Please don’t judge for what the algorithm throws on my Instagram, but I have seen videos of paparazzi calling for Ananya Panday’s attention, yelling, “ACP, ACP, ACP…”

WTF is ACP, we naturally ask Ananya, who goes, “Full props to paps for creativity.” 

She was once stepping out of the Mumbai Police’s annual gala, named Umang, where it occurred to photographers posted outside to call her ACP, as in, Assistant Commissioner of Police.

The name stuck. Sometimes they call her Bae. Meaning, the Prime Video series, Call Me Bae, that she headlined in 2024. 

“But there, they go, a-bey, abey, eh,” Ananya says. Sounds crass. She doesn’t like that so much. She likes ACP. As in, which is what I first thought, ‘Ananya Chunky Panday’, since it’s a common practice to use father’s name as middle name.

Chunky, as in the Bollywood star, from the ’80s. He has a brother called Chikki, who I had the privilege of knowing, at some point—a businessman, I realized, who was the go-to guy for many in Bollywood, if they ever got into trouble with the government, or wanted some issue or the other fixed, pronto—with customs, police, excise, etc.

Chunky, Chikki, these are kinda weird names, too, no?

Ananya laughs, “My father is Suyash. Chikki chachu is actually Alok. They keep telling me stories of how they got their [pet] names, but I don’t believe them.”

“My dad says he was very chunky, when he was born. Which is not true. He was a stick [figure]. Chachu says he loved eating chikki.” But then you don’t start out eating chikki as an infant, when you get named, anyway.

Chunky calls Ananya, Wazi: “It’s strange. He calls my mom and my sister, and now our dog, Wazi, too. I think he fears that he’ll forget our names.”

Sticking to Insta reels still, the one with Ananya that went the most viral, actually, had to do with her co-actor, from Gehraiyaan (2022), Kho Gaye Hum Kahan (2023), Siddhant Chaturvedi, over a round-table conversation, with young actors, discussing nepotism in the film industry.

Ananya was roughly making a point about how nepotism may be too blanket a term. Which is when Siddhant chimed in with the now-famous line, “When their struggles begin, is when our dreams get realized!” With a foot in the door of the film industry, after all.

“I think Siddhant had just written that line in a hidden notebook, and was simply waiting to blurt it out,” Ananya laughs. 

To add, “I can joke about this, because he is one of my closest friends in the industry. This insider-outsider is such a dividing line, anyway. What I was trying to say is everybody has a different story. You have to eventually resonate with audiences. And many people with film backgrounds, don’t; several from outside, do.”

To think of it, while her father Chunky was indeed a star—his stardom years would probably hover between the mid-80s to early ’90s—“films like Vishwatma, Aankhen, Tezaab…”

Ananya knew of them, but ever since she was born, in 1998, “he had moved on to negative parts, and ‘character-actor’ roles.” 

Back in the day, we also used to hear about Chunky being a super-star in Bangladesh! Not that I’ve seen any of Chunky’s Bangladeshi films; fair then to wonder if it’s even true? 

Ananya says, “I have met his fans from Bangladesh. It’s definitely true.”

We actually got to Ananya’s name-business in the conversation, because of Saif Ali Khan’s daughter, Sara, who went to Dhirubhai Ambani International School, with Ananya. But would choose to never call her by her name. She’d just say, “Aye”. As in not the first letter of Ananya. Just, “Aye,” for anonymous.

From Ananya’s account, Sara comes across as quite the vicious senior. If Ananya saw Sara coming down the steps in school, she’d just take the other staircase: “She was so ‘mufat’ [loud-mouth], I was always scared of what she’ll say to me.” 

They did a play together, where Sara was the lead, and Ananya would hold the umbrella for her.

They, of course, get along famously now. Sara had just texted Ananya for her stellar performance in Vikramaditya Motwane’s CTRL (2024), before we began this episode of Sit with Hitlist, wondering how much older Ananya was from Sara, since she’s the youngest to feature in this series; with Sara, before her.

“She’ll kill me if I told you [how old is Sara],” Ananya smiles. But when you’re in school together, you will know, if you’re in Class V. Well, Sara was in Class VIII then—debuting in films in 2018, with Kedarnath. The same year Janhvi Kapoor debuted with Dhadak. 

Together, the three could form the top female trio of GenZ leads in Bollywood, currently. To give you a sense of the passage of time, when Sit with Hitlist started (in 2017, with Aamir Khan), none of them were professional actors.

