The final, soaring acoustic chord dissolved into the midnight air above the Worli Amphi-theater.
Up on the stage.
The five thousand spectators were entirely on their feet.
The roar of their voices shaking the rigging like rolling thunder.
In the center.
Arijit Singh swayed on his good leg, completely exhausted, tears streaming down his face as he leaned heavily against Rudra’s side.
Without missing a beat.
Rudra bent his knees and scooped Arijit into a effortless, protective bridal carry!
The entire front row of the stadium detonated into loud, whistling laughter!
Arijit gasped in pure, boyish mortification.
His hands instinctively grasping Rudra’s muscular shoulders as his face flushed red.
Standing beside them.
Jasmine Sandlas crossed her arms.
Her full pink lips curving into an exaggerated, dramatic pout.
“Oh, come on!” Jasmine huffed, her gravelly voice cutting through the noise.
“You carry him like a runaway bride and leave the rock princess on her four-inch heels?”
“Where’s my royal lift, giant?!”
Rudra threw his head back.
His rich, velvet laughter booming through the remaining feedback.
Down in the VIP box.
Pritam, Vishal and Shekhar rose to their feet.
Their hands clapping in fierce, rhythmically synchronized standing ovations.
The three industry titans exchanged wide, electrified glances.
They had just witnessed the live, shocking evolution of two indie voices under the magnetic gravity of a twenty-year-old golden titan.
BOOM!
A theatrical explosion of pressurized stage smoke detonated from the rear risers, engulfing the central platform in thick, rolling clouds of violet, gold, and crimson mist!
Through the hazy veil.
Jasmine felt a massive, warm presence materialize right behind her shoulder.
A heavy, leather-scented weight settled over her trembling bare frame as Rudra draped his own distressed biker jacket gently across her back.
Before she could spin around.
A deep, velvet-smooth baritone brushed directly against the shell of her ear.
Carrying the intoxicating, signature deluge of dark vanilla, wild mountain honey, and burning cedarwood:
“Gulaabi Queen…
ab mera jaane ka waqt aa gaya hai.
Yeh manch ab tmhara aur Arijit ka hai, mera nahi.”
“Aur yaad rakhna…
Maa Saraswati kisi sangeetkaar ki aawaaz ki banawat nahi, uske seene ki aag aur niyat dekhti hai.”
“Tu rock sangeet ki asli Gulaabi Queen banegi.
Kabhi apne aap ko badalna mat.”
(Gulaabi Queen…
it is time for my exit; This stage now belongs solely to you and Arijit, not to me.
And always remember…
Goddess Saraswati does not measure the polished veneer of a singer, but the sacred flame and pure intent burning within their chest.
You will become the true Gulaabi Queen of rock music.
Never compromise who you are.)
A soft, warm breath grazed her skin, followed by the firm, lingering imprint of his wet lips pressing against the high arch of her cheek.
“Alvida, Gulaabi Queen…
Hum phir milenge.”
(Farewell, Gulaabi Queen…; We shall cross paths again.)
A violent, electric shudder tore through Jasmine’s spine!
“RUDRA!” Jasmine screamed, spinning around, her hands clutching the collar of his heavy jacket.
The smoke cleared in a sudden gust of coastal wind.
The centre stage was empty.
Beside her.
Arijit sat grounded on the wooden deck.
His bandaged fingers clutching the black acoustic guitar.
He looked down at the dark, polished soundboard, staring at the dried, arterial crimson droplets of Rudra’s blood smeared across the steel strings.
A permanent, sacred baptism of liberated pain.
Arijit gently pressed his thumb over the stained wood, a quiet, tearful whisper escaping his chest:
“Bhai…
we will meet again.”
Down in the pit, the crowd surged forward, shouting for an encore.
Pritam, Vishal, and Shekhar rushed up the backstage steps, demanding of the stage manager:
“Where is he?!
Where did that boy go?!”
Jasmine stood on the edge of the riser, clutching the distressed leather jacket tightly around her chest, tears spilling from her hazel eyes.
“He’s gone…” she whispered in hollow shock.
She turned and sprinted through the wings, tearing through the backstage fire exit into the damp delivery alley.
VROOOOOOOOOOOOOM!
A concussive, predatory roar shattered the street!
“RUDRA!” Jasmine shouted into the night, running toward the tarmac.
Fifty yards away.
The twin LED taillights of the sapphire-black BMW M5 flared in a clean, aggressive sweep, tearing around the corner toward the sea link and vanishing into the neon horizon.
Jasmine stopped on the wet asphalt, panting heavily, clutching his jacket tight against her chest.
She remembered everything:
The way he had caught her falling tear outside the green room.
His effortless, teasing Casanova smirk (“Hey Gulaabi Queen, I hate tears re”).
