On the otherside, Early morning in the Upadhyay Villa's puja room. The air is fragrant with sandalwood and jasmine. A low hum of devotional chants plays softly in the background.
Sunlight streams through the carved windows, casting warm patterns on the marble floor.
Savitri Devi, dressed in a pristine ivory silk saree with a delicate gold border, is seated near the altar, arranging kalash (sacred pot), coconut, and mango leaves. Her bahu, Meenakshi, clad in a rose-pink saree with a subtle sheen, joins her quietly.
Savitri Devi (placing flowers on the idol): "Daughter in-law, ghar sirf imaarat nahi hota (a home is not just a building)... it's a place where every corner holds emotions. And when energies shift, it is important to bring peace."
Meenakshi (folding hands before the idol): "You're right, mother. There's been a lot of movement—Veer's return, Rishika coming back from America, Riyansh investing in the family business… maybe the house needed this shuddhi (purification)."
Savitri Devi (smiling warmly): "Exactly. That's why I've decided—we'll hold a Ghar Shanti Pooja this week. No shortcuts. Full rituals, full family, aur sabki ekta ke liye (for everyone's unity)."
Meenakshi (gently inquired), "I understand. I'll arrange for the priest. What about the food?"
Savitri Devi (smiling): "Satvik bhojan. No onion, no garlic. Aur Rishika ki pasand ke laddoo (and Rishika's favorite sweets) — nariyal ke laddoo — banwana mat bhoolna (don't forget to have them made)."
Meenakshi (grinning now): "Done. Should I also invite Tauji's family from Jaipur?"
Savitri Devi: "Of course. Yeh pooja sirf shanti ke liye nahi hai, yaadon ke liye bhi hai (This puja isn't just for peace, it's for memories too). I want the walls of this house to echo with laughter again, not silence."
Meenakshi (touching Savitri's feet gently): ""Your blessings make this house a home, Mother."
Savitri Devi (placing her hand lovingly on meenakshi head): "And your seva (service) fills it with warmth, daughter in law."
The bell rings softly in the background as Savitri Devi begins chanting the first mantra of the day. The moment is serene. Outside, preparations are just beginning, but inside the heart of the house, harmony is already taking root.
Location: Madhvan Group Headquarters, 33rd Floor – South Wing, City D
Riyansh's office
The headquarters of Madhvan Group was not just an office building — it was a fortress of glass and legacy. Located in the heart of City's D financial district, it towered above the skyline like a symbol of ambition passed down and reforged. Inside, the air was crisp, the decor minimal but expensive, and the corridors bore the scent of quiet power.
At the far end of the executive floor sat Riyansh Madhvan, the current custodian of the empire his grandparents built — sharp in a charcoal-black suit, eyes on a confidential project report glowing on his glass-top desk. His expression, unreadable. Focused. Relentless.
A soft buzz from the reception line broke his train of thought.
"Sir, Mr. Vivaan is here to see you."
Riyansh leaned back slightly, the faintest flicker of a smirk crossing his lips.
"Let him in."
He stood up slowly, walked to the tall glass window, hands behind his back, as the door opened with a quiet mechanical click.
Vivaan Madhvan stepped in.
His hair was windswept from the City D air. The camera bag slung across his shoulder clashed wildly with the polished boardroom aesthetics. A faded denim jacket. White sneakers. Cool detachment.
"Bhai." (Brother)
Riyansh turned slowly. There was a stillness in his eyes — the kind that came from holding too many truths, and offering very few.
"You're late."
Vivaan shrugged. "I wasn't planning to come at all."
They stared at each other for a long second. No hugs. No dramatic music. Just decades of distance and decisions resting silently between two brothers.
Moments Later, Vivaan walked around slowly, absorbing the intimidating decor, the framed achievements, the marble bust of his grandfather, by the corner.
"So this is the throne," Vivaan muttered.
Riyansh: "It's a desk. Not a throne. I didn't inherit a crown, Vivaan. I inherited a mess."
Vivaan glanced around, unimpressed. "You clean up pretty well for a man in a mess."
Just then, Aakash Mital entered through the side conference door, tablet in hand. Riyansh had called for him earlier to review the latest TK Jewellers audit trail.
He stopped short.
Aakash and Vivaan locked eyes. Neither smiled.
Vivaan sized him up: short sleeves, rolled cuffs, firm gaze — a quiet man who didn't care for appearances.
Aakash: "Hi. Aakash."
Vivaan: "Vivaan..."
Then Aakash offered his hand, solid and formal. Vivaan shook it, faintly smirking.
"You're the one unearthing ghosts in TK's files?" Vivaan asked.