Ananya belongs to Bollywood’s class of 2019, starting with Student Of The Year (SOTY) 2—Karan Johar’s teeny-bopper franchise, aimed at introducing fresh faces in mainstream Hindi films. 

Ananya claims her jaw dropped, when she first saw Alia Bhatt, similarly, enter the screen with SOTY. That’s her inspiration. Ever since she can remember, Ananya maintains she’d always wanted to be a Bollywood heroine.

“My dad had a handy-cam, with a rotating screen—a selfie, before the selfie. I was obsessed with performing lines and songs before it. Even at birthday parties, nobody had to ask—I would just dance for everyone.”

For further proof of the Bollywood bug, Ananya informs she has three things stuck on the wall of her vanity van: “A picture of Lolo [Karisma Kapoor]. A picture of Salman Khan. And [Kareena Kapoor’s] line [from Jab We Met]: Mein apni favourite hoon.” 

That’s what she admiringly gazes at, every day, before stepping out that van-door, to shoot! Which kinda also explains the early moves in her career, besides SOTY 2, of course. 

It’s the sort of work that should ideally fetch you a poster in the backseat of an autorickshaw—the old barometer for a heroine’s success in fan-culture: “Oh, it hasn’t happened to me yet. Please do send me, if you find one [i.e., a pic of hers on either side of an auto-rickshaw seat].” 

Just putting it out there, if you do find one. With her subsequent films, hence, Ananya went full-on small-town. For instance, as the hot distraction for a married man in Pati Patni Aur Woh, a rustic remake of the Sanjeev Kumar classic, that was a decent hit, with Kartik Aaryan.

Likewise, she was off to Mathura/Agra in Dream Girl 2. Not that realism was the film’s strong suit, it was still a world quite far removed for a Bandra-bred. 

Ananya says, “I’m a director’s actor. In the sense of absorbing instructions, or their insights into small-town. That apart, just walking around, shopping for mithai, being on the boat in Mathura, for a live location, gives you a feel of the world, pretty quickly.”

She could’ve carried on the same way—made it in life, though maybe not with glowing reviews. Critical acclaim doesn’t equal crores, anyway. 

Only, a certain “switch” happened in her career, wherein you can seamlessly observe an Ananya, who’s so un-Ananya—going deeper into roles, with effortlessly subtle, character-driven cinema, reflecting zeitgeist, or spirit of the times. 

What was that switch? Ananya describes it quite precisely: “[Director] Shakun Batra. He taught me to develop my process as an actor [with Gehraiyaan]. We did workshops together, with Siddhant, Deepika [Padukone]. 

“Even though I wasn’t playing the central part, I got to build a backstory for a character, that won’t even be seen on the screen. I inculcated all of that into my own training, for all my films [thereafter].”

She clearly remembers going up to meet Shakun (Ek Main Aur Ekk Tu, Kapoor & Sons), first. “As you know, I’m a complete Hindi film person. I was really nervous. I thought he would be some hi-fi intellectual. So, I watched two Polish movies, to talk to him…”

Which two Polish films? “Now, I can’t remember their names,” Ananya says. Going back to Insta reels, she’s convinced this bit of the conversation will start getting shared online. The same way she got trolled, when she once admitted she hadn’t watched The Godfather!

As with Indian cinema and Satyajit Ray, among film buffs globally, Polish cinema gets most instantly associated with director Krzysztof Kieślowski. 

I wonder if she’d seen one of Kieślowski’s films? I bring up later in the chat. “Yes, [Kieślowski’s] Red was one of the films I’d seen.”

So, if the first clip from the video of this conversation does get passed around for trolling purposes, only fair that this second part is added to it too. Just saying. That said, Ananya sighs in relief, “Shakun turned out to be so chill. He’s from Delhi. My boy, basically.”

It’s not like Ananya hadn’t been through a workshop process with her debut, under Dharma Productions. But that was different. 

“I was 18. That workshop was mainly to open me up to the camera—learn [to tell] the wide-shot, from close-up. Tiger [Shroff; co-star in SOTY 2] would literally move me around, to take my mark, catch the light. I had no idea.”

She adds, “Contrary to popular perception that I grew up [in the film industry]—my dad took me to a set, only once.” That was some picture, Ananya recalls, titled “Fresh Lime or something”, which never got released—a common phenomenon, couple of decades ago. 