The way he had leapt through the air to catch that flying apple, and the volcanic emotional storm that had brought five thousand souls to their knees.
A soft, breathless chuckle broke from her lips as she wiped her wet face.
“You couldn’t even stay for a single drink, you arrogant beast…?” Jasmine whispered to the empty street.
Her hazel eyes glittering with fierce, unyielding resolve.
“I wanted to kiss you.”
“I would have let you take me back to your room tonight…
just you and me.”
She raised her trembling fingers to her cheek, touching the faint, damp trace of his saliva where his lips had sealed her skin.
Bringing her fingers to her lips.
She closed her eyes, slowly inhaling the scent before letting her tongue lap the trace of his essence.
“Haaah…” A wanton, shuddering sigh tore from her throat.
Her pinkish red nipples tightening instantly under the shimmer dress as pure, liquid heat pooled in her pinkish red pussy.
“His scent…
his taste…
it’s like a drug that has no cure.”
“Just what kind of a monster are you, Rudra…?”
Looking up at the full moon.
Her red hair catching the coastal breeze, she smiled with predatory confidence:
“Run all you want, giant.
You can’t hide from me for long.”
A hundred yards down the alley, leaning in the deep shadows of an abandoned electrical transformer.
A figure watched the red-haired singer turn back toward the venue.
Imtiaz Ali closed a worn leather pocket notebook, clicking his ballpoint pen shut.
A slow, visionary smirk spread across the filmmaker’s soulful, salt-and-pepper face.
“I’m coming for you, Rudra,” Imtiaz murmured softly to the night wind, his dark eyes gleaming with absolute creative certainty.
“Tomorrow morning… This chapter is updated first at g.com.
this industry is going to wake up to a brand-new storm.
Hehehe.”
With the quiet, unobtrusive grace of a wandering mystic.
Imtiaz melted into the Worli shadows.
Bandra-Worli Sea Link — Midnight
The M5 cut through the coastal mist at a steady, rhythmic cruising speed.
Rudra glanced to his left, chuckling as his golden eyes spotted the dried mud smears along the passenger bucket seat.
“Four titans in twelve hours,” Rudra murmured, his fingers drumming the leather steering wheel.
“Vijay Varma, Jaideep Ahlawat, Arijit Singh, and Jasmine Sandlas.”
“The foundational pillars of my future army are already taking root.”
“Arijit and Jassy found their fire tonight; within two years, the radio waves will bend to their command.”
BEEP-BEEP.
His iPhone 3GS vibrated in the centre console.
Picking it up at the toll plaza.
A text message from an unsaved executive number illuminated the screen:
[ Mohini Kashyap: ]
“Jaideep and Vijay are officially locked for Ishqiya opposite Vidya Balan.
Contracts signed 5 hours ago.”
Rudra chuckled, a bright, roguish grin splitting his face.
“Brilliant.
With Jaideep and Vijay anchoring that rustic noir”
“Ishqiya won’t just be an artistic critical hit; it will turn into a massive sleeper monster.”
A second message flashed immediately beneath:
[ Mohini Kashyap: ]
“I saw the Worli live feed, handsome.
Mind-blowing performance.”
“I am counting down the minutes until you step into my bedroom to let me worship that carnal dick, just like you promised.”
Rudra stared at the text, his smile turning into a sharp carnal smirk.
He tossed the phone onto the passenger seat, downshifting as the car rolled off the sea link into the quiet residential avenues of Bandra.
“You think talent alone survives this meat grinder?” Rudra scoffed softly to the dark windshield.
“The industry doesn’t give a damn about pure artistry until it translates to raw power, money, and leverage.”
“The sweet, naive fairy tales of honest struggle are for children.”
“If I have to use my body, my mind, and an iron fist to build this empire…
then that is exactly what I will do.”
He accelerated down Carter Road, turning into the underground garage of the Shroff residence.
Bandra — The Shroff Penthouse
Rudra reached the fourth-floor landing, his boots clicking softly against the marble tiles.
Before his key could even graze the lock—
SWOOSH!
The heavy teakwood door was violently yanked inward!
A pair of toned arms wrapped around his neck in a rib-crushing tackle, nearly knocking him off balance!
“SUPERHERO!” seventeen-year-old Krishna screamed at the top of her lungs, hanging off his shoulders like an excited monkey.
“Did you go out this morning to struggle in casting lines, or did you go out to declare yourself the supreme God of Rock?!”
“What on earth was that performance?!
I knew you had a decent bathroom voice, but what the hell happened on that stage?!”
Rudra threw his head back, laughing as he carried his sister inside, kicking the front door shut behind him.
Standing by the dining archway were Jackie and Ayesha Shroff.
Jackie was leaning against the doorframe.
His dark aviators pushed up into his salt-and-pepper hair, his trademark smirk wide with paternal pride.
