The Dangerous Smile
Characters:
Starring: Shakti Kapoor(25)
Scene 1 - Friday Night in Bandra
In rows of parked bikes, the neon sign of “The Gallery Bar” caught on Shakti Kapoor’s leather jacket as he leaned against his car, scanning the entrance.
At 25, he was already known around Bandra for two things, his grin and his nerve. He wasn’t rich yet, but he dressed like a man who expected to be. Every movement of his hand, the way he checked his watch, the slow, amused way he looked at people, everything announced confidence.
He wasn’t hunting; he was selecting.
Inside, a birthday crowd laughed around a cake shaped like a perfume bottle. Shakti walked in without an invitation, nodded at the waiter like an old friend, and slipped a crumpled 500-Rupee Note into the tip jar. By the time he reached the bar counter, half the room had noticed him.
Shakti (to bartender): “Something that looks expensive and tastes friendly.” Shakti: “Kuchh jo mehenga lage aur friendly taste ho.”
The bartender grinned, pouring a sparkling mocktail. Shakti caught his own reflection in the mirror behind the bottles, unruly hair, eyes that looked half-serious, half-amused.
He scanned the room again. Not desperation, just curiosity, the quiet thrill of possibilities. Married women bored of politeness, single professionals who liked danger at a safe distance, artists who saw chaos as charm. He didn’t have a type; he had a pattern, he liked the moment someone’s caution turned into a smile.
As he leaned on the counter, a woman beside him, her dress tight across her ample chest, asked, “Are you waiting for someone?”
Shakti looked up, his trademark pause before answering.
Shakti: “Always. But I never know who it is until she says hello.” Shakti: “Hamesha. Par mujhe pata nahi chalta ki woh kaun hai, jab tak woh hello na bole.”
Her laugh was light, and the night began to open exactly as he liked it: spontaneous, unscripted, and full of possibility.
Characters:
Starring: Shakti Kapoor(25)
Scene 1 - Friday Night in Bandra
In rows of parked bikes, the neon sign of “The Gallery Bar” caught on Shakti Kapoor’s leather jacket as he leaned against his car, scanning the entrance.
At 25, he was already known around Bandra for two things, his grin and his nerve. He wasn’t rich yet, but he dressed like a man who expected to be. Every movement of his hand, the way he checked his watch, the slow, amused way he looked at people, everything announced confidence.
He wasn’t hunting; he was selecting.
Inside, a birthday crowd laughed around a cake shaped like a perfume bottle. Shakti walked in without an invitation, nodded at the waiter like an old friend, and slipped a crumpled 500-Rupee Note into the tip jar. By the time he reached the bar counter, half the room had noticed him.
Shakti (to bartender): “Something that looks expensive and tastes friendly.” Shakti: “Kuchh jo mehenga lage aur friendly taste ho.”
The bartender grinned, pouring a sparkling mocktail. Shakti caught his own reflection in the mirror behind the bottles, unruly hair, eyes that looked half-serious, half-amused.
He scanned the room again. Not desperation, just curiosity, the quiet thrill of possibilities. Married women bored of politeness, single professionals who liked danger at a safe distance, artists who saw chaos as charm. He didn’t have a type; he had a pattern, he liked the moment someone’s caution turned into a smile.
As he leaned on the counter, a woman beside him, her dress tight across her ample chest, asked, “Are you waiting for someone?”
Shakti looked up, his trademark pause before answering.
Shakti: “Always. But I never know who it is until she says hello.” Shakti: “Hamesha. Par mujhe pata nahi chalta ki woh kaun hai, jab tak woh hello na bole.”
Her laugh was light, and the night began to open exactly as he liked it: spontaneous, unscripted, and full of possibility.
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