The floor-to-ceiling glass doors of the private terrace study at the Nadiadwala Grandson Palace stood wide open, allowing the salty morning breeze of Juhu to sweep across a massive whiteboard mounted against the teak panelling.
Standing before the board, dry-erase marker clutched in his large, calloused fingers, was Rudra.
With lightning-fast, ambidextrous precision, his hand swept across the slick white surface.
He wasn’t simply writing; his fluid strokes were a masterclass in classical Devanagari calligraphy intertwined with modern cinematic flowcharts, production timelines, and logistical budget allocations.
Seated at the low executive lounge table.
Sajid Nadiadwala and Warda Khan Nadiadwala watched in stunned, paralyzed silence.
Warda rarely involved herself in the day-to-day corporate grind of NGE.
She had always maintained that Sajid possessed the seasoned commercial instincts to navigate the industry’s sharks.
Yet today, her dark feline eyes were riveted upon the 6’3″ titan.
Every micro-movement he made—the broad sweep of his shoulders.
The easy authority in his velvet baritone, the razor-sharp analytical deconstruction of the city’s trade politics—convinced her that the boy standing before them had completely shed the skin of Jai Hemant Shroff.
He had evolved into a terrifying strategist operating lightyears ahead of veterans twice his age.
“Imtiaz Ali walked into my father’s house at eight-thirty yesterday morning,” Rudra explained evenly, capping the marker with a sharp snap.
“He laid the complete shooting manuscript of Rockstar on Dad’s desk.
He offered me Janardhan Jakhar.”
Sajid blinked, his eyebrows shooting upward.
“He bypassed Ranbir?!
The trade rumors were buzzing for two months that Kishore and Sunil were locking horns with him!”
“But Rudra…
if you agreed, why send me to buy the rights to Aashiqui?”
“If you revealed your face as Jackie Dada’s blood and the Rockstar God of Worli, the Lullas would have signed the distribution contract on the spot!”
“You eclipse Ranbir’s commercial heat right now!”
Sajid leaned forward to interrogate him, but Warda reached out, resting her warm, manicured fingers over her husband’s wrist.
She offered a subtle, knowing shake of her head, whispering:
“Just listen to him, Sajid.”
Rudra offered Warda a fond, appreciative nod, turning back to the board.
“Uncle…
you’ve run this trade for twenty years,” Rudra smiled coldly, a predatory glint igniting his golden irises.
“Do you truly believe a monolithic corporate studio like Eros International debates casting with a stubborn director for six months without moving their pieces?”
Sajid’s breath hitched in his throat.
His sharp producer instincts fired in rapid succession.
His eyes widening in pure horror: “Don’t tell me…
Eros already started rolling behind his back?!”
“Two weeks of clandestine second-unit photography in Himachal,” Rudra confirmed, tapping the whiteboard.
“They stole his aesthetic notes, Irshad Kamil’s lyrical drafts, and signed Sanjay Leela Bhansali to direct Ranbir under their own corporate copyright.”
“If I had walked into that boardroom, I would have handed them my leverage for free while they slaughtered Imtiaz’s soul.”
“I had to let Imtiaz see the slaughterhouse with his own eyes so the naive poet could die, and the true warrior could awaken.”
Warda leaned back against the plush velvet, crossing her legs.
Her eyes glittering with profound admiration.
“A masterstroke of psychological warfare,” Warda murmured, her voice laced with husky fascination.
“You broke his dependency on the old studio system.
But a director without a script is a general without a sword.”
“We hold the trademark for Aashiqui, Rudra…
but a title alone cannot conquer a multiplex.”
Rudra threw his head back, letting out a rich, teasing chuckle.
“Who said the King marches without a blade, Warda Aunty?”
From the inner pocket of his leather jacket resting on the chair.
Rudra pulled out a freshly bound, gold-embossed manuscript, sliding it across the walnut table.
Emblazoned across the cover in jagged, crimson font was the title:
AASHIQUI 2: R KI AASHIQUI
Sajid and Warda leaned over the pages.
For the next fifteen minutes.
Rudra walked them through the narrative architecture of Rahul and Aarohi.
Yet this was not the nihilistic, self-destructive tragedy of the old Hollywood template.
In Rudra’s re-imagined masterpiece.
Rahul was not merely an alcoholic drowning in self-pity.
