Chapter 3: Kabir’s Intervention

A tall, slender man stepped forward, stopping before me.

He wore a faded kurta and jeans, beard trimmed just enough to look rakish but not wild. Heads turned as he passed—a presence both warm and intimidating.

He glanced at Arjun, then smiled gently at me: “Main maanta hoon, tumne likha hai.”

His voice was deep, carrying that Lucknowi grace. For a second, my nerves settled.

Arjun’s jaw dropped: “Senior Kabir—”

His voice cracked with shock and a hint of fear, like spotting a celebrity in real life.

“I understand sign language. Let me translate for you.” Kabir spoke softly, taking my hand and leading me toward the stage.

His hand was steady—a silent promise I wouldn’t be alone. My other hand clung to my dupatta.

Arjun blocked our way: “Senior, aap galat samajh rahe hain. Ye Neha ka song hai, Meera ka nahi.”

“Woh music therapy padhti hai. Song likhna aata hi nahi hai.”

“Meera, bas drama mat karo. Main maan leta hoon, sorry bola na. Chalo, cat café chalte hain, Hazratganj wala. Chal na.”

He tried to soften his voice, but desperation bled through. The mention of Hazratganj—with its tangled lanes and old shops—almost made me cry.

I patted Kabir’s hand, signalling him to let go.

He tilted his head, frowning as if to ask if I really wanted that.

I didn’t answer, but signed firmly to Arjun: “Main scene nahi bana rahi hoon. Agar mera song hai, toh hai. Jeetna hai toh apne song se jeeto.”

Then I turned, pulling Kabir onto the stage.

Arjun called after me, finally shouting, “Meera, aaj stage pe gayi toh, main kabhi baat nahi karunga!”

Kabir’s grip tightened, as if he feared I’d run.

But I wouldn’t. My steps grew firmer as I walked onto the stage.

Only then did I notice the whole auditorium staring.

Hostel girls exchanged glances, boys at the back nudged each other. A junior in the last row was WhatsApping live updates, while a girl in front fanned herself with her admit card. The air buzzed with scandal and suspense.

Someone handed Kabir a mic.

“There was a small incident. Let’s pause the ceremony.”

His voice was calm, but tension simmered. Teachers exchanged worried glances; the chief guest looked lost.

“This student claims the first prize song—Neha Sharma’s ‘Heartlight’—was stolen from her.”

The audience erupted.

People talked over each other in Hindi and English. “How’s that possible? Senior Neha’s the best here. She wouldn’t do this.”

“I saw her with this song just the other day.”

“And she said she wrote it for someone special!”

“Unless someone stole her crush too?”

Some laughed, others frowned. The tension thickened. You could almost hear the WhatsApp pings around the hall.

Neha Sharma patted the mic, crying to Kabir: “Senior Kabir, you can’t accuse me just because my song’s better than yours.”

Kabir sneered, his deep voice echoing.

Strangely, I found him… cool.

His calm in the chaos was filmi—like a courtroom hero. I watched him, even as my hands shook.