Jai was never the hero in the frame.
Not in school. Not in life. And definitely not on camera.
He had the kind of face casting directors glanced at for two seconds before saying, "We'll let you know." His features were sharp but uneven, his skin rough from years of sun and struggle. Nothing about him fit the polished mold of a leading man. And then there was his voice — deep, heavy, like distant thunder. Directors said it didn't "suit the youthful market."
So for five years, Jai stood where heroes never looked.
Behind them. Beside villains. In shadows.
"Rowdy 3." "Rowdy 5." "Man standing near car." "Goonda in background."
Those were his roles. No lines. No close-ups. No names in credits.
Just a face in the blur.
---
During the day, he walked from one studio gate to another, carrying a worn folder filled with photographs that were already outdated. At night, he worked part-time unloading goods at a warehouse near the railway tracks. The pay was small, the hours long, but it kept him alive in a city that swallowed dreams without chewing.
Sometimes, while lifting heavy boxes under flickering tube lights, he would practice expressions.
Anger. Menace. Silent rage.
The other workers laughed at him when they noticed.
"Practicing to scare the boxes, ah?" one of them joked.
Jai only smiled faintly. They didn't know.
They didn't know that inside his head, he was delivering monologues to invisible cameras.
---
He didn't even know who his parents were. Orphaned before memory, raised in a government home, he had grown up watching films on a small, dusty television in the common hall. Heroes came and went. They were good, brave, handsome.
But the villains…
They stayed.
Gabbar Singh in Sholay had changed something in him. Jai remembered the first time he watched that movie. The way Gabbar laughed. The way silence fell when he appeared. The aura. The charisma. The power of presence.
Gabbar didn't need to be handsome.
He just needed to exist on screen — and the world bent.
That night, young Jai had whispered to himself,
"I don't want to be the hero. I want to be the storm."
---
Now he was 26.
Five years in the industry.
And still invisible.
He had been cheated more times than he could count.
"Pay registration fee, you'll get a role."
"Sir wants a realistic villain look, perfect for you."
"Workshop compulsory, only 25,000."
He had paid. Borrowed. Worked extra shifts. Skipped meals.
Roles vanished. Phones switched off. Offices disappeared.
Once, he actually got selected for a small speaking role — a henchman with two lines. He memorized them for weeks. Practiced tone, pause, expression. On the day of shoot, he arrived early, heart racing.
Another man stood in costume.
"Sorry bro," someone told him casually, "director's friend needed the role."
Just like that. Replaced. No apology. No money back.
That night, Jai didn't cry.
He just sat outside the studio gate long after everyone left, staring at the empty road.
For the first time, a thought crawled into his mind like poison:
Maybe I'm not the hero of this story.
Maybe I'm the villain.
---
But the thought didn't break him.
It sharpened him.
If the world wouldn't give him sympathy, he would take power.
He began observing real people. Not actors. Real men with authority. Local politicians, gang leaders, businessmen shouting on phones, policemen scolding civilians. He studied how they stood, how they used silence, how fear didn't come from shouting — it came from control.
He stopped trying to look "pleasant" in auditions.
He leaned into what they called his flaws.
Rough skin? Good. Villains weren't moisturized.
Deep voice? Perfect. Let it rumble.
Cold eyes? Even better.
When casting assistants asked him to smile more, he didn't.
He stared.
Unblinking.
A few of them actually looked uncomfortable.
That was new.
---
Still, work didn't come easily.
2024 was slipping away, and Jai felt time like a ticking bomb. Twenty-six in the film industry without recognition felt like being forty anywhere else. Fresh faces arrived every day — gym bodies, perfect hair, influencer followers.
He had none of that.
Just hunger.
And an anger he kept carefully caged.
At the warehouse one night, while rain hammered the tin roof, his supervisor shouted at him for moving too slow. Jai's arms trembled from exhaustion, but he said nothing.
Inside, though, a fire roared.
One day, he thought, they will shout my name to get my attention.
---
One evening, after yet another failed audition where he was told he looked "too intense," Jai sat alone at a roadside tea stall. Traffic roared past. Film posters covered a nearby wall — heroes smiling, heroines glowing, villains sneering dramatically.
He stared at one particular poster.
The villain on it looked artificial. Styled anger. Cosmetic evil.
Jai muttered under his breath,
"You've never slept hungry. You've never been invisible."
He sipped his tea, now cold.
For the first time, he understood something clearly:
He didn't need to act like a villain.
Life had been training him for the role.
Rejection had carved his face. Struggle had deepened his voice. Betrayal had hardened his eyes.
He wasn't behind in the race.
He was being forged.
---
That night, instead of going straight to work, Jai walked to an empty ground near the railway tracks. Trains thundered past, shaking the earth. He stood there in the darkness, imagining a camera in front of him.
He closed his eyes.
Then opened them slowly.
No dialogue.
Just presence.
Just a look that said, I have nothing left to lose.
A stray dog that had been rummaging through garbage froze and backed away.
Jai noticed.
For the first time in years…
He smiled.
Not a hero's smile.
A villain's.
---
Maybe the world had ignored him.
Maybe the industry had pushed him into shadows.
Maybe he had been scammed, replaced, erased.
But storms were not invited.
They arrived.
And Jai was done waiting for permission.
If this was a story…
Then he would not beg to be the hero.
He would become the villain no one could ignore.