Beside him.
Ayesha stood with her hands clasped over her chest, her eyes glistening with soft, lingering tears of profound relief.
Rudra set Krishna down on her feet.
His golden eyes meeting his parents’ gaze.
“What happened to you out there, beta?” Ayesha asked softly, her voice trembling with emotion.
Rudra smiled.
A gentle, serene, and infinitely ancient smile that carried none of his usual theatrical bravado.
“Nothing complicated, Mom,” Rudra answered in a quiet, velvet whisper.
“I just decided to stop hiding in the shadows…
and let Rudra breathe.”
Jackie nodded solemnly, stepping forward to pull his son into a brief, solid shoulder embrace.
He patted Rudra’s cheek with a rough, calloused palm.
“Bhidu…
no more questions tonight,” Jackie commanded gently, his voice thick with unmasked respect.
“You went to war out there today.
Go straight to your room, hit the mattress, and sleep.
We will hold court over breakfast.”
Ayesha stepped in, gently cupping Rudra’s face, pulling his dark head down to plant a warm, lingering kiss right between his eyebrows.
“Go sleep, my brave boy.
You look exhausted.”
Rudra nodded, feeling the bone-deep fatigue finally catching up to his physical vessel.
Between transmigrating that morning, exploring the city, handling Mohini in Aram Nagar, feeding the orphans at Worli beach, rescuing Arijit, and bleeding over an acoustic guitar before five thousand screaming fans.
His mortal stamina was running on empty.
“Goodnight, Mom.
Goodnight, Dad.
Night, Kishu.”
He walked down the corridor to his bedroom, closing the heavy wooden door behind him with a sharp, definitive click.
In the living room.
Krishna watched the door close, turning to her parents with a mischievous, sparkling grin:
“Mom!
Dad!
Seriously, why didn’t you let me ask him about that red-haired singer?!
Did you see how gorgeous she was?”
“And the way she was staring at Jai—I mean, Rudra!
That wasn’t just a duet, that was a whole romantic trailer!”
Ayesha crossed her arms, narrowing her hazel eyes with mock maternal strictness.
“Language, Kishu!
You are seventeen years old, not a tabloid reporter.
Go to bed!”
Krishna rolled her eyes, scoffing with an exaggerated huff before stomping toward her room:
“Fine, fine!
But mark my words, that girl is totally in love with him!”
Jackie chuckled, wrapping an arm around Ayesha’s waist as their daughter disappeared down the hall.
Ayesha rested her head against her husband’s shoulder, staring at the closed door of their son’s room.
“I’m sorry, Jaggu…” Ayesha whispered softly, fresh tears wetting her lashes.
“All those years I spent worrying that our debts had crushed his spirit…
You were right all along.”
Jackie pulled her close, his raspy voice echoing with absolute conviction:
“He is a titan, Ayesha.
In ten to fifteen years…
the entire bollywood will bow before his name.”
Inside his dark bedroom—
Rudra didn’t bother stripping off his boots or changing out of his black vest.
His limbs sinking into the cotton.
His right hand drifted up, his fingers curling tightly around the dark, smooth Rudraksha beads resting against his collarbone.
A faint, peaceful smile touched his lips as his eyelids grew heavy, a drowsy, sacred whisper leaving his chest:
“Sati…
main Bollywood ka Bhagwaan banoonga…
sirf tumhare garv ke liye…”
(Sati…
I will become the God of Bollywood; solely to make your soul proud…)
Within seconds.
The titan fell into a deep, dreamless slumber.
The Next Morning — 8:30 AM
The bright morning sun streamed through the panoramic glass windows of the penthouse, bathing the dining table in warm, golden light.
Rudra sat in a fresh white henley and track pants, buttering a slice of multigrain toast while effortlessly trading fast-paced insults with Krishna.
Who was dressed in her private school uniform, a tall glass of freshly squeezed orange juice resting beside her plate.
“I’m telling you, Kishu, if you keep making that scowling face, your cheek muscles will permanently freeze into a bulldog snarl,” Rudra teased, chewing casually.
“Oh, shut up, you narcissistic rockstar!” Krishna shot back, sticking her tongue out.
“At least I don’t bleed on innocent musical instruments to show off for girls!”
DING-DONG.
The sharp, sudden chime of the front doorbell echoed through the hallway.
The entire family paused.
It was barely eight-thirty on a Saturday morning.
The building security guards had strict orders never to permit visitors up without prior phone clearance.
Ayesha set a bowl of sliced papaya on the table, wiping her hands on an apron.
“Kishu, go open the door, beta,” Ayesha instructed.
“See who it is before the building manager starts complaining about early morning visits.”
“Fine, fine,” Krishna grumbled, picking up her tall glass of orange juice to take a sip on her way to the foyer.
