The morning sun blazed across the glass-and-steel facade of the Nadiadwala Grandson Entertainment headquarters in Juhu, casting sharp, golden shadows across the private circular driveway.
Stepping out of an executive sedan, adjusting the oversized tortoiseshell sunglasses perched on her nose, was twenty-year-old Jasmine Sandlas.
Her trademark fiery-crimson hair tumbled over her shoulders in wild, rebellious waves, contrasting with a tailored leather vest, dark distressed jeans, and spiked combat boots.
For the past seventy-two hours.
Her entire existence had been upended.
Her phone had detonated into a continuous stream of notifications across early Twitter and thousands of Orkut scrapbooks.
The nation’s reigning playback empress, Sunidhi Chauhan, had publicly lauded her raw, uninhibited register on satellite radio, declaring that the Gulaabi Queen had shattered the delicate, traditional cages of classical Indian playback.
Yet alongside the nationwide adoration came the venom.
A legion of rabid teenage fangirls had flooded online forums, sneering at her as a “brazen harlot” who dared wrap her legs around their newly crowned deity on the Worli stage.
Jasmine had merely laughed aloud, reading their furious jealousy with smug amusement.
Some girls had even messaged her in pure, unhinged frustration.
“Why didn’t you kiss him on the mouth, you idiot?!”
“You should have torn his shirt off so we could live through you!”
Jasmine had cheerfully replied.
“Next time.
Promise.”
Beneath the swagger, however, an ancient ache gnawed at her ribs.
She remembered his scent—that intoxicating blend of crushed dark vanilla, wild honey, and burning cedarwood.
She remembered his warm, calloused fingers cradling her cheek.
The gentle parting kiss he had pressed against her skin before vanishing into the midnight smoke like an untamed phantom.
Her mind drifted back to late last night, pacing the floorboards of her Bandra service apartment.
(Flashback: Midnight — Jasmine’s Apartment)
Her iPhone 3GS had buzzed three consecutive times on the bedside table, flashing an unlisted private number.
Exasperated by endless corporate record labels offering sleazy commercial pitches.
Jasmine had snatched the device, barking into the microphone.
“Listen to me, you corporate vulture!
It’s midnight!”
“Lose this number or I will have the Mumbai police trace your line!”
A deep, velvet baritone had chuckled through the receiver—smooth, low, and laced with teasing warmth.
“Oof…
easy, Gulaabi Queen.
I know you need your beauty sleep, but you’re going to give me a heart attack.”
“I feel terrible for anyone who gets on your bad side.”
Jasmine had frozen.
The sleep had evaporated from her veins in half a microsecond!
“RUDRA?!” she had shrieked, kicking her duvet off.
“You infuriating, overgrown giant!
You vanish for two whole days without a word, and now you casually call me at midnight?!”
“Do you have any idea how terrified Arijit and I were when you disappeared after the curtain fell?!”
Rudra had laughed softly, his voice dipping into gentle, unshielded sincerity.
“That stage belonged to you and Arijit, Jasmine.
You two were the warriors carrying the fire; I was just the hand clearing the smoke.”
“I am so deeply proud of you.
Both of you finally have the throne you earned.”
Jasmine’s throat had tightened.
She had bitten her lip, cursing the sudden moisture in her eyes: “It was all because of you, you stubborn monster…”
“Be at the NGE headquarters tomorrow at ten sharp,” Rudra had instructed, his tone turning brisk and purposeful.
“I called Arijit and Qazi as well.
I have an empire waiting for us to claim.
Get some sleep, Gulaabi Queen.”
CLICK.
Jasmine had stared at the dead screen.
Her mind spinning through a hundred frantic, adolescent scenarios.
‘What do I wear?!
What if he tries to pull me into a private room?!’
‘Do I bring condoms?!
What size does a six-foot-three titan even use—XL or XXL?!’
‘I could sing into his dick like a studio mic!
She had buried her burning face into her pillows, groaning in raw embarrassment before whispering with wild, expectant joy.
