Some revolutions start with firecrackers. Others with declarations. Some with hashtags. And then there is the slow, murmuring sort—the kind that whispers its way into the cultural bloodstream and leaves everyone wondering whether something actually changed or if they just got better at pretending it did.
Enter Zahan Kapoor and Ahaan Panday. Two young men, two recent debuts, and two distinct paths in an industry that is always looking to reincarnate itself. At first glance, both seem like the kind of fresh-faced actors who show up at press events and insist they auditioned “like everybody else”. But scratch a little, and you will see that they are representatives of a new evolutionary offshoot in Bollywood’s genealogy—the nepo-sapien 2.0. Not quite the privileged insider, not quite the scrappy outsider. Instead, they live in a curious grey zone: distant relatives of fame trying to prove themselves in a world that quietly wants them to succeed.
Zahan Kapoor is a Kapoor. That should be enough, right? Except he is that Kapoor—the grandson of Shashi and son of Kunal, a name that has not quite echoed in cinema halls the way the names of his uncles or cousins have. There is something refreshingly low-pitched about his arrival. His debut in Hansal Mehta’s Faraaz (2022), a real-life hostage drama based on the attack of a Dhaka cafe in 2016, was stripped of the usual fanfare. No Switzerland, no chiffon, no chart-busters.
Zahan’s performance, spare and simmering, was more theatre workshop than a trailer launch. It seemed almost designed to avoid comparison—he wasn’t mimicking the Kapoor swagger; he was building something quieter, rawer.
Then came Black Warrant (2025) on Netflix—where Zahan gave a sharp, haunting turn in a show that didn’t need him to seduce the camera, but to survive it. If he is trying to shake off the nepotism tag, he is going about it the hard way—giving up gloss, avoiding the gossip pages and sticking to scripts that make your palms sweat. But of course, being able to “choose” difficult roles is also a luxury not afforded to many outsiders. It is the classic Kapoor paradox: wear your name like armour, but insist it is a burden.
Now cut to Ahaan Panday. He doesn’t walk in; he arrives. With the release of Saiyaara on July 18, a full-blown Yash Raj mega-launch helmed by Mohit Suri, he stormed into theatres like he had a three-film deal with destiny. The film, a nostalgic cocktail of tragic romance, slow-mo heartbreak, and post-Emraan Hashmi intensity, is breaking box office records.
Saiyaara is no accident. It’s the latest in a long tradition of carefully manufactured storms. Think Kaho Naa... Pyaar Hai (2000), Love Story (1981), Qayamat Se Qayamat Tak (1988), Maine Pyar Kiya (1989)—launchpads built not to test talent but to introduce stardom. Only this time, the formula has been updated with algorithmic precision: Mohit Suri’s brooding aesthetics, Yash Raj’s monopoly over screens and a script that feels reverse-engineered from a Twitter thread titled “25 things that made ’90s kids cry”.
Ahaan, technically, is not even a “star son”. He is Chunky Panday’s nephew, not heir. Rumour goes that the new star on the block is claiming he is not related to Chunky, but in Bollywood, bloodlines have long shadows. His cousin Ananya Panday has already endured the nepo-label-and-shrug routine. Now it is his turn. Only this time, the resistance seems to be melting under the sheer weight of commercial success.
What is fascinating is how neatly these two fit into a larger ecosystem of star creation. For decades now, Bollywood’s big production houses—especially Yash Raj Films—have taken it upon themselves to cultivate leading men. When Shah Rukh Khan became the king of the single screen in the 1990s, they tried grooming Saif Ali Khan for the multiplex class (Salaam Namaste, Hum Tum). When Hrithik Roshan exploded, they pitched Shahid Kapoor and Neil Nitin Mukesh. When Ranbir Kapoor was inching to the top, they got Ranveer Singh to star in Band Baaja Baraat (2010) and around the same time, they stepped in with Sushant Singh Rajput in Shuddh Desi Romance (2013), Detective Byomkesh Bakshy! (2015), wooed him for Befikre (2016) and locked him for Shekhar Kapur’s Paani, which was forever in the making but never getting made, now probably shelved till it can be revived again.
Some of these projects worked. Others didn’t. But what stayed consistent was the mechanism: test, launch, package, persist. Saiyaara is just the latest test model. In this world, failure is feedback, not disqualification. If Ahaan’s next film underperforms, they will simply tweak the formula. Add a beard. Add trauma. Add nationalism, if needed. Zahan appears to be the kind who resists this machinery. He is not in a hurry. His choices seem to signal that he wants to be more an actor than a star. But again, the choice to go slow is also a privilege. How many true outsiders get a second film after a niche debut? Or even a first?
What has changed in the past five years is not the nepotism itself, but how it is performed. Earlier, the industry denied it. Now, it wears it like distressed denim—torn, but fashionable. Karan Johar jokes about it. Ananya gives faux-humble interviews. Everyone is in on the gag—Varun Dhawan, Alia Bhatt and the whole bunch of Khans, Kapoors and Bhatts. This performance also relies heavily on the audience’s complicity. We love redemption arcs. We enjoy seeing star kids fail a little before they succeed. It makes them seem human, earnest, deserving.
Which brings us to the central con: the more these new-gen actors “struggle”, the more authentic they seem. Zahan and Ahaan, in that sense, are the perfect prototypes of this new paradigm. They are just removed enough from legacy to not invite instant outrage, yet close enough to benefit from the scaffolding.
And that is where the final twist comes.
Here is a theory you won’t hear at round tables or press junkets:
Maybe no one really cares about Zahan or Ahaan’s nepotism connection not because they are struggling, not because they are removed enough from the core dynasties, not even because they “paid their dues”. Maybe it is simply because… they’re not that good looking.
Let that sit for a moment.
They are both fairly pleasant to look at. But neither is distractingly handsome in a way that screams divine right to stardom. That slight visual ordinariness is, perversely, their greatest asset. It gives them a pseudo-authenticity. It allows them to appear like they are “working hard” and not just waltzing in.
This is where the real power of the nepo-sapien lies—not in overwhelming legacy, but in underwhelming presence. They are not threatening. Not yet. Which makes them easier to forgive. You only hate privilege when it looks too pretty or succeeds too fast. When it stumbles a little, when it sweats visibly, when it tries to appear ordinary—you cheer. And that is the real trick. This isn’t a quiet revolution. It just sounds like one because the music has been turned down.
Gautam Chintamani is a film historian and author.