Vivaan's side: Flashback story
Inside the Madhvan family library.
The air in the library smelled of aging wood and old ambition. Floor-to-ceiling shelves carried volumes on finance, diplomacy, global policy, and Madhvan Group's annual reports dating back to 1972. No music. No poetry. Just numbers and legacy.
Amar Madhvan stood with his back to the door, arms crossed behind him, staring out at the rain through the tall windows.
Vivaan closed the heavy door behind him.
"Sit," Amar said without turning.
Vivaan didn't. He stayed standing.
"I thought you might want to speak to me like a father today," he said quietly, "Not like the chairman."
At that, Amar turned. His face was sharp, expression unreadable. He was a man built by boardrooms and strategy, his emotions carefully curated. But his son? He stood there in a worn black hoodie, jeans frayed at the knees, eyes burning with stubborn clarity.
"London," Amar said, cutting through the silence like a knife. "You leave in ten daysfor your further study. I've spoken to Dean Lockhart. You'll be joining the cultural policy cohort under a full sponsorship. It's done."
"No," Vivaan replied.
The word landed like a stone.
"No?" Amar echoed, as if unfamiliar with its weight.
"I'm not going to London. I've told you—I don't want to study policy. I don't want to join the family office. I don't want—" Vivaan's voice broke slightly. "—this life you've charted for me like a spreadsheet."
"You don't know what you want, Vivaan," Amar said coolly. "You're twenty-two. You float from country to country, state to state. You pick up cameras, pianos, daydreams. And when that fades, you'll come crawling back, too late to learn what real responsibility feels like."
Vivaan stepped forward, heart pounding. "What if I don't come back at all?"
There was a beat of silence. Amar walked toward the antique bar in the corner, poured himself a small drink, and set it down untouched.
"You're a Madhvan," he said. "We don't chase whims."
Vivaan laughed. "No. You don't chase anything you can't measure. That's the problem."
The door creaked slightly as Gayatri Devi entered—the quiet heartbeat of the family, matriarch in her seventies but still regal in her silk saree. Her silver hair was tied neatly into a bun, a sandalwood mala in her hand.
"Amar," she said gently, "maybe let the boy explain—"
"This isn't a debate, Mother," Amar snapped.
She flinched slightly, then looked at Vivaan.
"Beta(son)," she said softly, "What is it that you truly want?"
Vivaan's voice was steady, but his eyes glistened. "I want to create music. Visual stories. Document lives that no one looks at. I want to produce sounds that feel alive. Not just… push numbers around or wear suits in glass towers."
And something snapped inside Vivaan.
"I'd rather be nothing than a version of you," he said. "You want a legacy? Build it without me."
Amar turned, lips drawn tight. "Then leave. But don't come back when it breaks you. Because this house is not your safety net."
The silence was suffocating.
Vivaan reached into his pocket, pulled out the keys to his penthouse, and placed them gently on the massive teakwood desk. Then, he removed the sleek black wallet embossed with the Madhvan crest. Placed that too. Finally, the car key.
"You can keep the inheritance," he said. "I'll find a life I actually want to live."
He turned, nodding once to Gayatri Devi, who looked at him with a mix of heartbreak and pride, her fingers frozen on her prayer beads.
Then he walked out.
Not just of the room.
Out of the world that bore his name.
The rain had stopped by the time Vivaan left the Madhvan Mansion, but his world was still storming.
He didn't wait for a car or a driver. No penthouse. No calls. No explanations.
Just silence.
He took the back gate—the one staff used. With every step past the rows of trimmed hedges and rose marble pillars, he shed another layer of the life that had never felt fully his.
By nightfall, he was at his best friend Riyan's apartment in Greater lake side, soaked to the skin but smiling like a man freshly escaped from a prison made of glass and legacy.
"Tell me you finally did it," Riyan asked, flinging open the door.
Vivaan exhaled. "I'm out."
Riyan laughed, wrapping him in a towel. "About time."
At first, it felt like a film. Liberation montage.
Late nights with music spilling through garage speakers. Vivaan jammed on his MIDI keys while Riyan laid down scratchy drum loops. They edited photos, wrote half-screenplays, and dreamed big.
Vivaan slept on the couch with zero complaints. He ate instant noodles. Laughed too loud. It was the first time in months he wasn't looking over his shoulder, waiting for Amar Madhvan to lecture him about responsibility, image, or "the family name."
This was his name now. Just Vivaan.
But reality, unlike films, doesn't wait for credits.
On the fifth morning, Riyan's father walked into the living room with a polite nod.
Vivaan looked up from his laptop. Riyan's dad placed the paper on the table, next to his untouched tea.
"I got a call from Mr. Amar Madhvan," he said quietly.
"He's... concerned. Said you're in some kind of rebellious phase."
Vivaan bristled.
"I'm not in a phase. I left. That's it."
But the conversation ended there.
That night, Riyan looked apologetic as they sat in the kitchen.
"My dad... he doesn't want a rift with the Madhvans. Business stuff. He's asking if you can find another place—just for now."
Vivaan didn't argue.
He just nodded and packed silently.
Now Vivan did not want to take help from anyone. No friends, no family. But he tried hostels. Shabby PGs near Safdarjung. Slept in a dormitory one night, surrounded by strangers and snoring.
By Day 8, he had nothing but some left money, his old camera, a duffel bag of clothes, and a branded watch, and the humming ache of not belonging anywhere.
He stopped taking calls from family. Gayatri Devi tried once—he let it ring.
He wandered. Sat in cafés until closing time. Edited old field recordings with WiFi he wasn't paying for.
One night, under the broken awning of an old bookstore, he saw it—a flyer half-soaked by the rain: ROOM FOR RENT – ARTISTS ONLY.
Music. Film. Graphic Design. No nonsense. Food service. Private room. Studio.
It was barely legible, torn, scribbled with corrections. No logos. No Instagram handle.
But there was something real about it.
Something raw.
Vivaan tucked it into his journal. For the first time in a week, he had a destination.
Flachback Ends.