Rahul had been an ordinary commercial singer whose soul was torn apart when his senior and first love, Jasmine.
A fiercely talented, rebellious artist- succumbed to terminal cancer.
The agony of that loss had fractured him, driving him into a sacred pilgrimage across India’s forgotten sanctuaries.
He had wandered barefoot from the ancient ringing bells of Varanasi temples to the hypnotic qawwalis of Hazrat Nizamuddin, from the soul-piercing Shabads of the Golden Temple to the solemn, echoing hymns of Goan cathedrals.
Through that sacred crucible of grief and spiritual surrender.
Rahul had mastered the vocal arts of the divine, fusing raw, bleeding pain with celestial devotion to emerge as an untouchable musical phenomenon:
The Rockstar God.
Yet having reached the absolute peak of mortal fame, he found no solace.
The ghost of Jasmine haunted every note.
Empty, hollow, and seeking to end his suffering.
He walked toward the rain-swept edge of an urban bridge- only to hear a trembling, pure, and untouched voice singing from a modest street bar:
Aarohi.
Seeing the lingering shadow of Jasmine’s unfulfilled dreams in the young girl’s eyes, Rahul discovered his new purpose.
He poured his life, his prestige, and his mentorship into forging Aarohi into the empress of music.
And in the final, soaring climax- where the original tragedy demanded suicide.
Aarohi raced through the stormy Mumbai night, throwing herself into the crashing surf of the Arabian Sea, hauling a drowning Rahul back to the sand!
Beneath the breaking dawn, amidst the rising tide.
They sealed their scarred, transcendent devotion with a sunrise kiss of absolute rebirth.
A story not of defeat, but of resurrection, second chances, and the triumph of eternal love.
Silence enveloped the room.
Warda’s eyelashes fluttered, wiping away a genuine, glistening tear that rolled down her olive cheek.
Sajid sat frozen, his chest heaving as if he had just witnessed an open-heart surgery on paper.
“A happy ending…” Sajid choked out, laughing through his wet eyes.
“In an era of bitter cynicism…
you gave them hope.”
“Audiences don’t go to the cinema to be abandoned in the dark, uncle,” Rudra said softly, his voice rich with sacred warmth.
“They go to remember that no matter how deep the wound…
dawn always arrives.”
Sajid stood up violently, slamming his hand onto the table with a triumphant roar:
“Rudra, this is a fucking masterpiece!
You wrote this?!”
“The dialogue, the scene blocking, the structural transitions…
And wait!”
Sajid’s eyes bulged in sudden revelation:
“The songs you sang at Worli…
Sawaare and Kesariya…
Don’t tell me—!”
“They belong to Rahul’s journey,” Rudra smiled, nodding.
‘Warda was right,’ Sajid thought, his heart hammering in his ribs as he stared at the youth.
‘He isn’t just a star kid.
He is a generational anomaly…
our golden ticket to the absolute throne of this trade!’
Sajid walked over, gripping Rudra’s shoulders.
“Forget the budget constraints, Rudra!
NGE will open the vault!”
“Twenty crores, thirty crores—name your number!
I will build you the grandest musical sets in Mumbai!”
Rudra let out a roguish chuckle, turning back to the whiteboard.
With three swift strokes.
He wrote a single, terrifying number in bold crimson ink:
TOTAL BUDGET: ₹5,00,00,000 (5 CRORES)
Sajid’s jaw hit the floor.
He stumbled back into his chair, sputtering.
“Five…
FIVE CRORES?!
Rudra, are you out of your mind?!”
“You can’t even pay the lighting crews and location permits for a national musical on five crores!”
“You can if you strip away the bloated rot of superstar vanity,” Rudra answered, his golden irises locking onto Sajid with razor-sharp commercial gravity.
“This film will not be manufactured by jaded studio mercenaries.”
“It will be built by hungry, starving young wolves who want to tear this industry’s throat out to prove their existence!”
“I don’t need fifty-crore star fees.
I will give them the ultimate platform, and they will pour their blood into the celluloid.”
“I have already locked my director in Imtiaz, my lyrical maestro in Irshad, my production house in NGE, and my female lead.”
Sajid stared at him, utterly dumbfounded.
In thirty years of producing blockbusters.
Sajid had catered to the volatile egos of Salman Khan and Akshay Kumar.