“I’m finally going to see you tomorrow, Rudra.”
(Flashback Ends)
“Jasmine!
Over here!”
A warm, familiar voice broke her reverie.
Turning toward the security gate.
Jasmine’s face split into a wide, radiant smile as she saw Arijit Singh approaching.
Beside him walked twenty-five-year-old Qazi Touqeer.
The Kashmiri singer—co-winner of Fame Gurukul in 2005—cut a striking, flamboyant figure with his wild, voluminous curly mane, expressive dark eyes, and a fitted bohemian jacket.
Despite his early reality-TV fame, the mainstream playback syndicates had sidelined him, leaving him to survive on the fringes of the indie scene alongside Arijit.
“Arijit!
Qazi!” Jasmine called out, pulling both men into brief, fierce hugs.
“Rudra dragged you two here too?”
“Bhai gave the order,” Arijit grinned.
His fingers unconsciously tapping the strap of the black acoustic guitar slung over his back.
The very instrument stained with Rudra’s dried blood from the Worli concert.
“Where he calls, we follow.”
Before they could step through the glass turnstiles, the rumble of a second vehicle drew their attention.
A silver sedan pulled up to the porch.
Climbing out of the passenger side was fourteen-year-old Armaan Mallik, practically vibrating with pure, kinetic excitement!
He wore an oversized graphic tee.
His junior guitar bag bouncing against his hip, his doe-like eyes round with breathless enthusiasm.
“LOOK!
THE GULAABI QUEEN IS ACTUALLY HERE!” Armaan shouted, pointing an ecstatic finger at Jasmine!
“Rudra Bhaiya wasn’t lying!
She really has crimson hair!”
Following him out of the car with tired, cautious steps was old Amaal Mallik.
His dark denim jacket hanging from his broad, brooding frame, his knuckles still wrapped in white medical tape.
And stepping out from the rear door was Shraddha Kapoor.
Dressed in an understated white chikankari kurti over faded blue jeans, her hair gathered into a loose, elegant braid.
Shraddha looked delicate and fresh, though a faint, lingering vulnerability remained in her soft hazel eyes.
Arijit and Qazi recognized the Mallik brothers immediately from suburban studio sessions.
Amaal had arranged background strings for indie jingles they had sung over the past two years.
“Amaal!
Armaan!” Arijit smiled, stepping forward to clasp Amaal’s forearm. This chapter was copied from g.com without permission.
“You’re here for Rudra too?”
Amaal nodded, a faint, embarrassed flush rising on his neck as he remembered collapsing like a sack of flour into Rudra’s arms yesterday evening.
Shraddha had met Amaal during their school days at Jamnabai Narsee, where she was his senior.
When Amaal had called her late last night after waking from his faint.
They had shared a stunned, hysterical laugh over their identical reactions to Rudra’s sudden, devastating arrivals in their living rooms.
Armaan completely ignored the adults, darting straight in front of Jasmine, thrusting a small black notebook into her hands with a star-struck, dimpled grin:
“Gulaabi Queen Ma’am!
Please, can I have your autograph?!”
Jasmine giggled, thoroughly charmed by the energetic teenager.
“Of course, little rockstar.”
She flipped the page and paused.
Signed on the preceding parchment, penned in flowing, elegant gold ink, was an intricate Sanskrit signature:
Shiva Shakti — Rudra.
Jasmine raised an amused eyebrow, tapping Armaan’s nose with her pen.
“So I see Rudra already claimed the first page, hmm?
I’m playing second fiddle to the titan?”
Armaan blushed furiously, scratching his messy fringe.
“Rudra Bhaiya is…
he’s like a living superhero, Ma’am!
You can’t compare anyone to him!”
“Tell me about it,” Jasmine laughed softly, signing her name across the page.
Shraddha stepped up beside them, offering Jasmine a warm, genuine smile.
“I saw the broadcast, Jasmine.
You were magnificent.