Gehraiyaan, for instance, was possibly the first Indian film to engage an ‘intimacy coordinator’ on the set, to execute lovemaking scenes: “It’s a must for every set. It’s about consent. But beyond that, I was too conscious as an actor, too self-aware—diligent, teacher’s pet, doing as told.”

“Which is what I’d be with Punit [Malhotra, director of SOTY 2]. But I may not find that with every director, Shakun told me. So, I had to develop a voice of my own—do a [self-interpreted] ‘take, for the love’, which might make it to the movie.”

This making of Un-Ananya involved “workshops with acting instructor, Atul Mongia, who makes you go deep into inner emotions; voice-coaching with a training institute called Strictly Speaking, breathing exercises….”

There is training on “physicality and movements” that she’s undergoing right, currently, for a 1920s period project she’s working on—that “she’s dying to talk about”, but has been forbidden from. Fair enough.

The filmography that followed Gehraiyaan speaks for itself. Okay, there was that ludicrous Liger that happened after, too. Seriously, what the hell was that? Let’s not talk about it? “You don’t have to, it’s fine,” Ananya mutters.

We move on, to: Kho Gaye Hum Kahan (KGHK), CTRL (pronounced Control), Call Me Bae (CMB). The latter is a fully frivolous/fluffy series, about a ditsy damsel, going through two lives, offline, and on the Internet. “I’m even shocked that you’ve seen it,” Ananya qualifies. 

True. I may not the TG (target group), but there is a flip that occurs somewhere towards the end of third episode of CMB, with commentary on TV news media (which is a spoof of itself), that gives the show, proper legs to stand on, thence. Apart from the accepted genre, of course.

Ananya agrees, “It’s the kinda content, I’d wanna watch, as an audience. Whether or not I’m in it. That’s what I look at [in a script], now.”

For all the fluff, Call Me Bae had something to say. “And it’s aligned with my beliefs, very strongly. Sometimes, as an actor, you’re told not to speak up so much. Or to not get political. But when you can do that, with your work, it’s so beautiful! You also reach a much wider audience.” 

Besides fine music, great performances—particularly Ananya’s; so viscerally easygoing, and easy on the eye—what’s common to KGHK, CMB and CTRL?

That she goes through heartbreak, each time! “That’s my signature. Salman Khan takes his shirt off [onscreen]. I get cheated on! I don’t want it,” Ananya laughs.

Jokes apart, what else is common between KGHK, CMB and CTRL? GenZ, and its relationship, with technology. Or, social media, to be more precise, that totally drives the mediascape, if not the world, circa 2024.

Ananya reasons, “I know people are seeing them as a trilogy of technology movies. That wasn’t the plan. But being a GenZ, these topics are attractive to me, to talk about—and that no one in cinema is [doing it]. It’s been under-represented—technology is the third part of everyone’s lives.” 

Who else to frame such films but a GenZ herself. Making Ananya also the right person, at the right place, time and age, 25, taking the new-turn, on the Bollywood front. 

For a film like CTRL, for instance, where she’s in every single scene—as a young, tech-savvy YouTuber, switching between devices/screens—Ananya herself would be as much a muse as the maal (research) for the movie, no? 

At an experiential level, she certainly knows more about the world being surveyed than the writer-director (Vikramaditya Motwane) himself. She agrees. Which is why she was brought onboard the writing process as well. 

“There was a writers’ retreat in Goa with Vikram, screenwriter Avinash [Sampat], Sumukhi Suresh [the dialogue writer]. And I was called over to sit in on the discussions. That’s when I’d make suggestions, too. Such as the fact that the [lead’s] name should be Nalini, and that she’s trying to fit in, and be cool, by calling herself Nella, instead.”

Just as Bae is actually Bella, in CMB? “In hindsight now, they sound similar. It didn’t feel like that, when I was shooting them, though,” Ananya smiles. CTRL was shot over 16 days, with work on edit, for screen-life genre, that took 16 months!

Ananya says, “The shoot itself had no green screens. The way you saw you it is the way we filmed it. In the sense of me holding two phones [one as prop, and the other as camera]. I got to design the AI [emoji] I talk to in the film too. Which is not the version in the final film.”

For inspiration for her three top films, lately—where Ananya plays a social media fiend/influencer—she’d have to look no further than her own family.

Her first cousin, Alanna Panday (Chikki’s daughter), who—much like Bae, and her bae, in CMB—publicly channels her complete married life, with her partner, Ivor, through their YouTube channel (1.4 million subscribers), and on Instagram (2 million-plus followers).

