Chapter 1: The Song Theft

“Neha Sharma, winner of the first prize in the 18th 'Rainbow Cup' Composition Competition at Lucknow Music Academy, congratulations!”

The auditorium burst into applause—a mix of real and forced. The echoes bounced off the old walls, and already, aunties and uncles in the crowd were leaning into each other, whispering about Neha’s bright future—the pride of her gali. Students craned their necks, phones raised to catch a glimpse and maybe a quick Insta story.

“First prize, yaar! Wonder what type of song she made.”

“Must be filmi again, na? Last year bhi she did one Arijit Singh-type number.”

“We’ll know soon. This time, even the judges have some outside people—like Senior Kabir Singh, he just came back from abroad!”

The name Kabir Singh hung in the air, spoken with a respect usually reserved for movie heroes. He wasn’t just a senior—he was a legend. The air buzzed with anticipation, and the faint smell of agarbatti from backstage’s mandir mixed with the old wooden seats.

My roommates’ voices echoed in the tiled corridor as I left the restroom. I adjusted my dupatta, still a little damp from washing my hands, and caught their excited chatter. The bathroom window let in the whistle of the mess’s pressure cooker. My slippers made soft, nervous sounds on the floor as I stepped out.

I knew Kabir Singh well—maybe too well.

Back then, Arjun chose this music academy only because he was obsessed with Kabir Singh’s songs. And since Arjun and I were childhood friends—and I’d liked him for years—I followed him here.

Just now, Arjun messaged me: he’d finally met his idol.

“No wonder it’s such a big deal, Meera! Even TV people are here.”

The Doordarshan camera crew’s harsh lights swept the room. Some seniors fussed over their hair, hoping to be caught in the background. The excitement was almost as loud as the noisy ceiling fans.

I wiped my hands and joined my roommates to watch.

One of them quickly used sign language to tell me who had won, but before she could finish—

The melody started.

My roommates’ eyes widened in shock, flicking to me. One girl dropped her paratha into her lap, oil blooming across her kurti. I saw her wince, pressing at the spreading stain. Their mouths formed a silent “oh,” and I felt the world tilt—because we all knew whose song this was.

I didn’t even change my slippers. I just ran for the auditorium.

Her slippers slapped the marble, the warden’s voice echoing behind her—“Arey Meera! Kya ho gaya?”—but all I could hear was my song, swelling through the doors. My heart beat so loudly, I was sure the whole corridor could hear it, thumping along with the music inside.

When I realised it, I was already on stage, and the song had just ended.

Panting, I tried to speak: “Ah, ah, ah…”

The sound echoed strangely. Everyone stared. Some shifted in their seats, unsure what to do.

I’d forgotten—I am mute.

The moment Neha Sharma saw me, panic flickered in her eyes. Her hands shook as she clutched her certificate. But as soon as she realised I could only manage “ah ah ah,” her confidence returned. She shot me a look—one eyebrow up, chin tilted—as if to say, Toh ab kya karegi?

When she heard me again, her lips curled in a smug smile.

A teacher rushed over, voice gentle but nervous: “Beta, abhi award ceremony chal raha hai. Please step down, na.”

He tried to smile, but I could see he just wanted the function to continue smoothly.

I resisted, pointing at Neha Sharma, then at myself.

Frantic, I signed: “This song is mine. She stole my song.”

He looked lost, his brows knitting together. An awkward silence fell, broken only by someone’s phone buzzing. The teacher’s helplessness was obvious—this kind of drama wasn’t in any college manual.

Soon, someone in the audience called, “Meera, jaldi neeche aa jao!”

My eyes lit up. I waved.

“Arjun, help!”

I gestured, desperate.

But Arjun came over, face dark, and yanked me off stage.

I clung to his hand, struggling, my “ah ah ah” growing urgent.

He ignored me, dragging me to a corner, flinging my hand away and snapping,

“Kitna tamasha karegi?”

His voice was low and angry, the same tone that always made me shrink. A few students looked over, then quickly turned away—no one wanted to get involved.

I stared at him, stunned, tugged his sleeve, my eyes burning. Almost pleading, I signed: “Arjun, she stole my song. Please, help me tell them.”

He didn’t even wait for me to finish before smacking my hand away:

“Tu bol nahi sakti, ga bhi nahi sakti... Toh Neha ko de diya toh kya ho gaya?”

“Kya petty ho rahi hai? Worst case, ek aur likh lena.”

His words were a slap. I saw a few aunties in the back row muttering, frowning. My hands shook as I tried to steady my breath, mind racing for what to do next.