In the bustling city of Mumbai, Vihaan Malhotra, a charismatic rockstar known for his soulful music and rebellious spirit, captivates audiences with his performances.
Meanwhile, in the serene landscapes of Jaipur, Dr. Arpita Virani, a compassionate...
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Returning home to the Malhotra bungalow was always complicated. From the outside, it stood like a monument—elegant, commanding, and untouched by time, perched high above the Arabian Sea as if claiming ownership of the horizon. It was the kind of house people slowed their cars to stare at, the kind glossy magazines loved to feature. To most, it symbolized success. To me, it was the weight of expectation carved into stone.
My father had built it brick by brick with ambition, discipline, and precision. It was more than a house—it was his legacy. And I was supposed to inherit it, live up to it, mold myself into its next custodian. But I'd chosen music. Notes over numbers. Soul over structure. And that choice had always set me apart in this household.
When Arpita and I stepped into the living room, the polished marble floor reflected the soft golden lights overhead, and the distant sound of waves filtered through the open windows. My mother's embrace was immediate, warm, and unpretentious. Her presence was a balm, familiar and grounding. She held Arpita's hands and smiled the way she always did when she truly meant it. In that moment, I thought—maybe this wouldn't be so hard.
But then I saw my father.
He sat on the leather couch like a figure carved from granite, a newspaper held like a shield. He looked up slowly, eyes assessing rather than welcoming. "Ah, the doctor," he said, his tone smooth but devoid of warmth. No smile, no gesture of affection—just that signature cool baritone that could both command a boardroom and shut down a conversation before it began. That was my father—always measured, always guarded, a man who trusted success, not sentiment.
At dinner, the air was thick with formality, and beneath the clinking of cutlery and pouring of wine, I could feel the silent scrutiny. My father didn't waste time with pleasantries. He leaned back, arms crossed slightly, and turned his attention to Arpita with the kind of calm precision that always preceded his most pointed comments.
"So," he said, looking directly at her, "you're a doctor. That's commendable." A pause. A sip of wine. "But tell me—how does one balance a demanding profession like medicine with a relationship?"
He made it sound polite, but I knew him too well. This wasn't curiosity—it was an evaluation. A test. He wasn't asking about Arpita's life. He was measuring her suitability. Her ability to fit into the blueprint he had designed for me.
Arpita answered with grace, "It's challenging, but with understanding and communication, it's possible." Her voice was steady, respectful. But I could see the flicker of discomfort in her eyes.
Then came the blow I had seen coming.
"And what about Vihaan's career?" Dad asked. "Does he have your support?" His eyes didn't move from hers, but I felt their weight too.
She smiled softly. "Absolutely. I admire his passion for music."
That was when his expression shifted. Just slightly. Enough to let me know he was disappointed. Not in her—yet—but in the idea that she encouraged something he deemed unstable.
