Mital House – One Week Later,
There's a stillness that follows chaos—not the quiet of emptiness, but of possibility. The Mital house, once bursting with the hum of drills and paint chatter, now breathed differently. Clean, restored, and proud.
And in that silence, music began to rise.
Dev's studio had changed. It no longer sparked unpredictably or drowned in static. His monitors hummed smoothly. The mic stood steady. And in the center of the soundproofed room sat Dev, adjusting faders with calm confidence.
He had spent days trying to finish a track. But something was missing. A layer. A story.
A knock on the half-closed door startled him.
"Yo," Vivaan peeked in, guitar hanging off his shoulder, camera slung on his back. "Got a minute?"
Dev leaned back in his chair. "For the mysterious tenant with hidden chords? Always."
Vivaan chuckled, stepping in.
"I heard your loop through the wall. The bassline… it's tight. But the middle's kind of empty. Like the sound's walking on one leg."
Dev raised an eyebrow. "You came to insult or contribute?"
Vivaan smirked. "Depends. You open to a second ear?"
Dev gestured to the keyboard. "Prove me wrong."
The studio suddenly felt warmer. Two chairs. One laptop. One guitar. And two young men who'd spent weeks misunderstanding each other—now fumbling into sync like seasoned strangers.
Vivaan played a slow chord progression—minor, wistful, textured.
Dev listened.
"Wait," he said. "Play that again, but let it hang longer on the third."
Vivaan repeated it, letting the notes bleed.
Dev adjusted a filter, dropped a reverb, looped it back.
They listened in silence.
And then Dev added a beat. Soft, pulsing, heartbeat tempo.
"Try that slide you did earlier," Dev murmured, not looking up.
Vivaan played. Dev recorded.
No words for a while. Just sound.
Then Dev spoke. "That chord you played… what's it called?"
Vivaan smiled faintly. "I call it leaving quietly."
Dev glanced at him. "Heavy name."
"Fitting life," Vivaan replied.
Later That Night – Tea on the Balcony,
They sat on the rickety balcony bench, two mugs in hand. The neem tree above rustled softly, branches swaying like arms in prayer.
"So," Dev said, "you're actually good."
Vivaan mock gasped. "You admit it."
"I'm not blind. Or deaf."
Vivaan smiled, then asked: "Why music?"
Dev stared into his chai. "Because it doesn't interrupt. It just… waits. Even silence in music has a role."
Dev nodded slowly. "And you?"
Vivaan tilted his head. "Photography. Guitar. Disappearing acts. And what else?"
Vivaan looked up at the stars.
"I think I just… wanted to live somewhere where no one asked what I do before asking if I want tea."
Dev studied him. Then said softly: "You ever think maybe you didn't come here to escape?"
Vivaan turned to him. "What do you mean?"
Dev shrugged. "Maybe this place—this mess, this music—it's where you were supposed to be all along."
A long pause.
Vivaan exhaled. "That's the first nice thing you've said to me."
"I'll take it back if you start humming offbeat again."
They both laughed—real, echoing laughter that surprised even themselves.
Venue: The Rosewood Private Dining Lounge, City D
Lighting: Soft amber glow, high-back velvet chairs, thick silence between courses.
The flicker of candles reflected off polished crystal glasses. No music played.
The room had been booked in Mahesh Upadhyay's name—no assistants, no reporters, and crucially, no Rajat.
The four elders sat across from one another, an untouched pot of jasmine tea between them.
Mr. Mahesh (with a calm smile): 今晚只是为了我们四位长辈坐下来,坦率地聊聊. ("Tonight is simply for the four of us elders—to sit and speak frankly.")
Mrs. Bansal(nodding politely): "Yes, these matters too often become PR events. They lose sincerity."
Mrs. Vasundhara (gently adjusting her dupatta): "We want this discussion to be quiet, and real."
Mr. Madhavan(carefully): Sanvi is an exceptional girl. Our whole family respects her."
Mrs. Bansal: "Thank you for saying that. We also have a good impression of Ananya . She's graceful and composed."
Mrs. Vasundhara: "But we must say this upfront—we will not proceed with any engagement without the children's willingness."
Mr. Mahesh : "Before we consider anything further, we'd like to invite you to the Madhvan family estate—to meet the elders formally."
Mrs. Bansal (eyes slightly widening): "Oh? You mean Mrs. Head Madhvan and…"
Mrs. Vasundhara : "Yes. Maaji, . Also elder -brother Amar and his wife, and the two sister in- law".
Mr. Bansal : "Is this a family tradition?"
Mr. Mahesh (smiling lightly): "Not exactly. But it is a sign of respect. We cannot make decisions without both families meeting."
Mrs. Bansal : "Rajat… has been a little distant lately. We've felt it too."
