The morning tarmac of Andheri West felt like burning coal against bare, unprotected soles.
Imtiaz Ali ran blindly down the pavement of Link Road toward Kailash Plaza.
His unbuttoned pajama shirt fluttering in the humid smog, his wild salt-and-pepper curls plastered to his forehead with sweat.
Auto drivers honked furiously, swerving to avoid him; pedestrians on the sidewalk stared at the barefoot, wild-eyed filmmaker as if he were an escaped lunatic from an asylum.
He felt none of it.
His entire chest felt hollowed out, as if an iron fist had reached between his ribs and ripped his lungs away.
‘Why did you make me promise, Rudra…?
‘Imtiaz’s mind screamed through the panic.
‘Why did you forbid me from revealing your name to them?!
If I had told them you were Jackie Dada’s blood…’
“If I had told them you were the Rockstar God who brought five thousand people to their knees at Worli…
they would have fallen at your feet!
Why test their loyalty like this?!’
His mind flashed back with agonizing clarity to the previous evening inside the boardroom of Eros International.
(Flashback: Yesterday Evening — The Eros Boardroom)
Imtiaz had practically floated into the glass-and-chrome executive suites of Kailash Plaza.
His heart singing with pure artistic euphoria after leaving the Shroff penthouse.
Sitting across the massive mahogany conference desk were the absolute rulers of the studio:
Kishore Lulla and Sunil Lulla.
Dressed in bespoke Italian suits.
The two brothers exuded the slick, predatory detachment of corporate financiers who viewed cinematic art strictly as collateral to balance international distribution portfolios.
They had greeted him with standard industry flattery, rising to wrap their arms around him in hollow, practiced warmth.
“Imtiaz, our genius!
Tell us you brought good news!”
When Imtiaz had announced with beaming pride that he had discovered the living embodiment of Janardhan Jakhar.
An untested newcomer whose voice carried the bleeding sorrow of an ancient soul.
The Lulla brothers’ smiles had curdled into masks of bitter, patronizing exasperation.
“Are you still chasing that childish indie fantasy, Imtiaz?!” Sunil Lulla had barked, throwing his Montblanc pen across the desk.
“You have a problem with Ranbir Kapoor?!
The grandson of Raj Kapoor!
The son of Rishi and Neetu!”
“The prince of the most powerful cinematic dynasty in the history of Asia!”
“The cousin of Karishma and Kareena!
Who the fuck goes to a multiplex to watch a nobody?!”
They had pointed aggressively toward the floor-to-ceiling promotional posters of Ranbir Kapoor dominating the boardroom walls.
Ranbir with his sleepy, urban bedroom eyes and effortless commercial charisma.
Yet as they screamed.
Imtiaz’s gaze had drifted out the boardroom window toward the massive MTV hoarding looming over the highway.
A crowd of fifty young people were huddled beneath the banner, holding small point-and-shoot digital cameras, snapping photos of Rudra’s bleeding, laughing portrait beneath the full moon.
Imtiaz had almost opened his mouth.
The urge to scream- “He is Jackie Shroff’s son!
He is the Rockstar God!”- had surged to the tip of his tongue.
But remembering the gentle, unyielding weight of Rudra’s hand on his shoulder
(“Bhai, don’t mention my name…
let’s see how much they truly respect your story”), Imtiaz had bitten his tongue.
He had compared Rishi Kapoor’s polished legacy with Jackie Dada’s raw, mythic Marathi swagger.
The man whose unbuttoned shirts and tapri authenticity had left reigning queens like Madhuri Dixit and Dimple Kapadia swooning in the 1980s.
And Rudra had already surpassed his father’s prime in a single night.
Yet the Lulla brothers had merely waved him off with greasy, patronizing smiles.
“Go home, sleep on it, Imtiaz.
We’ll find a middle ground tomorrow.”
(Flashback Ends)
CRASH!
Imtiaz violently threw his weight against the frosted glass double doors of the top-floor suite at Kailash Plaza, bursting into the central creative floor!
The air-conditioning hit his drenched frame like a wave of liquid nitrogen.
He stumbled onto the plush carpeting, his breath rattling in his throat and froze.
Directly in front of him, standing on wooden tailoring mannequins, were the complete, finalized wardrobe sets for Rockstar.
The rustic woolen kurta with the torn hem; the military-surplus olive jacket with hand-stitched patchwork.
The leather wrist cuffs- every single aesthetic concept he had personally sketched in his dusty travel diaries had been manufactured down to the exact thread.
