The sapphire-black BMW M5 glided smoothly along the Worli Seaface.
The rhythmic hum of its twin-turbo V8 purring like a contented panther.
Rudra rested one calloused hand atop the steering wheel, his mind drifting back to the dust of Aram Nagar.
A quiet, knowing chuckle escaped his lips as he pictured Jaideep Ahlawat and Vijay Varma standing outside that cabin.
“I remember them now…” Rudra murmured, his liquid-gold eyes narrowing with calculated clarity.
“Two absolute titans waiting to explode onto the canvas.
People think I gave Mohini that push out of sudden charity?”
“Hell no.
A king doesn’t rule an empire alone; he builds an army.
If I want to rebuild Bollywood from its rotten foundations.”
“I need artists who treat the craft like blood and bone, not just accessories to vanity.
And under my watch, those two will rise as giants.”
He tapped his fingers against the leather wheel, his gaze sweeping over the coastal skyline.
“Mohini Kashyap…
Mohan…
Maya Mirage.
In my past life, those names never crossed the trade papers.”
“My presence is already rippling the pond.
But let the currents shift.
Let the sharks circle.”
“A real predator loves the hunt, and when the time comes…
I’ll take the entire board with an iron grip.”
He pulled the M5 into a quiet parking pocket near the beach promenade, cut the engine, and stepped out.
The humid evening air hit his face.
Rudra closed his eyes, throwing his head back as he inhaled deeply, savoring the distinct, raw aroma of the coastline.
“So this is the breath of Mumbai…” he whispered, his deep velvet baritone blending into the rustle of the palms.
“Salty, humid, chaotic…
yet burning with so much raw love and relentless hunger that it forces you to stand on your feet.”
Walking down toward the soft, packed sand.
He watched families laughing on cotton rugs, young couples walking hand-in-hand along the tide line, and children chasing the foam.
Near the stone promenade.
A small group of eight young children stood crowded around a street food stall.
The fragrant steam of butter-drenched Pav Bhaji.
The sizzling crackle of hot Vada Pav, and the sweet promise of colourful kulfi filled the air.
At the head of the little group was an elderly matron.
An austere, gray-haired woman with a deeply lined, gentle face, wearing a frayed white cotton sari.
The children looked up at the sizzling tawa with wide, hungry eyes, their small tongues flicking over chapped lips.
The matron slowly checked a worn cloth coin purse, her fingers trembling as she counted a few battered ten-rupee notes.
With a quiet, heart-breaking sigh, she shook her head gently, placing her hands on the children’s shoulders to shepherd them away from the stall.
Rudra stopped dead in his tracks.
A sharp, violent tremor seized his chest.
In an instant, the glittering Mumbai beach faded.
He was seven years old again, standing on the broken pavement of an old Delhi alleyway.
Shivering in an oversized hand-me-down sweater, watching other schoolboys eat ice cream with their fathers while his own empty stomach gnawed at his chest.
‘No one was there to buy me a simple cone of ice cream back then,’ Rudra thought, his golden irises darkening with ancient, sorrowful fire.
‘No one stopped to notice the hungry boy in the dark.
But not today.
Not while I have breath in my lungs.’
Before the matron could pull the children toward the bus stop.
A resonant, booming voice tore across the sand, laced with theatrical, radiant swagger:
“ATTENTION!
SPECIAL CELEBRITY FESTIVAL ANNOUNCEMENT!”
The vendor froze, spatula suspended in mid-air.
The matron and all eight children spun around in bewilderment.
Striding toward them across the golden sand was a towering, 6’3″ titan.
His black vest straining against his chest, a bright, roguish smile splitting his chiseled face.
“Today happens to be a national holiday declared by the universe- it’s my twentieth birthday!” Rudra announced, puffing out his chest with an exaggerated, comedic bow.
“And by royal decree, all princes and princesses on this beach eat until they burst!”
“Every single plate is on the King!
Come on, troops, charge the line!”
The children stood frozen for three seconds, their little jaws slack.
They didn’t rush forward blindly.
With quiet, instinctive dignity.
They turned their small faces upward, looking pleadingly toward the matron.
They were orphans- children accustomed to cold stares, pitying glances, and cruel rejections.
They carried the fragile, unyielding pride of the abandoned.
They did not accept casual charity from arrogant strangers.
Rudra saw it immediately.
