The green room corridor of the Worli Amphi-theater smelled of wet paint, burning stage smoke, and sheer panic.
Pacing the damp concrete floor in four-inch heels was twenty-year-old Jasmine Sandlas.
Clad in a skin-tight, black shimmer bodycon evening dress that traced every curve of her athletic, hourglass silhouette.
Her most striking feature was an unapologetic, rebellious mane of fiery crimson-red hair falling in jagged waves over her bare shoulders.
Her hazel-brown eyes flashed with molten fire as she furiously jabbed the screen of her iPhone 3GS.
“Pick up the damn phone, Arijit!” Jasmine hissed under her breath.
Her voice a sharp, gravelly fusion of earthy Jalandhar grit and blunt California street rhythm.
“Where the hell are you?!”
“We’ve been breaking our backs for months to get ten minutes on this platform, and you’re ghosting me right at the curtain?!”
She slammed the phone against her palm, leaning her back against the brick wall.
Her chest heaved beneath the shimmer fabric.
Her music was never an academic exercise in melodic perfection; it was an open, bleeding wound.
Born in the heart of Punjab and transplanted into the rough suburbs of California, she belonged nowhere.
To the Western indie circuit, she was too ethnic, too raw, too loud; to the orthodox gatekeepers of Mumbai.
She was an untamed anomaly- too bold, too raspy, lacking the delicate, sugary polish demanded of traditional female playback singers.
Her art was therapy through rebellion.
Every note she ripped from her throat was a desperate scream against the silence of being an outsider.
“Sandlas!” the stage manager barked, bursting through the backstage double doors with a clipboard.
“You’re up in three minutes!
Where the fuck is your acoustic lead?!”
“Pritam da and Vishal-Shekhar are sitting in the VIP box, and if you miss your slot, you’re blacklisted from Coke Studio!”
Jasmine’s shoulder slumped.
The fire in her hazel eyes flickered, buried beneath a sudden, suffocating wave of defeat.
She lowered her head, the phone slipping loosely in her manicured hand as she turned toward the exit alley.
“Another closed door…” she whispered, a bitter, hollow laugh escaping her cracked lips.
“They were right.
Goddess Saraswati only blesses the polished and the obedient.
Broken voices like mine don’t belong on a golden stage.”
A single, scalding tear broke from her lashes, tracking down her cheek toward her jawline.
VROOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM!
A concussive, predatory roar shattered the alley!
A sapphire-black BMW M5 ripped around the delivery bay corner, sliding sideways across the rain-slicked tarmac in a breath-taking, four-wheel drift!
“JASSY!”
Jasmine gasped, her breath catching as the heavy German muscle car snapped straight.
The massive front bumper coming to a dead, surgical halt exactly three inches before her knees!
Before her tear could drop to the wet concrete, a large, warm hand entered her vision.
A calloused thumb caught the falling drop directly off her skin.
Jasmine tilted her head back, her lips parting in stunned, breathless awe.
Towering more than a foot over her frame was a broad-shouldered titan clad in a fitted black vest.
His bronzed skin radiating the comforting heat of a hearth, his thick obsidian hair tossed by the coastal wind.
And looking down into her hazel gaze were two piercing, liquid-gold irises burning with effortless, roguish warmth.
Rudra smiled, his deep velvet baritone washing over her like molten gold:
“Hey, Gulaabi Queen…
I hate tears re.”
With slow, reverent grace.
His thumb wiped the remaining moisture from her cheek, flicking the drop away into the night air.
Jasmine stood paralyzed, the breath locked in her throat.
‘Gulaabi Queen…?
‘The title echoed through her mind like a sacred bell.
In an industry where executives sneered at her dyed hair and called her an aggressive tomboy.
This stranger had looked at her crown of thorns and called her royalty.
SNAP!
Rudra clicked his fingers right before her eyes with an exaggerated, comedic grin:
“Testing, testing, one-two-three!
Hey, Gulaabi Queen, mic check!”
“You receiving the signal, or did my handsome face completely melt your circuits?”
“You two are running terribly late!”
