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...
"Music," he said, "is a fleeting career, Arpita. It doesn't provide the kind of long-term security or foundation that medicine does. You must understand that."
That was it. The old refrain. Every chord I'd strummed, every stage I'd stood on, every sleepless night I'd spent composing meant nothing in the face of his spreadsheet logic. I felt my jaw tighten. My fists clenched under the table, hidden by the linen napkin on my lap. I stared down at the plate in front of me, appetite gone.
But what cut deeper than the words themselves was the look he gave her—the subtle but unmistakable glance that said: You don't belong here. Like she was an influence to be wary of. A distraction. An obstacle to the legacy he still believed I might one day return to.
I stole a glance at Arpita. She sat poised, her back straight, her face calm—but I knew that look too. Beneath her polite smile, she was hurting. And for the first time that evening, I felt anger coil tightly in my chest—not just because he had belittled my choices, but because he had made her feel small.
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The Malhotra residence was stunning—one of those homes that seemed to float above reality. With its towering glass walls, immaculate ivory marble floors, and the endless blue of the Arabian Sea just beyond the infinity edge of the terrace, it looked like something out of a lifestyle magazine. Everything gleamed. Everything was quiet. Too quiet. It was the kind of place where your footsteps echoed, and your presence felt like a disruption to perfection.
But despite the elegance, I felt... small. Like I'd stepped into a museum where nothing should be touched, let alone moved. The kind of place where conversations weren't had—they were performed. I reminded myself to smile, to breathe, to not shrink.
Mrs. Malhotra was the first crack in the intimidating exterior. She welcomed me with a warmth that felt real, not rehearsed. When she took my hand, it was firm and kind, not the gentle brush of politeness. "It's so wonderful to have you here," she said, and I believed her. Her voice was the only soft thing in a house full of hard surfaces. Her presence steadied me, like an anchor in waters I didn't quite know how to navigate.
And then there was Mr. Malhotra.
He didn't rise when we entered. He looked up slowly, folding his newspaper with the kind of deliberateness that made it clear he was choosing to give us his time. "Ah, the doctor," he said, his tone courteous but clipped. His eyes studied me—not in curiosity, but calculation. He didn't smile. He didn't need to. The way he said it—the doctor—was both a compliment and a challenge. A reminder that I was an outsider entering his house, his world, and, most importantly, his son's life.
I smiled politely, said the right things. But I felt it: the invisible scale on which I was already being weighed.
At dinner, the table was elegantly set, the silverware aligned with surgical precision. There were at least three forks, none of which I would need, but all of which told me what kind of expectations lived in this house. The conversation began pleasantly enough—Mrs. Malhotra asked about my hospital, my parents, and the weather. But it didn't take long before Mr. Malhotra leaned in with his carefully composed voice, ready to deliver what felt less like questions and more like examinations.