He understood that look better than anyone alive.
He didn’t flash money.
He didn’t toss a bundle of notes on the counter.
Instead, he dropped to one knee on the sand, lowering his massive frame until he was at their eye level, pressing his palms together in an earnest, humble namaste:
“Please?
It brings terrible luck to an aging hero if no one eats cake on his birthday.
Do me this honour, troops.”
The matron’s tired eyes widened.
A soft, breathless chuckle broke from her lips, and she gave a slow, tearful nod.
“YAYYYYYY!”
The children roared in absolute ecstasy, charging the stall!
Within minutes, the small seating area was enveloped in glorious, chaotic celebration.
Plates of piping-hot Pav Bhaji, golden crispy Vada Pavs, and towering bowls of malai kulfi covered the plastic tables.
The children wolfed down the food.
Their cheeks smeared with red tomato masala, their small hands sticky with sweet condensed milk, filling the sea breeze with pure, ringing laughter.
Rudra leaned against the counter.
His heart swelling with a radiant warmth that no box office trophy could ever match.
A tiny, six-year-old girl with dark pigtails and a smudge of butter on her nose tugged at the hem of his jeans.
“Bhaiya…
kneel down,” she commanded in a tiny, authoritative chirp.
Rudra chuckled, immediately dropping to both knees on the sand.
With extreme care.
The little girl broke off a small piece of soft, buttered pav, dipped it into the spicy bhaji, and held it out with trembling fingers.
“Happy Birthday, Bhaiya,” she whispered shyly.
“Thank you for the feast.”
Rudra leaned forward, eating the bite from her small hand.
“HAPPY BIRTHDAY, BHAIYA!” the other seven children shouted in unison, abandoning their plates to throw themselves forward, swarming his broad torso in a chaotic, sticky group hug!
Rudra froze.
His breath hitched in his throat.
His eyes stung with sudden, scalding tears.
He wrapped his massive, muscular arms around the entire bundle of children, burying his face in their hair, pulling them tight against his chest.
“Thank you, my little kings and queens…” Rudra murmured, his velvet baritone thick and rough with emotion.
He pulled back, wiping his wet lashes with the back of his hand, instantly snapping back into his high-energy Casanova flair.
“Alright, troops!
The feast is step one!
What does the royal council demand next?!”
“Giant balloons?
Flying saucers?
Wooden swords?!
Name it, and your King delivers!”
The children gasped, glancing nervously toward the matron.
Rudra caught the woman’s eye, offering a soft, respectful nod.
The matron’s eyes welled with tears, but she smiled, nodding her permission.
“HIP-HIP-HURRAY!” Rudra roared, springing to his feet.
“Last one to the toy cart has to do twenty push-ups!”
“Aaaaah!”
The children shrieked in delight, scrambling across the sand dunes!
Rudra dropped several thousand-rupee notes onto the food vendor’s counter.
An amount that far exceeded the bill, yet barely made a dent in the monthly allowance resting in Jai Shroff’s account.
To the privileged circles of South Mumbai.
It was a memory that would keep their spirits warm through years of cold nights.
“Beta…”
A soft, calloused hand rested against Rudra’s forearm.
He turned to see the elderly matron looking up at him, her gaze piercing straight through his theatrical bravado.
“Why are you doing all this, son?” she asked quietly, her voice trembling.
“And please…
do not insult an old woman with polite lies.”
“I have run an orphanage for forty years.
I know the look of a boy who grew up starved of love.”
Rudra paused.
His golden eyes softened, the roguish smirk fading into quiet honesty.
“Is there ever a wrong reason to serve the real gods of this earth, Dadi?” Rudra answered softly, his voice low and solemn.
“Children are the pure, uncorrupted reflection of the divine.”
“Honestly…
I’m just being selfish.
I’m taking their blessings so my own broken soul finds a little peace.”
“I’m not that good of a man.”
“BHAIYA, LOOK!”
Down near the water, a little boy had tripped over a sandcastle, tumbling forward with a comical yelp!
Rudra didn’t hesitate.
“Excuse me, Dadi!”
He bolted across the sand, scooping the boy up with his left arm, tossing a laughing little girl onto his massive right shoulder, and sprinting along the tide line while making exaggerated airplane engine noises!
“FASTER, BHAIYA!
FLY FASTER!” the kids screamed, clutching his thick black hair as their shrieks of laughter echoed across the water.