Jasmine blinked rapidly, a bright, scorching flush crawling up her neck as she slapped his forearm away.
“W-What the hell?!”
“Who are you calling Gulaabi Queen, you giant?!”
She scrambled around the passenger side, gasping as she saw Arijit Singh limping out of the bucket seat, wearing fresh, clean dark jeans and an oversized black denim shirt that Rudra had purchased off a boutique rack en route.
“Arijit!
What happened to your leg?!” Jasmine demanded.
“Long story, minor ditch, great heroics,” Rudra cut in smoothly.
His Casanova grin shifting into sharp, focused authority as he slung Arijit’s acoustic guitar case over his own massive shoulder.
“Introductions can wait until after you two tear this stadium apart.
The crowd is waiting.
Move!”
The commanding weight in his voice left zero room for hesitation.
Jasmine sprinted through the backstage curtain, signalling the bewildered coordinator, while Rudra supported Arijit’s weight, guiding the limping musician toward the wings.
Peeking through the monitors.
Rudra’s golden eyes swept over the front-row VIP platform.
Sitting behind an illuminated mixing desk were three heavyweight royalty of Indian commercial music:
Pritam Chakraborty, lounging with his unkempt hair and cigarette-stained charisma, and the razor-sharp duo of Vishal Dadlani and Shekhar Ravjiani.
‘Pritam da…
and Vishal-Shekhar,’ Rudra noted inwardly.
‘The kingmakers of modern Bollywood sound.
No wonder Arijit was willing to break his neck to reach this hall.’
Arijit leaned against the side curtain, his breathing shallow and rapid.
The high-dose painkillers Rudra had handed him were holding the swelling at bay, but the sprained ligaments in his ankle throbbed with white-hot needles.
Worse, his right wrist and fingertips were wrapped in tight athletic tape, stiff and unyielding.
Looking out at the five-thousand-strong crowd chanting beneath the flashing strobes, the young musician began to hyperventilate.
Rudra stepped in front of him, resting a heavy, grounding palm squarely over Arijit’s shoulder.
“Bhai,” Rudra murmured, his golden eyes locking into Arijit’s trembling gaze with unshakeable faith.
“Breathe.
Forget the noise.”
“Sing from the scar in your throat, and let the world hear who you are.”
Arijit reached up, placing his hand over Rudra’s knuckles, a fragile, grateful smile breaking through his exhaustion.
Rudra tossed a crisp two-finger salute and a roguish wink toward Jasmine, who was adjusting her wireless microphone pack.
“Arijit…” Jasmine whispered out of the corner of her mouth as they stepped toward the stage riser.
“Who in the world is that guy?”
“Bhai,” Arijit answered without a beat of hesitation.
Jasmine’s hazel eyes widened slightly.
In the two years she had shared rehearsal rooms with Arijit.
He had never called anyone ‘Bhai’ except his best friend Qazi.
She cast one last, lingering glance over her shoulder at the towering titan leaning against the scaffold, feeling that mysterious title—Gulaabi Queen—settle over her spirit like armor.
The stage lights exploded in brilliant cyan and magenta!
Jasmine seized the microphone.
Her smoky, gravelly voice tearing into the opening Punjabi folk-fusion hook with raw, aggressive power!
The crowd roared, the initial bassline vibrating through the amphitheater.
Then, the acoustic bridge arrived.
Arijit stepped to the centre microphone.
His fingers attempting to dance across the steel strings of his guitar.
TWANG—SCRATCH.
A dead, muffled chord rang out through the stadium monitors!
The thick tape on Arijit’s fingertips robbed him of tactile feedback.
The throbbing agony from his sprained ankle shot up his spine, throwing his diaphragm off balance.
He missed the opening vocal register.
His voice cracking into a strained, agonizing pitch that lacked the soaring resonance he had bled for months to master.
In the VIP box.
Vishal Dadlani sighed, crossing his arms.
Shekhar shook his head in disappointment, while Pritam slumped back in his leather chair, waving a dismissive hand.
“BOOOOOOOOO!”
