AN: I imagine Sid’s singing to sound a mix of Faheem Abdullah and Jagjit Singh.
That’s how Alia Bhatt found herself standing behind a cramped wedding hall in Andheri, staring in disbelief at a towering stack of plastic chairs, two overflowing garbage bins, and a mess of food scattered across the floor.
She glanced around, her eyes wide with surprise.
“This is your big research?”
Sid adjusted the worn guitar bag slung over his shoulder.
“Part of it.”
“And where exactly are we?”
“I told you.
A wedding hall.”
“Yeah, I can see that.”
Behind them, muffled sounds echoed through the back walls.
The wedding party was clearly winding down, but the service lane was still buzzing with caterers hauling giant steel pots, marigold garlands, and discarded plastic cups.
Alia looked down at the simple flat sandals they’d picked up from a street vendor on the way.
They were already coated in street dust.
She missed her heels.
Sid, on the other hand, seemed completely at ease.
That irked her a bit.
“So, where’s your band?”
“They’re not my band.”
“You sure talk about them like they are.”
Sid scanned the alley.
“They should be—”
“Hero!”
A voice called out from a low concrete ledge a few meters away.
Sameer was perched there, flicking a cigarette ash onto the ground.
Next to him, Meenal was zipping up a cymbal case while Imran took a long swig from a sweaty water bottle.
Sid grinned.
“There they are.”
As Alia followed him over, Sameer’s cigarette paused mid-air.
Meenal looked up, then Imran.
“This is Alia,” Sid said.
Three pairs of eyes turned to her.
Alia offered a shy, neat little wave.
“Hi.”
Sid gestured around the group.
“This is Sameer, Meenal, and Imran.”
“Hi,” Alia repeated, folding her hands briefly.
An unspoken realization hung in the humid air: she clearly didn’t belong to Sid’s usual crowd.
Even without knowing her face, the difference was striking.
Her outfit wasn’t over-the-top, but it definitely had a touch of class that set her apart from the rest.
That leather handbag of hers practically screamed sophistication.
A subtle hint of high-end perfume trailed behind her, cutting through the stale scent of wedding food that filled the room.
She stood there, a bit awkwardly, unsure of where to put her hands in a place that felt so gritty.
Sameer’s expression softened into a slow, playful grin.
Sid perched on the ledge.
Alia hesitated, quickly glancing at the concrete for dust before carefully taking a seat next to him.
Sameer noticed her cautiousness and chuckled.
“What’s so funny?” Alia asked, catching him in the act.
“Nothing,” he replied, trying to suppress his laughter.
“You’re definitely laughing at me.”
“No, no,” Sameer said, raising his hands in mock surrender, still grinning.
Sid interjected, “Just ignore him.”
“Why should I?” Sameer asked, feigning offense.
“Because I know you too well.”
Meenal snapped the cymbal case shut with a sharp clang.
“Where are Raghav and Nilesh?”
“Inside,” Sameer replied, glancing at his watch.
“Getting paid.”
Sid’s brow furrowed.
“Is there a problem?”
“The manager says the organizer has the cash.
The organizer says the groom’s father has it.
And the groom’s father tells us to talk to the manager.”
Sid sighed.
“Not again.”
Alia looked between them, puzzled.
“What’s going on?”
Sid opened his mouth to downplay it, not wanting her first real glimpse into the world of working musicians to turn into a money squabble.
But Sameer had no filter.
“They’re just trying to get our payment before the wedding party clears out,” Sameer said casually.
“Oh,” Alia replied, offering a sympathetic smile to Meenal as she settled in.
Meenal sized Sid up.
“So…
this is the girlfriend.”
Sid froze in place.
Alia whipped her head toward Sid.
“You’ve told them about me?”
“Barely!” Sid blurted out, almost too quickly.
Sameer’s grin widened.
“He talks about you all the time.”
Sid shot Sameer a look that practically screamed trouble.
Alia’s curiosity ignited instantly.
“What did he say?”
“Nothing,” Sid insisted, his voice a pitch too high.
