THE NARRATION

Dasgupta sat stiffly across the table, clutching his manuscript like a lifeline. At the other end, Rocky Dhanoa was being his usual self — aloof, tapping disinterested nothings onto his phone screen, and refusing to acknowledge the presence of the screenplay writer. Producer Pranjal Jain and a few crew members from an upcoming project sat a few metres away, quietly wondering why Rocky was indulging the pitiable fool.

The writer’s voice trembled in the presence of the veteran filmmaker. "I’ve poured everything into this script, Rocky Sir. I assure you it will take audiences by storm." When Dhanoa’s expression barely shifted, Dasgupta pleaded: "Please, Sir. Just ten minutes of your time."

It took almost three whole minutes of persistent pleading (and momentary contact between the floor and Dasgupta's knees) to convince Dhanoa to accept the script. He was about to plonk it on his desk when Dasgupta begged him to read a few lines aloud.

The filmmaker sighed, adjusted his spectacles, and began reading aloud. "A city drenched in rain, its alleys whispering secrets too dangerous to speak aloud. Neon signs sputter, casting fractured light across puddles that ripple with unseen footsteps. A lone figure runs, breath sharp, as if being chased by invisible shadows."

For the first time, Jain and the crew leaned forward. Dasgupta noticed, and a smile tugged at the corner of his lips.

The filmmaker’s tone dropped lower, more menacing. "The clock tower tolls midnight, its iron bell striking with merciless rhythm. The man turns to look in its direction, feeling the chill run down his spine with every successive clang."

The producer, intrigued, pulled out his phone and set its voice recorder in motion.

"The man finds shelter under a bus stop long abandoned. Before he can dry himself, his phone rings. Once. Twice. Thrice. Even amidst the pounding rain, the sound cuts through the midnight air, sharp and demanding. When it rings again after a brief lull, the man contemplates answering."

By now, Dhanoa seemed genuinely interested. Dasgupta licked his lips in anticipation.

Dhanoa continued reading, putting his surprisingly deep baritone voice to the test. "The man knows that on the other end waits a voice capable of changing his life forever. As the storm raged louder outside the bus shelter, he felt a tempest rise deep inside the chambers of his heart."

A few crew members reached for their glasses of water, sipping as though the suspense itself had parched them. Dasgupta felt refreshed by the sight.

Dhanoa inhaled, ready for the next line, "Conjuring courage, the man hit the receive button, pressed the phone to his ear, but said nothing. A man at the other end began speaking without the customary hello. The voice said…"

Suddenly, Dhanoa looked up furiously. "IS THIS A F’KIN JOKE? YOU CAN’T BE SERIOUS!"

Dasgupta shot up, trembling. "What’s wrong, Sir?"

Dhanoa barked: "HERE'S WHAT'S WRONG! THE VOICE SAID — 'LOREM IPSUM DOLOR SIT AMET.'"

Moral of the story: Always edit your placeholders — or your AI‑generated suspense will collapse into unpardonable nonsense.

P.S.: I borrowed the idea for this story from a series of ad commercials that I stumbled upon on LinkedIn a few days ago. Pasting the YouTube link below for your viewing pleasure.

This post is a part of the BlogchatterA2Z Challenge 2026