His vision had been copied.
“Preety was right…” Imtiaz whispered, his knees trembling as the cold truth sliced through his remaining illusions.
“Irshad was right all along…”
He lunged toward the master executive cabin, kicking the heavy double doors open with a thunderous BANG!
Kishore and Sunil Lulla looked up from their desks, startled by the intrusion.
Sitting around the coffee table was a team of junior costume designers and line producers.
Sunil frowned in disgust, flicking his fingers at the staff: “Leave us.
Clear the floor.”
The crew scrambled out, casting nervous, pitying glances at the barefoot, disheveled auteur.
Imtiaz stood before the two brothers.
His hands shaking at his sides, his voice cracking into a raw, bleeding whisper of absolute betrayal.
“Why…?
Why did you do this to me?”
Sunil Lulla let out a sharp, dismissive sneer, leaning back in his executive leather chair.
“Because you are an arrogant, naive fool, Imtiaz.”
“You think that because Jab We Met and Love Aaj Kal earned box office numbers, you’re suddenly some messianic star-maker?”
“Tell us…
why did those films make money?”
Imtiaz’s throat went dry.
“The script…” Imtiaz rasped.
“The soul of the story—”
“BULLSHIT!” Kishore Lulla laughed mockingly, slapping the desk.
“People bought tickets to see Shahid Kapur and Kareena Kapoor!
They paid to watch Saif Ali Khan and Deepika Padukone!”
“Without stars, you are a nobody in a crumpled linen shirt wandering around railway stations!
We told you six months ago: ”
“Cinema is an empire run by our royal families.”
“Outsiders do the manual labour, take their development fee, and shut their mouths.”
“You were a hen that laid golden eggs, Imtiaz.
We took your final golden egg…
and now we own the nest.”
Imtiaz felt the ground vanish beneath him.
Every warning his wife had wept over him…
every tear Irshad had shed over their stolen lyrics…
crashed down upon his soul like a collapsing mountain.
“You have the paper…” Imtiaz choked out, his eyes hollow.
“You have the dialogue sheets.
But who is going to direct the storm?!”
“A script is just dead ink without the vision!
No hired corporate hack can match my madness!”
Sunil and Kishore threw their heads back, howling with uproarious, side-splitting laughter!
“A hired hack?!” Sunil chuckled, wiping a tear from his eye.
“Imtiaz, do you really think we would trust a hundred-crore investment to an amateur?”
“We hired an auteur who makes your little festival aesthetics look like child’s play.”
Kishore gestured toward the private terrace lounge behind them: “See for yourself.”
The glass terrace door slid open.
Stepping into the office with slow, measured theatricality was a tall, imposing man with an immaculate mane of silver-white hair, sharp aquiline features, and dark, intense eyes that carried the brooding, grand operatic madness of Indian cinema’s foremost visual baroque master:
Sanjay Leela Bhansali.
Imtiaz’s breath died in his throat.
“Sanjay sir…?” Imtiaz breathed, stepping back as if slapped across the jaw.
“Not you…
You write from your own blood.
You fought studio suits your entire life to protect Devdas and Black!”
“Why would you steal another artist’s soul for corporate money?!”
Bhansali looked at Imtiaz, his sharp eyes carrying a heavy, melancholy pity.
“Imtiaz…
you remind me of myself fifteen years ago,” Bhansali spoke softly, his deep, resonant voice filling the room.
“But you must wake up.
An auteur cannot run a war without an army.
Look at Saawariya.”
A dark, bitter shadow crossed Bhansali’s aristocratic face.
“I poured my life into Saawariya.
I built blue-lit Venice sets in Film City.
I crafted poetry in every frame.”
“And it was butchered at the box office because Ranbir and Sonam were fresh faces.
The audience didn’t care about my vision; they wanted established royalty.”
“That failure broke my heart, Imtiaz.”
“It taught me the brutal lesson: the star is the vessel.
Without an A-list titan carrying the flag, your poetry will rot in an empty theater.”
Sunil Lulla clapped his hands, grinning like a hyena.
“See?!
Even a legend like Bhansali understands reality!”
“We’ve already been shooting secret secondary plate shots for two weeks in Himachal, Imtiaz!
The machine is already rolling!”
Imtiaz stood in the center of the room, his soul completely severed from the studio.
A hollow, hysterical chuckle broke from his cracked lips.
He looked at Bhansali, then at the Lulla brothers.
