faintly through the sweat and silence.

Jack: “You know, for a moment there, I didn’t feel like I was acting.”

Jeeny: “You weren’t.”

Host: The camera pulled back — the mirrors reflecting infinite versions of them, each one softer than the last.

Outside, the rain slowed. Inside, the light warmed.

And for a fleeting second, it was impossible to tell whether they were actors finding truth — or people finding themselves.

Because in that stillness, what Payal meant had become real:
that the roles we choose — or that choose us — are never make-believe.

They’re the mirrors through which we finally recognize our truest strength.