Standing on the dry dunes.
The matron watched the young titan running under the setting sun.
The amber rays caught his towering frame, setting the edges of his dark hair and his bronzed skin aglow like cut diamond.
She saw the tears glistening in the corners of his golden eyes even as his booming laughter filled the beach.
She pressed a trembling hand to her heart, a tear slipping down her weathered cheek.
“What kind of unbearable pain did you bury inside your heart, my child…?” she whispered to the sea breeze.
“To give away so much light while standing in your own shadow…”
As twilight settled over the Arabian Sea, painting the sky in deep bruises of indigo and violet, the matron gently rounded up the children.
Each child carried a bright, helium-filled balloon in one hand and a wooden toy in the other, their faces glowing with sheer bliss.
Yet their shoulders slumped, their small faces turning solemn as they looked at Rudra.
“Do you have to go, Bhaiya…?” the little girl with the pigtails asked, her lip trembling.
Rudra knelt before them once more, flashing a brilliant, radiant grin.
“Hey, no long faces in my royal court!” Rudra chuckled, extending his pinky finger.
“This isn’t goodbye.
Your King will return with truckloads of books, paints, and sweets.
We’re family now, aren’t we?”
“YES!”
Eight tiny pinkies hooked around his massive finger, sealing the sacred pact in giggles and wide smiles.
The elderly matron stepped forward.
Reaching up with both hands, she cupped Rudra’s chiseled cheek.
Her eyes shining with profound, maternal reverence.
She leaned up, pressing a warm, lingering kiss against the center of his brow.
“May the heavens guard your path, beta,” she spoke softly, her voice steady and absolute.
“You didn’t offer these children cheap charity today; you gave them their dignity.
And remember an old woman’s words…”
She looked deep into his liquid-gold irises, squeezing his hand:
“You are not selfish, my son.”
“In all my long years…
you are the most selfless soul I have ever laid eyes upon.”
Rudra’s breath hitched.
The ancient ache behind his chest cracked open.
He wrapped his arms around the fragile old woman, pulling her into a tight, grounding embrace, whispering against her gray hair:
“Thank you from the bottom of my heart, Dadi…
Truly.”
He stood on the promenade, watching the small procession walk toward the bus stop.
The children kept turning back, waving their balloons high into the evening air until they disappeared into the dusk.
Rudra let out a long, quiet exhale, touching the Rudraksha beads at his throat.
“At least I could give them this,” he murmured softly to the waves.
“Just like I used to back in Delhi…
I hope my little ones back home are safe.”
Checking his wrist.
He realized the hour.
He was an athlete of discipline; he had promised his mother he would be back for dinner.
Whistling the punchy, modern synth melody of the Heropanti flute theme.
Rudra strode back to the M5.
Ten minutes down the road, near the Worli-Lower Parel junction—
The previous night’s unseasonal coastal rains had left the asphalt cracked and treacherous.
Weaving aggressively through the evening traffic was an aging, black Bajaj Pulsar 150.
Its engine whining under strain.
“QAZI BHAI, FASTER!”
Sitting on the pillion seat was a young man in his early twenties.
He had a wild, unruly mop of curly dark hair, a scruffy, unkempt beard, and deep, hollow circles carved beneath his dark, sleepless eyes.
He was clutching a battered, black canvas guitar case against his ribs with the desperate, white-knuckled grip of a soldier guarding the last ration on a battlefield.
His face was pale with manic, desperate adrenaline.
For five agonizing years.
He had bled in the subterranean alleys of Mumbai’s indie circuit.
He had assisted composers, mixed tracks in suffocating basement studios, and sung until his vocal cords wept blood.
Yet every time he stood before the industry’s gatekeepers.
The commercial royalty like Pritam or the heavyweight duo Vishal-Shekhar.
The verdict was always the same brutal dismissal:
“Your pitch is accurate, kid, but where is the soul?
Where is the tear?”
“Your voice lacks that haunting, bleeding pain that makes a nation weep.”
Those words had haunted his nightmares.
He had gone back to his tiny rented room, locking the door, screaming into the concrete walls, forcing his vocal folds to scrape against their limits, deliberately fracturing his clean classical cadence until he forged a new, raspy, bleeding texture.
A voice woven entirely from sorrow, longing, and raw acoustic agony.