“If Saawariya was a disaster with that director and that actor…
what makes you so confident this unholy marriage will work today?”
“Because this time, the boy is ready.”
The smooth, lazy baritone floated into the room from the private elevator foyer.
Stepping into the executive suite was twenty-seven-year-old Ranbir Kapoor.
He was dressed in full character wardrobe.
A ripped leather biker vest over a raw-edged kurta, combat trousers, and boots.
Clinging to his arm with an infatuated, wide-eyed gaze was newcomer Nargis Fakhri, dressed in embroidered Kashmiri shawls.
Ranbir stepped directly into Imtiaz’s space.
His fair, aristocratic face carrying that sleepy, innocent Kapoor smile and yet behind those dark, heavy-lidded eyes lay the cold, calculating arrogance of a prince who had never been denied a single toy in his life.
Imtiaz looked at him, and for the first time, the veil shattered.
He didn’t see an artist hungry for pain.
He saw a spoiled scion who collected women and directors like seasonal fashion accessories.
Ranbir reached into his leather vest, pulling out a crisp, signed bank draft:
One Crore Rupees.
He extended it toward Imtiaz with smooth, rehearsed magnanimity:
“I wanted to work with you, Imtiaz.
I truly did.
But your stubborn obsession with casting an unknown struggler was borderline suicidal.”
“Stardom sells tickets.
Stardom gives your words an audience.”
“I read your draft, and it’s brilliant.
Take this cheque—twenty percent of my personal acting fee for the project.”
“Consider it a token of respect from an actor to his writer.”
Imtiaz looked at the seven-figure paper.
He saw the mockery in the Lullas’ eyes.
He saw the paternal pity on Bhansali’s face; and he saw the triumphant sneer dancing behind Ranbir’s innocent eyes.
Suddenly—
Imtiaz threw his head back and laughed!
A rich, booming, and liberated laughter that rattled the glass panes!
He didn’t touch the cheque.
He didn’t curse them.
“Now I understand…” Imtiaz whispered, shaking his head with a serene, radiant smile.
“Now I finally understand why he told me to keep his name hidden.”
“He wanted me to see the rot of this house with my own eyes.”
Ranbir’s brow furrowed, a flash of irritation breaking through his sleepy facade.
“Who are you talking about?”
Imtiaz turned on his bare heel, walking toward the exit doors.
He paused at the threshold, tossing a cold, mocking glance over his shoulder:
“You think you’re ready to wear Jordan’s skin, Ranbir?”
“You think putting on a leather vest and brooding in front of a mirror makes you a rockstar?”
Imtiaz’s voice dropped into a devastating, prophetic baritone.
“Against the man who was born for this mantle…
you are nothing but a boy playing dress-up against a living King.”
Ranbir’s jaw tightened, his knuckles whitening around the cheque.
“Who the fuck is he, Imtiaz?!
Tell me his name!”
Imtiaz didn’t answer.
Without looking back.
His arm rose, extending his index finger straight through the panoramic window toward the Western Express Highway.
Ranbir, Nargis, Bhansali, and the Lulla brothers rushed to the glass.
Their eyes tracked his finger.
Hovering five stories above the highway was the massive, newly unveiled Filmfare billboard.
Rudra standing beneath the full moon, laughing through diamond tears while arterial blood scattered from his fingers across the black acoustic strings.
His golden irises blazing over the city beneath the bold metallic letters:
THE ROCKSTAR GOD OF MUMBAI
Hundreds of college students, laborers, and executives were standing beneath the pillar, bowing their heads, pressing their palms together in reverent awe, snapping photos as if gazing upon a descending deity.
Nargis Fakhri’s breath hitched in her throat, a heavy, peach-toned blush staining her cheeks:
“My God…
Who is that…?”
Ranbir’s handsome face turned violently pale.
A wave of venomous, suffocating jealousy slammed into his chest!
He remembered Katrina Kaif.
Two nights ago, after the Coke Studio broadcast.
He had visited Katrina’s apartment, hoping to use her vulnerable breakup with Salman Khan to slip into her bed.
Instead, Katrina had spent two hours replaying Rudra’s Sawaare, her eyes glassy with awe.
When Ranbir had sneered in jealousy that Rudra was “just another illiterate indie beggar who will be singing in hotel lobbies next year,”.
Katrina had turned on him with feral disgust, spitting.
“You are pathetic, Ranbir.
Don’t you dare come back here.”