He remembered the grueling schedule of Mujhse Shaadi Karogi.
Where he was forced to shoot twenty-four hours a day because Akshay was an early-morning ascetic while Salman refused to step out of his vanity van before three in the afternoon.
Yet standing before him was a titan who had pre-visualized the entire logistics, creative slate, and financial architecture of a national blockbuster before asking for a single rupee.
“I don’t need spoiled megastars anymore…” Sajid whispered in dazed reverence, sharing an electrified glance with Warda.
Warda offered a subtle, decisive nod.
Sajid turned back.
“I know you won’t take a flat actor’s fee, Rudra. You are reading on novelping.com, the official source.
NGE takes distribution and physical production.”
“You get twenty-five percent of the absolute theatrical and backend net profits.”
Rudra raised an eyebrow, about to decline—knowing Sajid had already paid five crores for the title but Sajid raised a stern, paternal palm:
“Don’t argue with your elder, Rudra.”
“A king takes his rightful share.”
Rudra smiled, dipping his head: “Deal, uncle.”
Before they could finalize the legal drafts, the double doors flew open!
“RUDRA BHAIYA!”
Subhan and Sufyan barged into the study, waving their toy guitars, tackling Rudra’s knees.
“No more boring paperwork!
You promised to teach us the rockstar jump!”
Rudra laughed brightly, sweeping both boys into his arms.
“Duty calls, boss!
Lead the way, captains!”
Sajid chuckled, settling back into his leather armchair with the script.
“Go, go!
I need one hours of absolute silence to absorb this masterpiece.”
In the adjacent carpeted playroom.
Rudra spent the next forty minutes singing acoustic melodies, teaching the twins rhythm patterns, and laughing as they engaged in theatrical stage leaps onto oversized beanbags.
By the time the early afternoon heat peaked, both six-year-olds were utterly exhausted, their eyelids drooping.
Rudra gently lifted them onto their custom beds, tucking the soft cotton duvets beneath their chins.
Leaning against the doorframe, watching in quiet, mesmerizing stillness, was Warda.
Her emerald silk kaftan accentuated her ripe, voluptuous curves, her arms crossed beneath her heavy bust.
‘He is utterly terrifying…’ Warda thought, her feline eyes drinking in the broad, aesthetic lines of his back.
‘He plans an industry coup on a whiteboard, and twenty minutes later he is tucking children to sleep with the tenderness of an angel.’
Warda’s marriage to Sajid was a mutually respectful corporate and familial treaty.
After the birth of the twins.
They had transitioned into trusted partners rather than carnal lovers, sleeping in separate wings.
Warda had willingly suppressed her sensual desires, thoroughly repulsed by the sleazy, transactional advances of Bollywood’s predatory male stars.
Yet standing in the presence of Rudra, she felt an ancient, primal hunger clawing at her womb.
He didn’t view women as trophies to be conquered.
He treated the feminine with sacred, boundless reverence and that sheer, magnetic virility was a lethal aphrodisiac to an intelligent, powerful woman.
Rudra turned, stepping into the corridor.
Warda reached out, her smooth, warm hand lightly catching his wrist.
“You must be famished, Rudra.
Come to the kitchen island; let me fix you something.”
Rudra smiled warmly, shaking his head.
“Thank you, Warda aunty, but Mom practically force-fed me parathas before I left the house.”
Warda’s lips curved into a sharp, playful pout.
She didn’t release his wrist, gently tugging him toward the sunlit kitchen, pouring a tall glass of freshly squeezed valencia orange juice:
“Drink.
And tell me…
how does it feel having half the women in Maharashtra weeping over your portrait?”
“Especially that fiery red-haired Gulaabi Queen?”
Rudra took the glass, chuckling into the citrus.
“Jasmine is an exceptional artist, but we barely know each other.”
Warda leaned against the counter, her breasts pressing firmly against the silk, tilting her head with a wicked, predatory glint.
“Oh, really?
And what about during the shooting of Aashiqui?”
“That female rockstar character…
‘Jasmine’…
who dies of cancer…
you wrote that role specifically for her, didn’t you?”
Rudra’s golden eyes widened slightly in genuine surprise.
‘Her investigative instincts are terrifyingly sharp,’ Rudra noted, impressed.
“You don’t miss a single thread, aunty,” Rudra complimented with a genuine smile.