She reached the heavy front door, unlatched the deadbolt, and pulled it open.
Standing on the threshold was a tall, lean man in his late thirties, dressed in an unbuttoned, crumpled olive linen shirt over faded denims, with wild, salt-and-pepper curls tumbling over an intensely soulful, deeply lined face, looking at her with a gentle, questioning smile.
Krishna froze.
Her dark eyes bugged out of her skull.
Her jaw unhinged, dropping completely slack!
CRASH!
The tall glass slipped straight from her paralyzed fingers, detonating against the Italian marble tiles in an explosive spray of pulp, seeds, and shattered crystal!
Ayesha turned around from the kitchen counter.
Her face instantly turning dark with pure maternal fury!
“Kishu, tujhe ho kya gaya hai?!
Yeh teesri baar tune glass giraya hai!”
“Mere paas factory hai kya glass ki?!
Agli baar se tu steel ke glass mein juice piya karegi!”
(Kishu, what on earth is wrong with you?!; That is the third time you have dropped a glass!; Do I own a glass factory or something?!; From now on, you will drink your juice out of a steel tumbler!)
Ayesha grabbed her own glass of pomegranate juice from the counter, storming toward the foyer in a huff:
“Tujhe ho kya gaya hai?
Kaun hai bahar?!”
(What has gotten into you?; Who on earth is at the door?!)
Ayesha rounded the corner, stepping up beside her paralyzed daughter, looking toward the open threshold—
Her hazel eyes snapped wide.
Her breath hitched violently in her throat!
CRASH!
Ayesha’s hand completely unclasped.
Her crystal glass detonating onto the floor right beside Krishna’s, splattering crimson pomegranate juice all over her white salwar!
Back at the dining table.
Jackie and Rudra leaned back in their chairs, bursting into uproarious, side-splitting laughter!
“Arey bhidu, dekh!” Jackie howled, slapping the table with his palm.
“Lagta hai aaj hamare ghar ki auratein paagal ho gayi hain!
Jaise maa…
waise beti!”
(Hey boss, look at that!; It seems the women of our house have completely lost their minds today!; Like mother…
like daughter!)
Rudra chuckled, raising his own glass of mango juice toward his lips in a relaxed toast.
In the hallway, identical, throbbing red tick-marks materialized on the foreheads of both Ayesha and Krishna!
With synchronized, chilling precision, mother and daughter stepped to the left and right, clearing the sightline between the foyer and the dining room.
Rudra brought the glass to his lips.
His golden eyes casually flicking up toward the entrance—
Beside him.
Jackie’s aviators slid down his nose as his eyes locked onto the figure standing in the doorway.
The laughter died instantly.
The air in the dining room turned to pure lead!
Both father and son’s eyes dilated to their absolute, catastrophic limits!
TILT!
The heavy teak dining chairs tipped violently backward!
THUD!
SPLASH!
Jackie and Rudra tumbled backward onto the hardwood floor in a tangled heap of long limbs.
Their tall glasses slipping from their hands, dumping thick, sticky yellow mango juice directly across both of their shocked, frozen faces!
Standing in the hallway with their arms crossed over their chests.
Ayesha and Krishna looked down at the two juice-covered giants with identical, razor-sharp, and triumphant smirks.
Lying flat on his back with yellow mango pulp dripping from his chin,.
Jackie Shroff stared at the doorway, a choked, horrified curse slipping from his lips in synchronized harmony with his son:
“SAALA…
MAA KI AANKH!”
(HOLY…
SHIT!)
Standing on the welcome mat, casually scratching his wild salt-and-pepper curls with an amused, soulful grin, was the undisputed poet of modern Indian cinema:
Imtiaz Ali.
[ Chapter End ]
Author’s Question to Readers
Hello my beautiful and handsome readers,
I have a genuine question for you, and I would love to hear your raw thoughts.
First: Did you really like Rudra as the main hero?
He is not a simple character – he’s complex, multi‑layered, and full of contradictions.
I know many of you admire his swag, charisma, and style, but I want to know how you feel about him deep inside.
Female readers especially – your perspective matters to me.
Even if you usually stay silent for privacy, I would be grateful if you share.
Second: In what way would you like me to show the “shooting” aspect of Bollywood?
Do you prefer behind‑the‑scenes drama, music video shoots, or film set sequences?
I have some rough ideas that will make this novel unique, but I want to hear your thoughts before I shape the direction.
My novel is built on undercurrents – piracy, leaks, betrayals, and the hidden games of the industry.
Rudra’s future knowledge will unfold slowly and subtly.
Remember, technology is only a support here; the real priority is cinema.
Rudra will use everything – music, movies, camera tech to reshape Indian cinema in his own way.
So tell me honestly: Do you love Rudra as your hero, and how do you want me to show the shooting world?