Ranbir’s jaw clenched, his eyes burning into the billboard.
“I will launch Nargis,” Ranbir swore darkly, his fingers digging into his pockets.
“I will make her my pet, just like Salman groomed Katrina.”
“And when Rockstar breaks the box office, I will make that golden-eyed bastard beg for a meeting on his knees.”
Bandra West — The Ali Residence (11:30 AM)
The door of the apartment was silent.
Imtiaz stood on the welcome mat.
His bare feet caked with street dust.
He raised a trembling hand toward the brass doorbell and froze.
The shame was paralyzing.
He had ignored his wife.
He had ignored his brother Irshad.
He had run like a madman to beg corporate thieves for mercy, and had been thrown into the street like a dog.
Suddenly—
The door flew open!
“PAPA!”
Nine-year-old Ida Ali lunged forward, wrapping her arms around her father’s waist in an ecstatic, bouncing tackle!
Imtiaz blinked in total bewilderment.
Stepping into the foyer was Preety Ali.
Her eyes were no longer red with weeping.
Her striking Kashmiri features radiated a bright, triumphant glow!
Beside her.
Irshad Kamil was pacing the rug, frantically flipping through a freshly printed, leather-bound manuscript, laughing like a madman.
“A genius!
An absolute, terrifying genius!”
what is happening here?!” Imtiaz gasped, clutching his daughter’s shoulders.
“Did Eros return the script?!”
Preety stepped forward, throwing her arms around her husband’s neck, kissing his tear-stained cheek with pure, unconditional adoration.
“Woh aaya tha yahan, Imtiaz…”
(He descended upon this house, Imtiaz…)
“Who came here?!” Imtiaz stammered.
Ida dragged him into her bedroom, pointing excitedly toward the wall.
“Rudra bhaiya aaye the, Papa!
Unhone ek chutki mein sab kuch theek kar diya!”
“Woh sach mein bhagwaan hain!”
(Rudra bhaiya came to our home, Papa!; He fixed everything in a single snap of his fingers!; He is a real-life living God!)
Pinned beside Ida’s desk was her Filmfare poster of Rudra—now bearing a crisp, fluid signature penned in gold ink across the bottom.
“To my little princess Ida—Keep the light burning.
Your brother, Rudra.”
Preety pulled out a thick, bound manuscript from the desk, placing it firmly into Imtiaz’s trembling hands.
Imtiaz looked down at the embossed golden lettering on the cover:
AASHIQUI 2: R KI AASHIQUI
His breath hitched.
He began flipping through the pages.
The tragic, poetic arc of an alcoholic rockstar who finds redemption by pouring his soul into an innocent street singer, elevating her to the throne of music before walking into the sea to let her legend breathe unburdened!
The dialogue was pure cinematic gold!
The lyrical hooks penned into the margins—”Sunn Raha Hai Na Tu…” and “Tum Hi Ho…”—made Irshad Kamil’s hands tremble with sheer poetic ecstasy!
“He wrote this…?” Imtiaz breathed, tears spilling from his eyes.
“He handed this to us?!”
“He said that Eros can keep their stolen corpse,” Preety wept softly, smiling through her tears.
“He said you are the master of true love, Imtiaz.”
“And he gave this script entirely to our banner, with Sajid Nadiadwala Grandson Entertainment(NGE) backing the distribution and partner with us!”
“Where is he?!” Imtiaz choked out, rushing toward the door.
“Where did he go?!”
Irshad pushed his glasses up his nose, chuckling with mysterious, awe-filled reverence.
“He smiled, adjusted his sunglasses, and told us.”
“Woh Stree hai…
woh kuch bhi kar sakti hai.”
(She is a woman…
she can do anything.)
Juhu — The Residence of Shakti Kapoor (1:00 PM)
Inside a darkened bedroom on the second floor, the curtains were drawn tight, shutting out the brilliant afternoon sun.
Sitting curled up in the corner of her king-sized bed, clutching her knees to her chest, was twenty-one-year-old Shraddha Kapoor.
Dressed in an oversized grey sweatshirt and faded cotton shorts, her delicate, doe-like features were pale and hollowed with deep, suffocating depression.
Her hair was tangled, her eyes rimmed in red from days of unbroken weeping.
On February 26th.
Her dream debut feature—Teen Patti, starring Amitabh Bachchan and Ben Kingsley had released across the country.
It had been an unmitigated, catastrophic box office disaster.