“Now I see why Sajid uncle relies on your intellect.”
Warda let out an exaggerated, theatrical gasp of mock offense, stepping an inch closer, her eyes flashing with sultry heat.
“Ooh, Rudra…
you’re wounding my pride!
Why do you keep calling me ‘aunty’?!”
“Do I look like an old grandmother to you?!
You should call me Warda.”
Rudra paused, a faint, awkward hesitation crossing his features.
After transmigrating and liberating Jai’s remnant soul.
Rudra had inherited the boy’s deep, protective affection for the few elders who had stood by the family during the dark years.
Jai had always revered Warda as a maternal elder.
Because of that unconditional filial trust.
Rudra’s usual analytical radar- which had instantly dissected the predatory nature of Mohini Kashyap was entirely lowered around her and even Krishna inner dark struggle, leaving him blind to the dark, wanton carnal hunger simmering behind her eyes.
“Warda aunty…
it feels disrespectful,” Rudra began carefully.
“She’s right, Rudra!” Sajid’s booming voice echoed down the hall as the producer strode into the kitchen, wiping tears from his eyes, clutching the script!
“Call her Warda, Rudra!
Otherwise, all those expensive pilates sessions and gym memberships will go to waste if a young rockstar calls her aunty!”
Warda burst into rich, melodic laughter, shooting a triumphant wink at Rudra.
“See?
The master of the house has decreed it!
Say it, Rudra.
Say my name.”
Rudra scratched the back of his neck, letting out an amused, sheepish laugh.
“Alright, alright…
Warda.”
Warda lunged forward, wrapping her arms around his muscular neck, pulling his towering frame into a tight, lingering embrace!
Her soft, lush bosom flattened firmly against his rock-solid pectorals.
Her voice a breathless, velvety purr against his collarbone.
“Much better, my handsome rockstar.”
She pulled back, looking at her husband: “So, hubby…
what’s the verdict on the script?”
Sajid looked at Rudra, his dark eyes shining with absolute, holy reverence.
“It is the greatest screenplay I have held in thirty years.
You were born for cinema, Rudra.”
“Keep the surprises coming, uncle,” Rudra smiled roguishly.
The living room television, tuned to MTV India, flared with another high-definition rebroadcast of the Worli concert.
Sajid frowned, pointing at the screen.
“MTV is syndicating your image without a release contract, Rudra.
What’s the play?”
Rudra set his empty juice glass down, pulling his dark sunglasses and beanie from his pocket.
His velvet baritone dropping into a cool, enigmatic whisper.
“Sajid uncle…
you know the golden rule of modern trade: nothing is ever truly free.”
“And if a network gives you an empire’s worth of free prime-time marketing…
it simply means they don’t realize they’ve already become the product.”
He tossed them a crisp, two-finger salute, stepping out toward the driveway.
“Tomorrow morning at ten, uncle.
Bring the contracts.
The vanguard convenes.”
As the sapphire-black BMW M5 roared out the iron gates.
Sajid and Warda stood side by side on the veranda.
Warda’s eyes tracked the departing vehicle.
Her chest heaving with dark, possessive electricity.
“He is terrifying, Sajid…
We must anchor him to NGE forever.”
“Don’t you dare let Karan Johar or Aditya Chopra get their filthy claws on him.”
Sajid nodded solemnly, then chuckled.
“Speaking of vultures…
I forgot to mention: last night, after Mahesh left T-Series, Divya Khosla barged into Bhushan’s cabin like an enraged lioness.”
“She was screaming at Bhushan to track down Rudra’s personal contact details before the sun rose.”
“She wants him signed to an exclusive five-year music-and-acting contract.”
Warda’s dark feline eyes narrowed into lethal, venomous slits.
She knew Divya Khosla Kumar.
She knew how the former small-time starlet had wrapped the insecure Bhushan around her manicured finger, becoming the shadow empress pulling the strings behind T-Series’ aggressive corporate expansion.
‘Divya wants him…’ Warda thought, her nails digging into her palms with fierce, territorial wrath.
‘The music queen thinks she can claim my golden titan?
Over my dead body.’
‘Rudra belongs to my house…
Juhu — A Modest Apartment Complex (5:00 PM)
The evening sun was setting in bruised shades of amber and violet over the western suburbs.