“He’s just making stuff up.”
Alia brushed Sid off entirely, keeping her focus on Sameer.
“Seriously, what did he say?”
Sameer opened his mouth, but Sid quickly pointed a finger at him.
“Choose your next words wisely.”
Meenal burst out laughing.
“He said you’re never on time.”
Sid closed his eyes, feeling a wave of resignation wash over him.
Alia turned her head toward Sid, doing it slowly as if savoring the moment.
She wore a sweet, beautiful smile, but there was a dangerous glint in her eyes.
“Oh really?”
“Context matters!” Sid shot back.
“What context?”
“Traffic!”
Meenal chimed in, clearly enjoying the chaos, “He said you think being fifteen minutes late is actually early.”
Alia’s smile grew wider.
“Is that right?”
Sameer, feeling a bit sorry for Sid’s sweaty forehead, finally spoke up.
“He also says you’re really pretty.
And how supportive you’ve been.”
Sid looked at Sameer, mentally promoting him from foe to brother.
“Thanks, man.”
“Did he really say that?” Alia asked softly, her voice losing its edge.
Sid suddenly found his shoes to be the most interesting thing in the world.
“Many times,” Sameer confirmed with a nod.
A soft blush crept onto Alia’s cheeks.
Imran, who had been quietly observing, shook his head and groaned.
“You guys are like children.”
Sid seized the opportunity to change the subject.
“Speaking of kids, Imran, how’s your son doing?”
Imran groaned louder, rubbing his temples.
“Don’t even ask.
I got called to the headmaster’s office yesterday.”
Sameer burst into laughter.
“What did that little troublemaker do this time?”
“Put Fevicol on his math teacher’s chair,” Imran replied flatly.
Alia covered her mouth, her shoulders shaking with laughter.
Sid couldn’t hold back either—he was in stitches.
Imran shot them a glare.
“Very funny.
You pay his school fees, then tell me if it’s still funny.”
“Did the teacher actually sit down?” Sid exclaimed, bursting into laughter.
“Yep!
Totally ruined his uniform.
I had to apologize, buy him a new chair, and then go home pretending to be mad while his mom whacked him with a slipper.”
Imran took a moment to sip his water.
“…But honestly, I felt a bit proud.”
Laughter erupted all around.
Alia observed Sid closely amidst the chaos.
At industry parties, coffee shops, and readings, he was always so polished, self-aware, and careful with his words.
But here, surrounded by dusty instrument cases, that protective layer seemed to fade away.
He thought about Imran’s kids.
Sid took Sameer’s teasing in stride.
No one treated him like a big-time actor from a major studio.
To them, he was just Sid, the guy who came to learn guitar and soak it all in.
Now Alia understood why he kept coming back.
Suddenly, the heavy metal service door swung open with a loud bang.
Raghav burst out, moving at lightning speed.
Nilesh followed closely behind, clutching a pair of drumsticks and a small canvas bag, glancing nervously over his shoulder.
Alia blinked in confusion.
“Why are they running?”
Sameer shot up immediately.
Sid did the same.
Behind the two musicians, a crowd spilled out of the service entrance.
Men in sharp wedding suits, a few uncles still wearing bright pink pagris, caterers with spoons—at least ten people, all looking furious.
Raghav locked eyes with Sid, panic written all over his face.
“RUN!”
No one bothered to ask questions.
Imran snatched up his bass case in one smooth motion.
Sameer and Meenal grabbed a heavy percussion box together.
Alia stood there, frozen.
“Wait, what—”
Sid grabbed her hand, pulling her along.
“Run!”
“SID!”
“Keep moving!”
“WHY ARE WE RUNNING?!”
“I DON’T KNOW!” Sid shouted back, which was technically true.
Shouts echoed behind them.
Someone yelled something about thieves and ungrateful band boys.
Sid glanced back; Raghav was right on their tail, clutching a hard guitar case.
“Here!
Take this!”
“What’s going on?!” Sid shouted, nearly losing his balance under the weight.
“The usual!
Get the guitar to the bridge!” Raghav pointed down a narrow alley.