The entire city is singing your verses.”
Jasmine looked at the young actress, struck by her fragile, porcelain beauty.
“The pleasure is all mine, darling.
Looks like our boy has been busy gathering an entire army.”
Armaan struck a dramatic, wide-legged kung-fu stance in the middle of the corporate driveway, thrusting his fists into the air:
“WE ARE THE POWER RANGERS!”
“We have to assemble inside right now!
The Gold Ranger is leading the battalion!”
Amaal buried his face in his hand, groaning in second-hand embarrassment.
“Armu, for the love of God, shut up…
This is Sajid Nadiadwala’s corporate office, not a Cartoon Network or JETIX convention!”
The entire group dissolved into rich, affectionate laughter.
Yet as they crossed the polished threshold of the glass atrium, an unspoken knot of anxiety tightened in their chests.
They were a ragtag vanguard of the broken, the rejected, and the forgotten.
A disgraced young actress carrying the box office failure of Teen Patti.
An exiled musical prodigy whose family had been crushed by Anu Malik.
Indie singers sidelined by corporate music labels, and a fiery Punjabi-American girl who refused to sing sweet, docile lullabies.
They had all been summoned by one man.
Inside the cavernous, air-conditioned reception hall.
Armaan bounced ahead, turning backwards to tease his brother—
CRASH!
The boy collided squarely with a young woman carrying three massive portfolios!
Cardstock sketches, fabric swatches of raw silk, block-printed khadi, and colourful colour wheels exploded across the polished granite floor in a frantic shower of paper!
“Armu!” Amaal barked, lunging forward to grab the boy’s collar.
“What did I just tell you?!”
“I’m sorry!
I’m so sorry!” Armaan squeaked, instantly dropping to his knees to gather the scattered drafts.
The young woman knelt beside him, letting out a deep, throaty chuckle that was entirely free of irritation.
“Relax, kiddo.
Gravity works the same for everyone.
No harm done.”
The woman adjusted a pair of thick, stylish tortoiseshell spectacles resting on the bridge of her nose.
At twenty years old.
Masaba Gupta possessed an unmistakable, breathtaking presence that defied the traditional, homogenized beauty standards of Mumbai high society.
The daughter of veteran Indian parallel cinema icon Neena Gupta and legendary West Indian cricket king Sir Vivian Richards.
Masaba was a striking fusion of Afro-Caribbean and Indian heritage.
Her complexion was a rich, glowing obsidian-bronze.
Her hair was pulled back into an unapologetic, sculpted crown of dark curls; and her wide, almond eyes burned with the fierce, defensive pride of a survivor.
Growing up in the insular, dynastic circles of Bollywood.
She had been subjected to cruel, covert racism- whispers behind country club doors labelling her an “illegitimate bastard” or mocking her rich melanin as “unmarketable.”
She had channelled that agony into textile rebellion.
In an industry dominated by the opulent, bridal-heavy formulas of Manish Malhotra and Sabyasachi.
Masaba championed bold, unapologetic silhouettes—raw Indian handlooms infused with vibrant, graphic Caribbean energy.
Yesterday afternoon.
Her world had tilted on its axis when Warda Khan Nadiadwala had personally called her landline, demanding she bring her portfolio to the NGE headquarters for an undisclosed youth project.
Armaan handed her a stack of watercolour sketches.
his eyes shining in genuine awe.
“Whoa…
Did you draw these clothes?!
These look so cool!
Like warrior armor!”
Masaba blinked behind her thick lenses, a genuine, startled warmth touching her lips.
Before she could answer—
CLICK-CLACK.
The sound of polished leather and high heels echoed down the grand open staircase.
Every head in the atrium turned.
Descending the steps was a formidable executive delegation:
Sajid Nadiadwala, looking sharp and energized in an Italian blazer.
Warda Khan Nadiadwala, radiating feminine authority in a fitted sapphire-blue pantsuit.
Visionary auteur Imtiaz Ali, his salt-and-pepper curls wild, his eyes burning with renewed creative fire.