Alanna and Ivor recently got themselves a multi-part reality series, The Tribe, that dropped on Prime Video. Albeit more as a Bollywood star, rather than a content-creator type, Ananya herself metaphorically leads 25 million followers on Instagram.

I wonder what she makes of the influencer culture herself, while very much a part of it, in a sense.

She says, “I see it with Alanna and her husband. They put out every part of their lives. You’re never present; in the moment. It’s hard work. And then you see what works [online]. So, maybe, you’re not into PDA [public display of affection], but there’s traction, so you do it. As actors, we don’t have to be so public.”

Ananya’s a phone addict, nonetheless. Like so many of us. Her mother, Bhavana, though, she says, is more cued in to social media. Bhavana, of course, became quite the reality TV star through the Netflix series, Fabulous Lives of Bollywood Wives.

By the way, that’s where I first saw this thing called the Paris Debutants’ Ball, with Maheep and Sanjay Kapoor’s daughter, Shanaya, on the ballroom floor, among supposed global elites. Sorry to sound terribly middle-class, but WTF is a debutants’ ball—a Jane Austenian matchmaking soiree?

I ask this to Ananya, because she debuted on the social scene, similarly, in Paris, with the same event, that lists Vanity Fair as its title sponsor. Vanity Fair organises this?

“I’m actually not good with these things [details]—it gets covered in Vanity Fair, yes. Honestly, when my mom first got this invite over mail, she thought it was a prank.

“What I really liked about it is that, well, I didn’t study abroad. I see that with my sister [Rysa], who goes to Tisch [School of the Arts] in New York, and gets to interact with people from all parts of the world. I got to do that at the ball. Then, it’s also the first time we went through camera, hair, make-up—it was a training of sorts.”

What is it, though? “I was 17. As were everyone else—Reese Witherspoon’s daughter, Ava; [comedian] Steve Harvey’s daughter, Lori; the guy [with me] was the prince of Sweden, that I found out later… They pick 20 girls from across the world. We are all in touch.”

I’m guessing a networking event for the young then, and their folks, perhaps.

It’s easy to tell how Ananya would’ve easily fit in, though. There’s a natural gal-pal quality about her. Not that I’m friends with too many her age—but you can tell.

Also, as she fills you in on her family friends, or BFFs, as it were: Shanaya, Navya Naveli (Amitabh Bachchan’s grand-daughter), Suhana (Shah Rukh Khan’s daughter).

Their WhatsApp group is called Charlie’s Angels. There’s another one, Ananya’s Fans: “Named by me, of course,” she says.

Her fans online, incidentally, are called ‘Ananyans’! She provides them a fair peek into her life, through paps, and posts online. This is stuff that makes showbiz, showbiz, anyway.

Outside of that, I think there’s a relatable side to Ananya as a pure conversationalist. She might look a bit of an insouciant space-cadet. Which was my impression of her—changed totally by the fact of how she chats so unaffectedly. To the point that when our hour-long time’s up, she goes, “What? It’s over? Weren’t you gonna ask me about Orry?”

Did tell her that I would. Because we saw a coaster lying in the coffee-table of the studio that said ‘Orly’—shortened form of ‘Oh, really?” We misread that as Orry, before the chat began. 

So, since she asked for it—may as well educate readers on the existentialist query, “Who the hell is Orry?” We mean the social media influencer, who’s only papped with movie-stars, except, nobody knows what he does for a living.

Ananya and Orry are, evidently, friends. And I don’t mean the question in terms of the phenomenon itself—of people famous, for being famous. Instagram is simply the new Page 3. But, no, we must know—who is Orry?

Ananya says, “I’ve known him 10 years.” Where did she meet him? “At a nightclub called Tryst [in Lower Parel]. He’d come with common friends.”

Who was this common friend? “Can’t remember. I think Shanaya. But he’s been friends with all of us—much before we became actors. He went to college in LA, with Janhvi. He was in the same year, if not the same class, with Sara, in school.”

Sara went to Dhirubhai. Ananya tells me, “He’s a South Bombay boy, who went to Cathedral [School].” And then she adds, “I’ve known Orry for a decade, but I still don’t know what his family looks like.”

“Whatever he’s doing is working [for him]. I could make a five-minute documentary on Orry and you still won’t know who he is. He’ll always be a mystery.” Okay then. Or, well, whatever.