“I’ll distract them!”
Before Sid could protest, Raghav and Nilesh veered off into a tight side street.
Most of the wedding guests took the bait and chased after them, but two furious uncles in suits barreled straight toward Sid and Alia.
“Oh, crap,” Sid muttered.
“What?!” Alia gasped, her chest rising and falling rapidly.
“Run faster!”
They bolted into a narrow lane, their footsteps echoing loudly against the pavement.
A vegetable vendor shouted as they nearly toppled his cart of tomatoes.
Sid managed a quick “Sorry!” without breaking his stride, yanking Alia around a sharp corner into an alley crammed with parked scooters, where she struggled to keep up in her fitted skirt.
They ducked behind a rickshaw, pressing themselves flat against the cool brick wall.
Footsteps thundered past the alley’s entrance.
Then, silence.
The quiet was only interrupted by the distant hum of the main road.
Sid peeked out.
No one was on their tail.
He exhaled and let out a quiet laugh.
Alia slid down the wall, hands on her knees, her hair a wild mess around her face.
She was gasping for breath as if she’d just run a marathon.
“What…
is…
so funny?” she managed to choke out, glaring up at him.
“Nothing,” Sid grinned, leaning the guitar case against the bricks.
“Just…
you.”
“Don’t,” she wheezed.
“I’ve literally never run like that in my life.”
Sid wiped the sweat from his brow.
“I can tell.”
She shot him a glare, but then the absurdity of the moment hit her, and a small, breathless laugh escaped.
“What just happened back there?
You said this has happened before!”
“Well, not the chasing part,” Sid confessed.
“I think Raghav and Nilesh just collected their payment.”
Alia frowned, straightening up.
“Collected?
As in…
stole?”
“No, they took what they were owed after being delayed.”
“If you’re not getting paid, you should call the police!” Alia exclaimed, her confusion evident.
Sid chuckled softly.
“And what would I tell them?
That a wedding planner without a license broke a verbal contract for a five-thousand-rupee job?”
Alia opened her mouth to respond but hesitated.
“Then…
you could sue them?
That’s illegal, right?”
This time, Sid let out a genuine laugh.
“And with what money for a lawyer, Alia?
And yes it’s illegal, but who’s checking.”
She fell silent.
“This is just the reality of being an independent musician around here,” Sid said, lifting his heavy guitar case.
“But there are always bands like Linkin Park, or the Beatles who overcome every challenge to rise to the top.” She sounded like she was trying to convince herself.
Sid patiently explain to her, “When you think of music, you picture the big names.
The Beatles, Linkin Park, those legendary bands.
But for every one of them, there are thousands of folks playing at weddings, bars, and local gigs just trying to make ends meet.
Talented musicians.
Even brilliant ones.”
“Then why don’t they make it big?” she asked quietly.
“Timing, lack of connections, or maybe they just aren’t what the market is looking for at the moment,” Sid shrugged.
“They’re not sitting around waiting for fame.
They’re just living their lives in the thick of it.”
Alia gazed down at the dusty pavement of the alley.
The harsh truth, raw and unfiltered, settled in her mind, starkly contrasting with the sheltered life she had always known.
Sid observed her with a thoughtful expression.
He hadn’t brought her here to make her feel guilty about her privileged background.
He brought her here to hold up a mirror.
To reveal that beyond the shiny facade of industry expectations and family legacies, there was a sprawling, chaotic world of people striving just to be heard.
“Come on,” Sid said, a sudden excitement lighting up his voice.
Alia looked up, curious.
“Where to?”
“I’m going to give you a real tour of Mumbai.”
“Sid, I live here.”
“You live in Bandra,” Sid corrected with a playful smirk.
“You haven’t truly seen Bombay.”
He stepped out of the alley and raised his hand.
A worn black-and-yellow taxi pulled up to the curb, its engine rumbling loudly.
Alia stared at the cab in disbelief.
“We’re taking a kali-peeli?”
“No driver, no fancy car, no entourage,” Sid said, holding the door open for her.