A pocket of drunken university students near the barricade started the jeer.
“BOOOOO!
GET OFF THE STAGE!
BRING OUT THE MAINSTREAM ACT!”
The hostile chant rippled across the arena.
Arijit’s face drained of color.
His fingers froze on the fretboard.
His vocal chords locked up in sheer, suffocating humiliation as five years of hunger, sleepless nights, and burning self-doubt crashed down upon his shoulders.
Backstage, Rudra stood motionless.
When the stage announcer had introduced their names.
Arijit Singh and Jasmine Sandlas- the revelation had struck his brain like a sledgehammer.
‘Arijit Singh and the Queen of Punjabi indie…
on the same platform, in March 2010,’ Rudra’s mind had raced.
‘I transmigrated into this world this morning, and within twelve hours I run into Jaideep, Vijay, Arijit, and Jasmine?
What kind of insane cinematic convergence is this?!’
Yet watching Arijit’s fingers slip, hearing the venomous jeers of the crowd.
Rudra’s knuckles turned white.
He wanted to charge the stage.
He wanted to shield the boy behind his own massive frame.
‘No,’ Rudra forced himself to stay back, his teeth grinding.
‘An artist has to walk through the fire alone.
This failure will break him, and from these ashes, the emperor of playback singing will be born.’
‘I can’t rob him of his journey.’
Rudra took a slow step backward into the shadows of the exit bay, turning his back to the stage.
Up on the lit platform, Arijit caught the movement.
Through the haze of sweat and tears.
He saw the towering 6’3″ silhouette walking away toward the darkness.
‘Even Bhai gave up on me…’ Arijit’s mind shattered.
‘Even the man who pulled me out of the gutter thinks I’m a lost cause.’
His knee completely gave out!
Arijit collapsed heavily onto the wooden stage floor, his guitar clattering against the deck!
“Arijit!” Jasmine shrieked, dropping the microphone to rush toward her fallen partner.
“REFUND!
REFUND!
USELESS AMATEURS!”
Near the front row.
A burly, heavily intoxicated man who had dragged his date to the front barricade felt humiliated by the trainwreck performance.
Snarling in drunken rage.
He reached into his leather jacket, pulled out a heavy, half-eaten green apple, and hurled it with vicious force straight toward the huddled singers on the stage!
Back in the exit corridor—
Rudra took another step toward the door, muttering under his breath:
“He needs the fire…
He needs the struggle…”
“What a disaster,” a junior sound technician sighed beside the mixing board.
“All ticket sales from tonight’s underground battle were slated for the national pediatric cancer trust.”
“Now the sponsors will pull the funding…
Who the hell is going to pay for those children’s chemotherapy now?”
Rudra froze.
The word cancer struck his soul like a bolt of lightning.
The image of Sati’s pale, smiling face in the AIIMS oncology ward flashed across his vision.
His fingers instinctively clutched the dark Rudraksha beads resting against his throat.
“Why so serious, handsome?
They need your thunder.
Now GO and show this world what you’re made of, my sexy, sinful hubby…
hehehe!”
Rudra’s golden eyes snapped wide, blazing with terrifying, titanic fury!
“Sati…”
SHWIP! You are reading on g.com, the official source.
His long legs drove into the backstage concrete with explosive kinetic velocity!
Rudra snatched a heavily distressed, black leather biker jacket off a loose wardrobe rack, thrusting his muscular arms through the sleeves mid-stride.
He spotted the green apple whistling through the air on a direct trajectory toward Arijit’s temple!
“Bhai, main aa raha hoon!
Jab tak main hoon, tu iss duniya ka sabse bada sangeetkaar banega…
yeh mera vaada hai!”
(Brother, I am on my way!
As long as I draw breath, you will become the greatest musician this world has ever seen; this is my solemn vow!)
Rudra launched his 6’3″ frame into the air, clearing the six-foot monitor barricades in an astonishing, gravity-defying leap!
SNAP.
Mid-flight, his right hand snatched the speeding apple cleanly out of the air!
He landed on the stage in a fluid, low three-point crouch, absorbing the kinetic shock without a sound.