The critics had torn the film to shreds, and trade magazines had brutally written off the newcomer, labelling her a “talentless, awkward star kid who only got cast because of her father’s industry connections.”
The stigma of her father, Shakti Kapoor.
A veteran actor universally stereotyped as a sleazy onscreen villain and comic clown- hung over her career like a toxic lead weight.
Beside her bed.
A small portable stereo was playing the Worli concert recording of Rudra’s Sawaare on low volume.
The weeping, bleeding agony in his baritone mirrored the hollow ache behind her own ribs.
Then, the track transitioned into the soaring, triumphant dawn of Kesariya.
A fragile, quiet smile touched Shraddha’s lips.
“How do you laugh like that after bleeding so much…?” she whispered to the speakers.
GASP!
CRASH!
From downstairs in the living room.
The explosive sound of a crystal tea mug shattering against marble echoed through the floorboards!
Shraddha flinched, startled out of her depressive stupor.
She swung her bare legs off the bed, wiping her red eyes, cracking her bedroom door open.
“Papa…?
Mom…?
Is everything alright down—”
The words froze in her throat.
Standing in the centre of the Kapoor family living room- towering a head above the crystal chandelier, bathed in the midday sunlight slicing through the double doors was Rudra.
He wore a dark fitted henley that hugged his massive Olympian chest, black denims, and carried an aura of effortless majesty.
Sitting frozen on the sofa were veteran actor Shakti Kapoor and his wife Shivangi Kolhapure.
Shakti’s jaw hung slack.
His spectacles sliding down his nose, staring at the 6’3″ titan as if Lord Shiva himself had materialized in his foyer!
Rudra didn’t look at the parents.
His head tilted upward, his liquid-gold irises locking dead onto the trembling, pale girl standing on the second-floor landing.
He didn’t offer polite greetings.
He began climbing the stairs.
His footsteps unhurried, his deep velvet baritone washing over her like warm, melted amber.
“Hey, Aashiqui girl…
mujhe tumhari zaroorat hai.
Kya tum meri madad karogi?”
(Hey, my Aashiqui girl…
I need you; Will you lend me your hand?)
Shraddha stood completely paralyzed.
‘Is this a dream…?’ her mind spun in dazed, breathless shock.
‘Did the Rockstar God walk straight through my front door…
for me?!’
Rudra reached the landing, stopping two feet away, extending his massive, calloused palm toward her with infinite, radiant tenderness.
Shraddha’s trembling hand rose subconsciously, reaching out to touch his skin—
Her knees buckled!
The sheer, overwhelming kinetic shock overwhelmed her nervous system, and her eyes rolled back into a dead faint!
SWOOP!
Rudra’s large arms swept forward, catching her delicate, slender frame cleanly before she could even graze the wooden floor!
He pulled her up against his chest, tucking her head gently into the curve of his throat.
Even in her faint.
Shraddha’s arms instinctively wrapped around his muscular neck, burying her face into the intoxicating scent of dark vanilla, wild honey, and burning cedarwood, a serene, blissful smile breaking across her sleeping lips.
Down in the living room.
Shakti Kapoor stood frozen.
His eyes bulging out of his skull, his mouth opening and closing like a stranded fish, before delivering his legendary onscreen catchphrase in sheer paternal terror.
“Aaaaaaoooo, Lolita…!
Yeh kya ho gaya?!”
(Ooooh, Lolita…!
What on earth just happened here?!)
[ Chapter End ]
Author’s Note
I know after reading this chapter many of you are shocked – not surprised especially my female readers.
(M3**6, I know you’re secretly reading my novel, obsessed with my style, but not commenting… that’s okay.)
My plan was never to write Rockstar.
That’s why I introduced Arijit earlier, along with the Gulaabi Queen.
Please don’t ask how I think of all this without making it boring.
My focus has always been the insider story, not the typical Bollywood template.
This is just the beginning.
Betrayal, cheating, power, fame, lust.
The dark Bollywood is far more interesting than the usual trailers, film launches, collections, and awards.
What I’m doing is exactly what I told you before: exposing the shadows.
And the next chapter?
It’s going to be even more shocking.
Two broken brothers are coming.
Can anyone guess who they really are?
One of them was in Bigg Boss last year, the same season where Gaurav Khanna won, and he finished in the top 5.
You know who I’m talking about.
Yes, in my novel T‑Series and Bhushan Kumar are rivals and even villains.
And about his wife… hahaha, you all know how dirty I can get.