Mrs. Vasundhara: "He and Sanvi haven't interacted much. We don't want to pressure anyone."
Mr. Mahesh : "So let us begin by building trust among the elders. Let the families meet, and see if our values align."
Mr. Bansal (after a long pause): "We accept the invitation. And thank you for giving us this opportunity—without first announcing anything to the press."
Mrs. Vasundhara : "We aren't here for grandeur. We simply want to offer the children a proper environment."
Mrs. Bansal : "Then let's fix a date. We'll be there."
Mr. Mahesh : "Saturday evening. Mother has already arranged a family dinner."
The tea is finally poured. No champagne. No toasts. Just old-world sincerity.
They part with courteous smiles, and the soft clink of porcelain cups—history quietly inching forward.
Location: Madhvan Villa, City D
The gates of Madhvan Villa opened slowly as the Bansals' car rolled in. Lanterns glowed in elegant rows against the carved stonework, and fragrant mogra garlands framed the grand entrance.
Mr. and Mrs. Bansal stepped out, followed by their daughters—Meera, dignified in a soft indigo saree, and Sanvi, wearing a pastel rose salwar set with a pearl-dotted dupatta, nervous but poised.
They were escorted by staff through the archways into the Old Wing, where tradition hung in the air like incense.
Inside, the Madhvans awaited.
Gayatri Devi (Maaji) sat upright on a carved rosewood chair, her presence commanding and warm.
Amar Madhvan, current Chairman, stood near a cabinet of books, flipping a page but clearly listening.
Rubika, Amar's wife, stood near the orchids, her grace quiet and comforting.
Mahesh and Vasundhara, the younger brother and sister-in-law, sat further apart—reserved but alert.
Ananya and Karan, the younger generation, lingered in thoughtful silence.
As the Bansals entered, the atmosphere shifted. Silent appraisals began.
"Welcome," Gayatri Devi said, her voice firm but warm. "We're glad you could come."
Mr. Bansal responded with a bow. "It's an honor to be invited."
Mrs. Bansal added gently, "This is Sanvi, our younger daughter. And Meera, our elder one, who accompanied us."
Sanvi folded her hands, softly greeting the room. Meera followed with a graceful nod.
Rubika smiled. "You're both lovely. I see strength in both your eyes, in very different ways."
Mahesh approached with a handshake and spoke directly. "In our home, such meetings matter. It's not about appearances—it's about values, intent, and legacy."
Mr. Bansal replied carefully, "That's what we hope to understand. Whether our families align in ways deeper than the surface."
Mahesh leaned forward. "You know Rajat is currently traveling for international business. But we felt it important you meet the family first. Without him."
Vasundhara added with polite sharpness, "And we prefer no pressure on the young ones until we, as elders, are sure of each other."
Sanvi, seated next to her mother, nodded respectfully. "I appreciate the warmth here. It puts me more at ease than I expected."
Ananya smiled across the room. "You don't have to be perfect. We're all learning to live within legacy."
Karan looked up from his tablet. "And evolve it."
Gayatri Devi turned to Meera with soft curiosity.
"You're not married yet?"
"No, Grandmaa. I'm focused on my work right now—building a design venture."
Vasundhara raised an eyebrow. "That's a bold path in today's economy."
Rubika interjected calmly, "Bold, yes. But everyone has their own timeline. Not every woman is meant to follow a charted course."
Gayatri Devi nodded in approval. "Both your daughters speak with calm. I respect that."
Mrs. Bansal smiled. "Thank you. It means a lot, especially coming from you."
As delicate platters of jackfruit biryani, almond kofta, and saffron kulfi arrived, the mood lightened. The food, like the evening, was understated but rich.
Amar passed a serving dish toward Mr. Bansal. "Let's not rush into outcomes tonight. This is about impressions. The rest—will come naturally."
Gayatri Devi took Sanvi's hand briefly in hers. "The heart sees what tradition sometimes overlooks. Tonight, I see clarity."
Sanvi lowered her gaze, blushing slightly. Meera glanced at her sister and whispered, "You're doing fine."
Mahesh and Vasundhara exchanged a quiet glance—calculating, unreadable.
Ananya noted it but said nothing. She simply leaned back, watching Sanvi—not with judgment, but curiosity.
As dinner ended, Rubika brought out a silver tray with rose water and silk hand towels. Soft music played in the distance from a sitar on vinyl.
Gayatri Devi rose with her cane and looked toward the Bansals. "This is not a final decision, but an open door. We thank you for stepping through it."
Mr. Bansal stood and replied with a slight bow, "We're grateful. Whatever comes next, we're glad we began here."
As the Bansals exited into the night, the soft click of the closing door left behind a sense of something meaningful—not sealed, but stirred.