And tonight was the trial by fire.
He had secured an emergency backing slot at the MTV Coke Studio & Underground Arena Live in Worli.
His indie vocal partner was already at the venue, blowing up his phone with frantic calls.
If he missed this curtain, the five years of starving would be buried forever.
“QAZI BHAI, DROP THE GEAR!” the youth shouted over the engine noise.
“WE’RE LOSING THE SLOT!”
“I’M PUSHING IT, MAN!” Qazi yelled back, twisting the throttle—
SKRRRRRRRRRRR!
Directly beneath a flickering sodium streetlamp, hidden beneath four inches of muddy rainwater, lay a massive, jagged municipal pothole!
The front tire slammed into the crater at fifty kilometers per hour!
“LOOK OUT!”
The Pulsar’s suspension buckled!
The bike violently pitched sideways, skidding across the slick tarmac in a shower of sparks and dirty water!
CRASH!
Both riders were hurled across the road, tumbling into the muddy verge!
Qazi groaned, clutching his scraped shoulder, while the singer hit the wet pavement hard, rolling over his own ribs to shield the canvas case in his arms.
“NO…
NO, PLEASE, GOD!” the singer gasped, his voice cracking into frantic hysteria.
Scrambling through the mud on his hands and knees.
He dragged the guitar case onto his lap, tearing the zipper open with trembling, bleeding fingers.
He checked the wooden neck, the tuning pegs, the soundboard—
“It’s intact…
the frets are safe…” he wept out, hugging the wooden body to his chest.
Then, reality crashed down upon him.
His right ankle was swollen and throbbing with a sharp, agonizing sprain.
His plain cotton shirt and jeans were coated in black, foul-smelling street sludge, and the Pulsar lay on its side twenty feet away, oil leaking into the gutter, its chain snapped completely off the sprocket.
“No…
not tonight…” he choked out, hot tears cutting through the grime on his cheeks.
“I sacrificed everything…
I broke my own throat for this voice…
Five minutes.
The stage starts in five minutes…”
VROOOOOOOOOOOOOM!
A low-frequency, concussive exhaust note shattered the street’s silence.
Twin LED angel-eye headlights pierced the gloom, and a sapphire-black BMW M5 pulled alongside the curb with surgical precision.
The door swung open.
Stepping out into the rain-slicked asphalt was a towering, broad-shouldered youth.
He took in the overturned motorcycle, the grimacing rider holding his shoulder, and the mud-caked artist sitting on the pavement clutching a guitar like an orphaned child.
Rudra crossed the road in two long, purposeful strides, kneeling beside the fallen musician.
“Easy, brother,” Rudra murmured, his velvet voice cutting through the panic like an anchor.
“Don’t move the foot just yet.
Is the bone broken, or is it just a tendon twist?”
The singer blinked, wiping muddy water from his eyes.
Looking up, he was entirely overwhelmed by the sheer scale of the young man.
The wide Olympian shoulders, the thick black hair, and those glowing, liquid-gold irises that carried no disgust for the sludge coating his hands.
Rudra extended his massive, calloused palm.
The singer hesitated, staring down at his own filthy, blood-stained fingers.
“Take my hand, brother,” Rudra smiled gently.
The singer reached out.
GRIP.
With effortless, hydraulic ease.
Rudra hoisted the young man clean off the wet asphalt, steadying him on his good leg.
Pulling a clean, dark handkerchief from his pocket.
Rudra gently wiped the worst of the sludge from the man’s knuckles and wrists.
The singer looked toward the brand-new, multi-crore German sedan, then down at his own filthy, mud-soaked clothes.
His voice trembling with frantic apology:
“Brother…
my bike broke down.”
“My stage is two kilometers away at the Worli Arena…
But your car is brand new, I’m covered in gutter water, I can’t sit inside—”
Rudra placed a heavy, reassuring hand on the musician’s shoulder.
Squeezing firmly, his velvet baritone echoed with easy, street-smart warmth:
“Chinta mat kar bhai…
Gaadi nahi, aaj tera talent chamkega!
Chal, chup-chap baith aur bata kahan jaana hai!”
(Don’t worry about it, brother…
Forget the car, tonight it’s your talent that will shine!
Come on, sit down quietly and tell me where we need to go!)
The musician’s breath caught in his throat, pure, stunned gratitude shining through his muddy face.