His wife Preety Ali, holding production binders; and legendary lyricist Irshad Kamil, looking thoroughly liberated.
Walking beside Sajid was a seventh man—dressed in a crisp, sharp media-executive suit, sporting rimless rectangular glasses and carrying an air of intense corporate skepticism.
Ashish Patel, the reigning Vice President and Content Head of MTV India.
Sajid had summoned the network boss under absolute secrecy to negotiate the distribution and marketing tie-ins for their upcoming slate.
Ashish stopped on the lower landing, adjusting his glasses, surveying the ragtag collection of artists standing in the reception with profound, unmasked bewilderment.
He turned toward Sajid, gesturing with both hands in pure, incredulous disbelief:
“Sajid bhai…
Kya sach mein yeh log Bollywood ki sabse badi youth musical hit de paayenge?!”
“Mujhe toh bohot doubt hai inn logon par!”
“Aur yeh bacha kya kar raha hai yahan par?!” Find the original chapter at g.com.
(Sajid brother…
Can this motley crew truly deliver the biggest youth musical blockbuster in Bollywood history?!; I have monumental doubts looking at this lineup!; And what on earth is a little schoolboy doing standing in the middle of your production floor?!)
Armaan’s brow furrowed into a sharp, indignant scowl!
The fourteen-year-old stepped forward, puffing out his small chest, planting his hands on his hips as he glared at the MTV executive:
“Hey, uncle!
Main koi bacha-vacha nahi hoon, samjhe aap?!
Main sabse powerful hidden ranger hoon…
”
“THE GREEN RANGER!
Aur Gold Ranger mere Guru hain!”
(Hey, uncle!; I am not some ordinary little kid, do you understand?!; I am the most powerful secret ranger of all…
THE GREEN RANGER!; And the Gold Ranger is my supreme Master!)
Armaan dramatically whipped out a mint-condition, rare 1993 Mighty Morphin Power Rangers Green Dragonzord coin from his pocket, holding it high in the air!
Amaal slapped his own forehead, slumping against a marble pillar in absolute, agonizing embarrassment while Arijit, Qazi, and Shraddha bit their lips to keep from bursting into hysterics!
Ashish Patel blinked.
An amused, nostalgic smirk slowly cracked across his stern corporate visage; as the head of a youth network.
He was an avid pop-culture collector himself.
“Accha?” Ashish chuckled, leaning over the brass railing.
“Toh tumhara Gold Ranger kahan hai, Green Ranger?”
(Is that so?; Then where on earth is your supreme Gold Ranger, Green Ranger?)
Armaan crossed his arms over his chest.
His chin tilting up with supreme, arrogant theatricality:
“Hero ki entry hamesha last mein hoti hai, uncle!
Aapko itna basic Bollywood rule bhi nahi pata kya?!”
(The real Hero always makes his grand entrance at the very last second, uncle!; Don’t you even understand such a fundamental rule of Bollywood cinema?!)
The entire atrium detonated into rich, echoing laughter!
Even Sajid and Imtiaz threw their heads back, thoroughly entertained by the boy’s fearless fire!
Suddenly—
VROOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM!
A concussive, low-frequency mechanical roar shook the reinforced glass windows of the lobby!
The twin-turbo V8 of an approaching beast tore across the private driveway with predatory precision!
Arijit and Jasmine’s eyes widened in instant, electric recognition.
Armaan’s smirk widened until his dimples practically pierced his cheeks.
He turned back toward the MTV boss, pointing an authoritative finger:
“Taiyyar ho jaao, uncle…
Gold Ranger aa gaya hai!”
“Aur unka swagger dekh kar behosh mat ho jaana, jaise mera bada bhai kal flat ho gaya tha!”
(Brace yourself, uncle…
The Gold Ranger has arrived!; And don’t you dare faint from his sheer swagger, like my older brother collapsed flat on the floor yesterday!)
