The Last Believer
The posters were faded. The corners curled. The tape barely held them up anymore. Yet, they stood defiantly on the stained walls of Ravi’s bedroom—guarding his world like torn memories of a forgotten god. Aryan Kapoor—once the crown jewel of Indian cinema—smiled in those posters with a confidence that could bend the world.
Ravi smiled back.
It was a smile weathered by time. Not the kind that came from joy, but the kind that came from faith—hard-earned and unshaken.
His mother’s voice echoed from the kitchen. “Ravi, are you seriously ironing that shirt again? The one with holes?”
He didn’t answer. His hands moved with quiet devotion, pressing the old Aryan fan club tee one more time, smoothing out the wrinkles like a ritual.
He stepped back from the mirror. A quick comb. A dab of perfume from a nearly empty bottle. The necklace with Aryan’s initials—AK—gleamed for a second in the morning light.
Outside, the streets of Rajahmundry bustled as usual. Honks. Shouts. Frying oil hissing. But for Ravi, the day wasn’t ordinary.
It was March 5th.
Aryan Kapoor’s birthday.
While others forgot, while even film pages didn’t bother posting anymore, Ravi remembered.
Always.
He clutched a plastic-wrapped cake and a folded flex banner under one arm, boarded a shared auto, and smiled like he was heading to a royal wedding. The other passengers stared. He didn’t care. He had rented a small hall on the edge of town—a dusty community center with peeling paint and a leaking ceiling. Just ₹1500 for two hours.
It was all he could afford. He had sold his second-hand guitar last week.
By noon, the decorations were done. Streamers in gold and blue. Projector hooked to an old laptop, looping “Dil Se Hero”, Aryan’s debut film. Photos arranged like a shrine on the table. Ravi placed a garland gently over one.
He stood back. Admired it like a temple priest viewing his deity.
But the hall was empty.
He checked his phone.
12:43 PM.
He had invited over 50 people—friends, local fans, Instagram groups. Only five had replied. Two had said “maybe.” The rest left him on read.
At 1:15 PM, three people arrived. One was a food blogger who came for free snacks. Two were teens who left after taking selfies. By 1:40 PM, it was just Ravi… and one old man who mistook it for a political meet.
But Ravi stood tall, clapping alone as the projector played Aryan’s iconic dance sequence. He cut the cake by himself.
“For you, sir,” he whispered. “Always for you.”
The first bite went to Aryan’s photo.
That evening, back home, the truth caught up to him like a sudden storm. His mother waited, arms folded, her expression harder than usual.
“You’re twenty-four, Ravi. You’ve sold your bike. You’ve sold your guitar. You missed a job interview today because you were celebrating his birthday?”
“He’s not just anyone, Amma…” Ravi began.
“No. He’s someone who doesn’t even know you exist!” she snapped. “While we struggle for groceries, you print banners for a fallen star!”
Tears brimmed in her eyes. She turned away.
Ravi went into his room, shut the door softly, and collapsed in front of his posters. The smiles of Aryan seemed to mock him now. But his loyalty wasn’t shaken. Not yet.
“I know you’re still in there somewhere,” he whispered, voice cracking. “They gave up. But I won’t.”
He looked up, eyes glassy. “I just wish… I could do something. If I were you, Aryan… just for one day… maybe I could fix everything.”
He lay back on the floor.
A silent storm brewed in the night sky—unnatural. Ominous. A sudden crack of thunder roared above Rajahmundry, even though not a single cloud darkened the stars.
And hundreds of kilometers away, in a drunken stupor in a Mumbai mansion, Aryan Kapoor whispered to his own reflection:
“Maybe someone else should carry this burden. Anyone but me…”