"I'm just following the truth," Aakash replied coolly.
Vivaan nodded. "Truth's hard to market. Let's see how long you last."
The tension was broken only by Riyansh, who looked between the two — an analyst and a nomad, both strays in different ways.
Vivaan sat on the edge of Riyansh's sleek black leather couch, watching city D blur through the windows. His camera bag lay beside him like a weapon he wasn't sure whether to use or abandon.
Riyansh poured him a glass of water. No whisky today. This wasn't that kind of reunion.
"So what are you going to do next? " Riyansh asked.
Vivaan took a moment before answering.
"Because I'm tired of running. Of photographing other people's chaos when I come from one."
Riyansh leaned forward. "So what now?"
Vivaan looked up.
"I don't want a role in Madhvan Capital. I don't want a desk or a job title. And if you're serious about changing this company—really cleaning it up—then I want in. On my terms."
"So where are you living right now ?"
Riyansh asked.
Vivan :" I live with a sweet family and you don't need to worry".
Riyansh: "If you don't feel comfortable there ,then come and stay with me".
Vivan: "No need for now."
Riyansh studied his brother. Slowly, he nodded.
"Then stay out of the boardroom," he said, "but stay close. I have plans for TK's image — branding, culture, legacy revival. You're good with people, and better with stories. We'll do it together."
Vivaan smirked. "You just want me for my lens."
Riyansh gave the faintest smile in return. "Maybe. Or maybe I just want you here."
AT NIGHT— MITAL'S HOUSE
Inside Dev's dimly lit backroom studio, wires tangle like restless thoughts. Monitors glow faint blue. A fan hums overhead. The only light is from his screen—an open digital audio workstation where a sample keeps playing, clashing at the drop.
Dev, in an old grey T-shirt, headphones half-on, stares at the waveform in frustration. He loops the same melody again. And again. It refuses to resolve. The frequency stutters. The mood bleeds wrong.
Dev (to himself, annoyed): "Why does this sound like garbage…? No, no, no—it's off."
He leans back, taps the keys again. The melody restarts—still jarring.
Vivaan (from the dark hallway, leaning casually against the doorframe): "Reverse it."
Dev startles. Whips around. Vivaan is framed in shadow, a loose black hoodie hanging off his shoulders, messy hair slightly damp, as if he'd just showered or walked in from the humidity. A pair of studio headphones hangs around his neck.
Dev (irritated): "You spying now?"
Vivaan (grinning, stepping in): "Nope. Just saving my ears from murder."
Dev scowls, then, after a beat, grudgingly tries it—flipping the sample. The reversed audio plays, stretching the tail end into an airy, haunting buildup. The clash disappears. Suddenly, the track breathes.
Dev (murmurs): "…Huh."
Vivaan (leaning over the console): "Told you. Some melodies want to be backwards."
Dev (mutters): "Lucky guess."
Vivaan (smirking): "Or maybe I have taste. Which you clearly forgot in your last ten edits."
Dev glares, but something cracks in his expression. A reluctant acknowledgment. He slides his chair back slightly.
Dev: "You know production?"
Vivaan (shrugging): "Enough to know when someone's overthinking. Melody's not about perfection. It's about intent."
Dev: "Oh god. Philosophy in the booth now?"
Vivaan: "You looped the same six bars for an hour. At this point, even Buddha would've broken a speaker."
Dev chuckles despite himself. Silence stretches, not awkward this time—just thick with creative air. Vivaan picks up a mini synth keyboard from the side table, runs his fingers over it absently.
Dev (watching): "You're not bad."
Vivaan (mock-proud): "Thanks. I played live sets at Oberlin's campus basement. That's practically Coachella."
Dev (half-laughing): "I doubt that. But… thanks."
Vivaan (casually): "I'm just saying—maybe don't kill your melody next time with forced drama. Let it float."
Dev (dryly): "Now you're an ambient expert too?"
Vivaan: "No. Just someone who listens."
Dev goes quiet. That line hits a little too close—no one in this house really listens. Not since the stroke, not since the chaos. And here was this stranger—walking into his cave like he belonged.
Dev (genuinely now): "You want to build something together? Just try. No pressure."
Vivaan (tilting his head, intrigued): "You mean it?"
Dev (nodding): "Just don't bring your Oberlin ego into my mix."
Vivaan (grinning, stepping beside him): "Deal. And don't forget—I reversed your disaster into a track."
They both laugh lightly as the reversed melody loops again—this time, it works. The beat is soft, rich, melancholic. It feels like something alive.
The night shifts. A rivalry softens. Two creators, from wildly different worlds, begin to find sync—in music, if not yet in trust.