Walking down the dusty residential lane with his head bowed.
His shoulders slumped beneath an oversized faded denim jacket, was nineteen-year-old Amaal Mallik.
His deep, brooding eyes were ringed with exhaustion.
His fingers calloused from twelve-hour shifts working as an unpaid intern and ghost-arranger in damp suburban recording studios.
Amaal paused beneath a lamppost, staring up at a freshly pasted Filmfare poster of Rudra.
“The Rockstar God…” Amaal whispered bitterly, a raw, burning ache twisting his stomach.
“He bled on those strings…
and transformed his agony into celestial fire.”
“How does someone carry that much light?
While we…
we rot in the shadows.”
Amaal was the eldest son of composer Daboo Mallik and Jyothi Mallik.
The exiled, forsaken princes of the legendary Mallik musical dynasty.
His childhood had been an unbroken war of domestic humiliation.
His uncle, veteran composer Anu Malik, had systematically sabotaged Daboo’s career, terrified that his younger brother’s melodic brilliance would eclipse his own commercial monopoly.
Amaal remembered the screaming matches.
He remembered his mother Jyothi weeping on the kitchen floor, begging his naive, gentle father to stop trusting Anu’s poisoned promises.
And burned into Amaal’s soul was the Mumbai flood of 2005.
Fifteen-year-old Amaal had been trapped in waist-deep, swirling black floodwaters, clutching an iron gate, drowning.
His uncle Anu had driven past in his luxury Mercedes, had rolled down his tinted window, looked his terrified nephew dead in the eyes with cold, sadistic amusement, and rolled the window back up, speeding away into the rain.
Only his mother’s frantic, bloody hands had pulled him from the deluge.
From that day, a feral, destructive fire had ignited within Amaal.
He had sworn to sacrifice his own youth to shield his gifted younger brother, fourteen-year-old Armaan Mallik.
In 2006, ten-year-old Armaan had stunned the nation on Sa Re Ga Ma Pa L’il Champs.
Yet the moment the industry judges realized Armaan was Daboo’s son, the corporate pressure had descended.
Armaan had been unceremoniously eliminated, leaving the little boy sobbing into his mother’s sari.
‘We are cursed,’ Amaal thought, trudging up the concrete stairs to their third-floor flat.
‘The industry hates outsiders, but it reserves its purest venom for the broken princes of its own bloodlines.’
He reached the front landing, pulling his keys from his pocket—
He froze.
The apartment door was slightly ajar.
Drifting through the gap was an acoustic rhythm that made the hair on Amaal’s arms stand on end!
THWAP-SLAP-STRUM.
It was the impossible, percussive slap-harmonic progression from the Worli concert!
Amaal’s brow furrowed into furious, protective rage.
Two nights ago, after watching Rudra’s performance.
Amaal had tried to mimic that exact thumb-slap technique, tearing his own index cuticle open, leaving him with three bandaged fingers!
He had strictly forbidden Armaan from touching the steel strings!
Amaal kicked the door open, bellowing down the hallway.
“Armu!
Maine tujhe mana kiya tha na?!
Ungli kat jaayegi teri, jaise meri cut gayi thi!
Band kar yeh pagalpan—!”
(Armu!
Didn’t I strictly forbid you from trying that?!; You’ll slice your finger wide open, just like I did!; Shut that madness down right now—!)
The furious shout died in his throat.
Amaal stepped into the modest living room and his soul left his body.
Sitting on the worn sofa were his father Daboo and mother Jyothi, their hands clasped together over their mouths, weeping tears of pure, transcendent joy.
And sitting cross-legged on the threadbare carpet was fourteen-year-old Armaan, holding his junior acoustic guitar.
His doe-like eyes wide as saucers, looking up at the towering figure seated on the low wooden stool.
“Waah, Chhotu!” a deep, velvet baritone rumbled with rich, melodic laughter.
“Tere andar sach mein bohot talent hai!
Chal, ab agla beat pakad!”
(Brilliant, little brother!; You truly carry monumental talent inside your chest!; Come on, now catch the next rhythm!)
Armaan grinned ear-to-ear: “Okay, Bhaiya!”
Amaal stood paralyzed in the doorway.
Sitting in his living room—dressed in a fitted black henley.
His thick obsidian hair casually swept back, his piercing liquid-gold irises blazing with ancient warmth- was the Rockstar God himself.