Rudra scooped the battered canvas guitar case into his arms with absolute, reverent care, laying it across the plush leather rear seat before helping the limping artist into the front passenger bucket.
He offered a quick, reassuring wave to Qazi, who was already on his phone arranging a tow truck for the broken Pulsar.
Rudra slid behind the steering wheel, pulling his door shut.
The musician looked down at the hand-stitched leather upholstery, horrified to see dark mud staining the side bolsters.
“Brother, I’m so sorry about the seats—”
“A car is just metal and leather, man,” Rudra laughed, shifting the transmission into gear.
“By the way…
my name is Rudra.
What’s yours?”
The young man wiped a smear of grit from his chin, his voice raspy and humble:
“Bhai…
mera naam Arijit hai.”
(Brother…
my name is Arijit.)
Rudra’s hands on the steering wheel slightly tightened.
His golden eyes widened for a fraction of a second.
Arijit Singh…
in March 2010.
Rudra’s mind detonated with cinematic recognition.
Before “Tum Hi Ho”…
before the national awards…
before he became the undisputed emperor of modern Indian playback singing.
A slow, brilliant, and deeply respectful smile spread across Rudra’s face.
“Arijit…” Rudra repeated, savouring the name on his tongue.
“Bhai, that is the name of a true legend.
Mark my words…
you are incredibly lucky to carry that name.”
“The entire world is going to bow before that voice very soon.”
Arijit blinked, thoroughly bewildered.
He had never met another famous singer named Arijit.
He assumed the handsome youth was just offering polite, comforting flattery.
Suddenly, the atmosphere inside the cabin shifted.
Rudra turned his head, a devilish, unhinged Casanova smirk spreading across his chiselled lips.
He reached over, grabbing the passenger seatbelt and clicking it securely into the buckle with a crisp SNAP.
“Tell me something, Arijit…” Rudra purred, his golden eyes glittering with wild, predatory mischief.
“Tune kabhi hawa se baat kiya hai?”
(‘Have you ever held a conversation with the wind?’)
Arijit shook his head slowly, a sudden, primal dread creeping up his spine.
“N-No…
why?”
Rudra let out a dark, booming, rockstar chuckle that rattled the dashboard!
He slammed his boot onto the throttle, engaging the twin-turbo M-Drive mode!
“Ab tu baat karne waala hai hawaa se!”
(Well, now you’re about to have a full conversation with the wind!)
VROOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM!
The twin-turbo V8 roared like a wounded dragon!
The rear tires broke traction for a split-second before launching the sapphire missile down the Worli corridor with concussive, neck-snapping G-force!
“AAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!” Arijit shrieked at the top of his lungs.
His knuckles turning white as he plastered himself against the seat, watching the streetlights blur into continuous streaks of neon fire!
Rudra threw his head back, laughing like a mad king, slamming the steering wheel with his palm as he began belting out Imran Khan’s smash-hit urban anthem at maximum acoustic volume:
“MEIN TERA AMPLIFIER…
FIER…!”
He glanced toward the passenger seat.
His eyes wide with mock theatrical shock:
“Arijit?!
Arijit?!
Oy oy, kya hua tujhe?!”
(Arijit?!
Arijit?!
Hey, what happened to you?!)
Slumped sideways against the headrest.
His glasses askew, the future voice of a generation had completely, peacefully fainted from sheer kinetic shock!
Rudra burst into uproarious, side-splitting laughter, drifting the two-ton German muscle car around the Worli Arena roundabout, rocketing toward the neon gates of MTV Coke Studio to write history!
[ Chapter End ]
Hahaha, this chapter was so much fun to write that I laughed like a madman in the morning.
My parents legit thought I was inhaling weed or experimenting with some shady stuff.
But nah, it’s just pure Bollywood masala energy, and now I’m charged up for the whole day!
Hope my beautiful sisters and handsome brothers enjoy this madness as much as I enjoyed cooking it up.
Next chapter?
Brace yourselves – it’s going to be shocking.
Because this is the real Bollywood masala novel: everything has to be over the top.
If it’s not outrageous, it’s just theatre drama.
My mission is simple – make you laugh, make you gasp, and keep you hyped for what’s coming next!
In the next chapter, a female singer is about to make her grand entry… Can anyone guess who?
Hint: She’s the one and only Gulaabi Queen 🌹🎤