Reaching into the inner pocket of the leather jacket.
He pulled out a pair of classic dark aviators, sliding them over his eyes with pure, unhinged rockstar swagger!
The amphitheater fell dead silent.
Rudra rose to his full height, looming over the stage like an ancient god carved from bronze and leather.
CRUNCH.
He took a massive, arrogant bite of the green apple, chewing slowly as he looked out over the stunned crowd, before tossing the core over his shoulder.
He turned around, offering a dazzling, radiant smile to Arijit.
“Arijit, mere bhai…
chal, tu aaram kar.
Ab main tujhe sikhata hoon ki asli dard kya hota hai…
aur uss dard ko tere iss guitar mein dhaalonga!”
(Arijit, my brother…
relax now.
Today I will teach you what real heartbreak feels like; and I will pour that very sorrow into your guitar!)
He extended his left hand down toward the red-haired singer sitting on her knees.
“Gulaabi Queen…
kya mera saath dogi?
Kyunki tumhari aawaaz ke bina, main kuch nahi kar paaoonga.”
(Gulaabi Queen…
will you stand beside me?
Because without your voice, I cannot paint this sky.)
Jasmine looked up at him.
The stadium lights refracted around his broad shoulders like a celestial crown.
The intoxicating scent of dark vanilla, wild honey, and burning cedarwood enveloped her senses.
Without a second thought.
Her trembling hand reached up, locking her fingers tightly into his massive palm.
Arijit dragged himself toward the drum riser, handing his black acoustic guitar upward like an offering to an emperor.
Rudra pulled Jasmine up in a single, effortless motion.
Lacing his fingers firmly through hers.
The sudden, electric warmth of his grip sent a violent, empowering shiver straight down her spine.
Rudra slung the guitar strap over his shoulder, adjusted the master wireless pack, and stepped to the absolute edge of the stage monitors.
He raised his right hand.
His deep velvet baritone booming through the massive sound system, silencing five thousand people with pure, magnetic authority:
“Dard ko gaane mein badalna, junoon ko suron mein dhalna… yeh mera dharm hai.
Aaj se tumhari dhadkan meri aawaaz ke saath chalegi!”
(To forge sorrow into melody, to temper burning passion into rhythm; that is my sacred calling.
From this night forth, your very pulse will beat to the cadence of my voice!)
A collective gasp rippled across the amphi-theater!
In the VIP enclosure.
Pritam straightened his back, his cigarette freezing an inch from his lips.
Vishal Dadlani’s eyes widened, while Shekhar gripped the edge of the mixing table.
The sheer, suffocating gravity radiating from the young giant had flipped the energy of an entire stadium in three seconds flat.
Rudra swept his thumb across the guitar strings—
STRUMMMMMMMMM!
A deep, electrifying resonance shuddered through the floorboards.
Rudra tilted his aviators down the bridge of his nose.
His molten-gold irises blazing with titanic fire as he roared his name into the Mumbai sky:
“Rockstar ban’na khel nahi hai… yeh tapasya hai, yeh tandav hai.
Aur aaj se Rudra ka tandav shuru hota hai!”
(Becoming a rockstar is no child’s play; it is an ascetic penance, a cosmic dance of destruction and rebirth.
And as of tonight, the Tandav of Rudra has begun!)
For a moment, the amphitheater was frozen.
No guitar, no melody – just the towering figure in leather and aviators, radiating fire.
The crowd didn’t chant because of the song.
They chanted because of the shockwave of his presence.
One student near the barricade whispered, trembling:
“Yeh banda… bhagwaan jaisa lag raha hai.”
(This guy… looks like a god.)
Another shouted:
“Rudra!
Rudra!”
The name spread like contagion.
Not for the music but for the man who had turned humiliation into defiance, who had stood like a bronze titan against five thousand doubters.
Feet stomped, hands clapped, voices roared:
“RUDRA!
RUDRA!
RUDRA!”
It wasn’t applause for a performance.
It was worship of a presence.
The Rockstar God was being born before a single note was played.
[ Chapter End ]