“Armaan, I swear to God I will strangle you,” Amaal hissed under his breath, his ears burning crimson!
Masaba Gupta stood near the sofa, clutching her fabric swatches, utterly bewildered by the spectacle.
‘Who in God’s name is this Gold Ranger everyone is whispering about…?’
The heavy pneumatic glass doors slid open with a sharp, pressurized hiss.
Stepping through the threshold, bathed in the blinding ten-o’clock sunlight, was the young titan.
Rudra wore an unbuttoned dark olive utility jacket over a tight charcoal henley that strained across his carved, eight-pack ridges, fitted black denim hugging his powerful quadriceps.
His thick obsidian hair caught the morning breeze, and resting against his throat were his sacred Rudraksha beads.
He didn’t wear dark sunglasses today.
His breathtaking, chiselled visage was exposed to the world, illuminated by two piercing, radiant, and undeniably ancient liquid-gold irises.
He looked across the reception hall.
Catching sight of Masaba Gupta standing frozen with her design binders.
Rudra offered her a slow, mesmerizing, and devastatingly warm smile, dipping his head in royal acknowledgment.
THUMP.
Masaba’s heart hammered against her ribs like a captive bird!
Her dark almond eyes dilated into wide, black pools.
The sheer, suffocating gravitational presence of his frame.
The golden sunlight crowning his head, and that intoxicating, ancient gaze proved too overwhelming for her nervous system!
Her knees turned to water.
Her breath died in her throat—
And twenty-year-old Masaba Gupta tilted sideways, fainting in a clean, dead faint!
SWOOP!
Armaan Mallik lunged forward with lightning-fast reflexes, catching the designer under her arms before her head could graze the granite floor!
The fourteen-year-old hauled her up against the leather sofa, shaking his head with an exasperated, tragic sigh, looking straight at the stunned MTV network boss.
“Dekha, uncle?
Maine kaha tha na…
Yeh hai hamare Gold Ranger ki asli power!”
“Aate hi log flat ho jaate hain!”
(Did you see that, uncle?; Didn’t I warn you earlier…?; This is the supreme power of our Gold Ranger!; The moment he descends, people collapse flat on their faces!)
Ashish Patel stood frozen on the stairs.
His jaw hanging completely unhinged, staring at the 6’3″ titan who had single-handedly broken his network’s all-time viewership records forty-eight hours ago.
A choked, dry swallow escaped the MTV boss’s throat as he whispered in absolute, paralyzed awe.
“Haan, Green Ranger…
Gold Ranger toh sach mein Rockstar God nikla.”
(Yes, Green Ranger…; Your Gold Ranger turned out to be the undisputed Rockstar God.)
[ Chapter End ]
Author’s Note
Hahaha Armaan bro I love you.
Well, this chapter grew long, so I trimmed it.
The next one will explain many things: what Rudra is really planning, why the MTV head is here, and how everything connects.
Remember, Rockstar God is not just a character; he is a mythical being.
I’m writing this because on India’s Webnovel platform, no one explores the struggles of music industry professionals.
Every character here will play a role in the future arcs.
And yes, Masaba Gupta is part of the harem.
It saddens me that many Indians don’t like her simply because she is dark‑skinned and half afro.
This is her Pic.
You can check it out her beauty.
The hypocrisy and double standards in our society are something I will expose.
I will also share personal reflections on the trauma faced by women who endure racism just because of their skin tone.
It disgusts me how this breaks them inside, creating an inferiority complex compared to fair‑skinned girls.
This is the white colonial slave mindset that still lingers in many Indians.
I speak from experience — I’ve dated across the spectrum, from black to white, and I know that skin colour has nothing to do with personality.
I feel lucky to have formed genuine bonds beyond superficial prejudice.
Future arcs are going to be exciting.
And yes, Jasmine’s wild thought about using Rudra’s pillar as a mic – that comes from my own DU fest experience.
Some girls are truly wild, and I will write about that in the future.
I hope everyone loves this chapter.