The humidity in South Delhi was a physical weight, the kind that made the air feel like damp silk pressing against the skin. Inside the soundproof sanctuary of Studio 4, however, the air conditioning was set to a clinical 18°C.
Arjun sat cross-legged on the elevated wooden platform, his tanpura resting against his shoulder like a lover he was currently arguing with. He closed his eyes, seeking the purity of a perfect Sa, but all he could hear was the muffled, rhythmic thump-thump-thump of bass bleeding through the walls from the neighboring suite.
"Disgraceful," Arjun whispered to the empty room. His voice was a rich baritone, honed by years of disciplined riyaz at dawn.
The heavy acoustic door groaned open.
Enter Ishaan.
He didn't walk; he swaggered with the filtered confidence of someone who had a million followers and zero patience for tradition. He was wearing an oversized black graphic tee, distressed jeans, and a pair of neon-green headphones draped around a neck that, Arjun noted with a flash of irritation, was annoyingly well-defined.
"So," Ishaan said, not bothering with a Namaste. He tossed a silver MacBook onto the glass coffee table. "You're the guy who thinks my music is 'digital noise'?"
Arjun didn't open his eyes. "I believe my exact words in the Times interview were 'a soulless cacophony of synthesized distractions.' But 'digital noise' is a decent summary."
He heard the scrape of a chair. Ishaan was leaning forward, the scent of expensive sandalwood cologne and a hint of rain-damp pavement invading Arjun's space.
"Funny," Ishaan's voice was a low, provocative drawl. "Because I listened to your last recording. Technicially perfect. Flawless. And about as exciting as watching paint dry in a museum. You're singing for ghosts, Arjun. I'm making music for people who are actually alive."
Arjun's eyes snapped open. They were dark, sharp, and currently narrowed in a way that would have intimidated a lesser man. "Music is a prayer, Ishaan. Not a gym soundtrack."
"A prayer? Then consider me the devil at the altar." Ishaan grinned, a slow, predatory tilt of the lips that didn't reach his calculating eyes. He stood up and walked toward the microphone, his arm brushing against Arjun's shoulder.
The contact was brief—a mere friction of cotton against linen—but in the silence of the studio, it felt like a static shock. Arjun felt a sudden, treasonous jolt in his chest. It wasn't just anger. It was the realization that his 'enemy' didn't just have a loud mouth; he had a presence that demanded the entire room's oxygen.
Ishaan turned back, his gaze dropping for a fraction of a second to Arjun's mouth before snapping back to his eyes. "The Ministry wants a 'fusion' for the global summit. That means I need your soul, and you need my pulse. So, are we going to fight all night, or are you going to sing so I can show you what a real beat feels like?"
Arjun gripped the neck of his tanpura. His knuckles were white. "I will sing. But if you touch my frequencies with a single 'drop,' Ishaan... I'll walk out."
"We'll see," Ishaan whispered, leaning in just close enough for Arjun to see the gold flecks in his pupils. "I've always been good at making people change their minds."