Within the Mital family home,
Dev Mital announced his resignation. His family opposed his decision to leave his corporate graphic design position.
This sparked both admiration for his bold rejection of conformity and concern over the perceived risk. Unfazed, Dev transformed his childhood room into a makeshift music studio. Within the soundproofed walls, amidst wires and instruments, he immersed himself in music.
He created beats, explored genres, and sought a unique sound, a constant goal. His music reflected anxieties, hopes, and doubts, a sonic self-discovery. Bass, melody, and instruments were his tools for self-exploration in his creative space. He mastered Ableton, Logic, and Pro Tools, realizing his vision. He studied theory, harmony, and composition to better express himself musically.
Electronic, hip-hop, jazz, and classical music inspired his evolving style. He collaborated with others, sharing ideas and experimenting, expanding his artistry. Live shows connected him with audiences, testing his work. He sought feedback to improve his craft, showing dedication to growth. He pursued his unique sound, fueling his musical journey.
To ease their financial strain, Dev's mother proposed renting their spare upstairs room. Dev strongly objected, citing concerns about compromised privacy and potential disruptions, such as noisy gatherings, unwanted visitors, and a disturbed routine. However, his mother's insistence on the necessity of the additional income ultimately swayed him. He conceded with reluctance, apprehensive about the change.
One warm afternoon, the doorbell rang, interrupting Dev's sulking. Their new tenant had arrived. A young man stood in front of him—barefoot, dark eyes, lean frame, holding a cup of tea.
"I go by V," Vivaan said. "I do music. A little visual art. I don't snore. I can pay rent after two freelance payments clear." he announced, offering a polite, reserved smile. He wore pristine designer sneakers, pressed jeans, and a crisp, button-down shirt, exuding quiet confidence that Dev, resentful, interpreted as smugness.
Dev's first thought was, "Spoiled rich brat." His second: "Great, this one's going to be blasting music at 3 a.m., driving me insane." He sighed, regretting his mother's decision and bracing himself for the inevitable chaos.
They shook hands, firm and cold.
Dev stared at him for a moment. "You rich?"
Vivaan blinked. "Not anymore."
Dev's eyes flickered with something like amusement. "Fine. Rent's ₹20,000, with food service. No loud friends. No drama. My studio's private unless I invite you."
"Got it."
Dev opened the door wider.
"Shoes off," he said.
Vivaan stepped in, his quiet demeanor cloaked in an olive-green kurta. He hesitated at the threshold until Kamla called warmly, "Son, come inside. We don't welcome people at the door here."
Vivaan gave a grateful half-smile, removing his shoes. His eyes scanned the antique clocks, a brass Nataraj on the table, and the creaking wooden staircase that split the house in two.
Auntie bustled in, a gleaming steel thali in her hands. "Meetha toh zaroori hai. Aashirwad ke liye." (Sweets are essential for blessings.)
Before he could protest, she fed him a pinch of jaggery and dahi with the authority of tradition.
He chuckled awkwardly, licking the sweetness from his lip. "Thank you… Aunt."
From the corner, Raghunath Mital cleared his throat. The old man sat on a high-backed chair, blanket folded across his lap, hawk-eyed and silent.
"Camera boy," he grunted. "Come here."
Vivaan obeyed, respectful.
"Digital or soul-based?" Raghunath asked, pointing at the Canon around Vivaan's neck.
Vivaan hesitated. "Hopefully both, sir."
That earned him something close to a grin.
Uncle—stern, shawled, and ever-suspicious—spoke next. "Where are you from?"
"I am also from City D, sir. Lately City H and City G. Culture shoots. I work freelance."
"Patience?" Uncle asked flatly.
Vivaan nodded. "Nature taught me that."
"Hmm." A nod of reluctant approval. "Go greet elders."
Vivaan nodded, vanishing down the hall.
Dev stood at the top of the stairs.
Arms folded, jaw locked, his expression was unreadable. He'd seen everything. The warm welcome. The casual ease. The charm.
Too smooth. Too practiced. Too… everything I'm not.
Kamla called up, "Dev! Come eat something with Vivaan."
Dev groaned. "Not hungry."
Kamla: "Don't be rude."
He came down like a reluctant soldier to the dining table, every creak in the wooden stairs a protest.
Vivaan was already seated, his elbows off the table, posture perfect.
Kamla intervened, chirpy. "Vivaan brought these from Mussoorie. Not the kind Swiggy delivers."
Dev examined it like a lab specimen, bit into it, chewed without flinching.
"Decent," he said, flatly.
Vivaan smirked. "High praise."
Kamla placed two steaming cups of chai between them. "No fighting. Start your stay with tea."
Vivaan lifted his cup, nudging it toward Dev's. "To noise-free nights and creative coexistence?"
Dev's brow arched. "We'll see."
The cups clinked. A fragile treaty, signed in sips.
Upstairs, Vivaan began unpacking. A soft baseline vibrated through the walls. Dev's music—moody, layered, experimental—bled into his room.
He stood still, just listening.
Then he picked up his camera.
The afternoon light painted the floor in a diagonal slash. He snapped the photo.
Below it, in his leather-bound journal, he wrote: "New chapter. New walls. One reluctant composer next door. Let's see where this symphony goes."
Just as he capped his pen, his phone buzzed.
Riyansh. His elder brother. The CEO of the Madhvan Empire.
Vivaan sighed and answered.
"Where are you?" Riyansh's voice was clipped, cold.
"Left the house," Vivaan said flatly.
Riyansh: "That's not an address."
Vivaan: "I'm… in the city. Figuring things out."
Riyansh: "Wherever you are—come to the office. Immediately."
Vivaan: "Impossible."
A pause.
Then Riyansh's voice dropped to an edge.
"Don't test me today, Vivaan. Send me the address. I'll send the car. Now."
Vivaan's jaw tensed.
Vivaan (to Riyansh): "I'll come myself."
Riyansh cut the call. Vivaan stared at the screen.
BACK DOWNSTAIRS, Kamla watched Dev, disappear into his sound cave again.
From the kitchen, she whispered, "I don't know. These two under one roof?"
Uncle chuckled. "Like a harmonium and electric guitar in the same room."
Kamla shook her head. "God help us."😅😅