Rudra’s large, calloused fingers executed a breathtaking, sweeping percussive roll across the spruce soundboard, letting the final resonant harmonic ring into the quiet room.
Rudra tilted his head.
His golden eyes locking onto the frozen, pale nineteen-year-old standing at the threshold.
A dazzling, roguish smile broke across Rudra’s chiseled face:
“Oye hoye!
Bade Ustaad ji bhi aa gaye…
Hai na, Chhote Ustaad?”
(Well, well!
The Grand Maestro has finally arrived…
Isn’t that right, Little Maestro?)
Armaan giggled, nodding vigorously as Rudra affectionately ruffled his hair.
Rudra rose to his feet.
His 6’3″ Olympian frame seemed to fill the entire living room.
His sheer physical gravity commanding the space with natural, unforced authority.
He strode across the floor, stopping inches before Amaal.
Those liquid-gold eyes bored straight through Amaal’s defensive armor, piercing through ten years of suppressed rage, broken dreams, and family betrayal, seeing the burning diamond hidden beneath the ashes.
Rudra leaned down, his velvet baritone dropping into an intimate, brotherly whisper:
“Amaal…
mujhe tere andar ki woh aag chahiye, jo tune sadiyon se apne seene mein daba kar rakhi hai.”
“Ab main tujhe aur Chhotu ko woh manch doonga, jahan poori duniya dekhegi…
ki tum dono kisi Mallik ke ehsaan par nahi, balki Amaal aur Armaan bankar jeete ho!”
“Dono bhai…”
(Amaal…
I need that raging fire you’ve kept buried behind your ribs for lifetimes; Now I will hand you and your little brother the sovereign stage where the entire world will witness…
that you two don’t survive on the charity of the Mallik surname, but conquer as Amaal and Armaan!
The two brothers…)
Behind them on the sofa.
Armaan jumped up, pumping his fist with a wild, victorious roar:
“DONO TABAAHI!”
(THE TWO-MAN APOCALYPSE!)
Rudra threw his head back, his booming laughter rattling the windowpanes!
He reached out, his heavy, warm palm clamping firmly over Amaal’s tense shoulder.
His golden eyes blazing with absolute decree:
“Amaal…
mujhe mera Music Director chahiye.
Dega mujhe apna haath?”
(Amaal…
I need my Music Director; Will you give me your hand?)
Amaal stared into the golden suns before him.
The sheer, monumental weight of the moment.
The sudden, miraculous resurrection of his broken family’s honour—slammed into his nervous system like a freight train!
His knees turned to water.
His eyes rolled back—
And nineteen-year-old Amaal Mallik collapsed into a dead faint!
SWOOP!
Rudra’s massive arm shot forward, catching the youth cleanly around the chest before his head could hit the linoleum, hoisting him up with an amused, exasperated chuckle:
“Pehle Shraddha…
aur ab tu!
Kya mera yahi kaam reh gaya hai iss shehar mein?!”
(First Shraddha faints…
and now you!; Is catching fainting artists my official job description in this city?!)
Armaan collapsed onto the sofa, howling with laughter, pointing at his unconscious brother:
“Rudra bhaiya, ab aap aate hi aise style mein ho ki acche-acche log flat ho jaate hain!”
(Rudra bhaiya, you make entries with such devastating swagger that even the toughest men collapse flat on their faces!)
The small apartment erupted into rich, tearful, and healing laughter.
The dark curse of the Mallik dynasty shattering forever beneath the golden titan’s descending light.
[ Chapter End ]
Author Note
Well, haha, I know this chapter was a surprise especially the entry of Amaal and Armaan.
Some of you probably guessed it already, but here’s the truth: even so‑called nepo kids face battles and scars that the industry never talks about.
That’s what I’m slowly revealing.
Next chapter is going to be pure madness – everyone gathering together, and Sajid + Imtiaz’s reactions will be hilarious when they see Rudra’s team assembled like an Indian Power Rangers squad.
And yes, the shooting officially begins from Chapter 26.
So buckle up, because I’ll also share some behind‑the‑scenes chaos – the musical sequences, the catfight between the Gulaabi Queen and the Aashiqui Girl over Rudra.
It’s going to be funny, dramatic, and full masala.
Be ready.
The real show starts now.