Chapter 3

The boathouse was a skeletal beauty, smelling of salt-crusted wood and old stories. Sameer led Shristi through the narrow corridors, his flashlight cutting through the silver dust motes. "It’s not a palace," he murmured, guiding her up a small wooden ladder to the top deck, "but the view doesn't send you a bill."

The deck opened up to the vast, obsidian expanse of the Arabian Sea. A steady, calming breeze pulled at Shristi’s hair, untying the knots of the gala she’d just escaped. Sameer leaned against the railing, the moonlight catching the sharp line of his jaw. Without a word, he began to hum.

It was a low, resonant sound that vibrated against the quiet of the night. Recognizing the melody, Shristi pulled out her phone, her thumb hitting the record button

Chaand Sitare Phool Aur Khushboo

Chaand Sitare Phool Aur Khushboo

Ye To Saare Purane Hain

Taaza Taaza Kaali Khili Hai

Hum Uske Deewane Hain

Hmm Mmm Mmm Mm…

Are Kaali Ghataaye Barsha Saavan (Ho Oo..)
Kaali Ghataaye Barsha Saavan
Ye To Sab Afsaane Hain
Taaza Taaza Kaali Khili Hai
Hum Uske Deewane Hain

Hmm Mmm Mmm Mm…

She didn't just want to remember the sound; she wanted to capture the peace. As his voice gained strength, breaking into the lyrics of Chand Sitare Phool aur Khushboo, Shristi began to move.

Andaz Hai Uske Naye Naye
Naya Naya Deewaanapan
Andaz Hai Uske Naye Naye
Naya Naya Deewaanapan

Pehchaan Hai Taaz Jawaani Ka
Hans Ke Laut Gaya Bachpan
You are reading the lyrics on lyricsread.com

Geet Ghazal Sab Kal Ki Baatein
Geet Ghazal Sab Kal Ki Baatein
Uske Naye Taraane Hain
Taaza Taaza Kaali Khili Hai
Hum Uske Deewane Hain

She danced with a fluid, unchoreographed grace—no longer the "perfect" Arora daughter, but a girl swaying to a rhythm that felt like home. Sameer watched her, his song faltering for a heartbeat before he stepped into her space. He took her hand, spinning her under the moonlight. For those few minutes, the distance between the mansion and the boathouse vanished. They were just two shadows moving in sync to a song about the beauty of the world.

The drive back was silent, the hum of the engine a lingering afterglow of the dance. When he dropped her at the gates, the "perfect" world felt smaller than ever.

The next morning at Sameer’s home, the magic of the moonlight was replaced by the harsh sun of reality. Harry Uncle sat at the small wooden table, his brow furrowed over the newspaper.

"Everything is touching the sky, Harry," Christine Aunty sighed, clattering pots in the kitchen. "Vegetables, oil, fuel... and Sameer? He hasn't given the rent money this month, nor a rupee for the rations. How are we supposed to survive on your pension alone?"

Rohan, sitting on the floor nearby, listened to the sharp edge in her voice. Without a word, he walked into the bedroom and returned clutching a ceramic piggy bank. He placed it firmly on the table in front of Christine.

"Take it," he said quietly, his eyes bright with hurt. "Just don't say anything bad to Sammy."

He walked out of the house before anyone could offer him breakfast. Christine’s heart sank. When Sameer came down to the porch moments later, he found her staring at the piggy bank with tearful eyes.

"He didn't eat," she whispered. "He's upset, Sameer."

Sameer found Rohan sitting on the jagged rocks by the shore, throwing pebbles into the surf.

"She’s right in her place, Rohan," Sameer said, sitting beside him. "We’re staying in their home. You shouldn't feel bad."

"I don't like her bickering at you," Rohan snapped. "She isn't our mother. She has no right."

Sameer’s expression turned solemn. "Don't ever say that. You were three years old when I took you away from that orphanage because the dean was a monster. We were beggars, Rohan. No one looked at us. It was Christine Aunty and Harry Uncle who gave us a roof when their own world had collapsed."

He looked out at the horizon.

"They lost their only son to the sea—a Navy officer whose ship was sunk by a foreign submarine. For them, we aren't just tenants. We are the children the ocean took away. She is more of a mother than anyone we've ever known."

Rohan’s shoulders slumped, the anger draining out of him. "I'll say sorry," he whispered. "I'll call her 'Mom' and Harry 'Dad' from now on. I promise."

*

The cafe was a world of marble and muted jazz, a stark contrast to the salt-spray and raw melodies of the night before. Shristi sat across from Rishabh, her fingers tapping a restless rhythm on the tabletop. She pulled out her phone, the screen illuminating a video of Sameer—not the delivery driver, but the artist.

"Look at this, Rishabh," she said, her voice carrying a rare spark of genuine enthusiasm. "I met him at the college fest. His voice... it’s not just technically good. It’s honest. He’s been offered a gig on a music cruise leaving tonight."

Rishabh took the phone, his eyes narrowing slightly as he watched the boy with the messy hair and the bruised-soul voice. He recognized the face—the boy from the driveway.

"He's talented," Rishabh admitted, his tone smooth and professional, though his thumb lingered a second too long on the pause button. "Which cruise is it? There are a few events launching this week for the season and one of the cruise is departing in the evening."

"It's the 'Blue Horizon,'" Shristi said, her eyes bright. "He said it's a three-day event. No rigid schedules, just pure music."

A slow, calculated smile spread across Rishabh’s face. He leaned back, the sunlight catching the expensive gold of his watch.

"The Blue Horizon?" Rishabh chuckled, a sound that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Shristi, what a coincidence. That’s the exact cruise I bought our VIP invites for. In fact," he paused for effect, "my firm, Malhotra Ventures, is the primary sponsor for the entire 'Melodies' showcase. I'm essentially the one signing his performance check."

Shristi’s heart leaped. The fear of Sameer being out of place vanished, replaced by a sense of serendipity. "Really? Oh, Rishabh, that’s amazing! If you're the sponsor, you can make sure he gets the main stage, right? He deserves a real break."

"Of course," Rishabh replied, sliding the phone back to her. "If he’s as good as you say, I’ll make sure he’s the star of the show. It’ll be a night to remember for everyone."

Shristi beamed, oblivious to the fact that in Rishabh’s world, "sponsoring" something often meant "owning" it.

"Chalo now get your baggage set am sure he as well might have given you a pass right for being his first fan".

"Yes he did". she smiles.

*

At Mehta Motors, the glass doors swung open with a heavy thud. Inspector Pradhan walked in, his uniform crisp, his eyes scanning the rows of luxury cars like he was looking for a criminal among the chrome.

The Showroom Owner, a man whose smile was as synthetic as the car wax he sold, rushed forward. "Inspector! Always a pleasure. Are you looking for a personal upgrade? The new 2026 sedan just arrived."

Pradhan didn't smile. He pulled out a grainy photograph. "I’m looking for information on a delivery made two days ago to the Arora mansion. A boy named Sameer Luthra."

The owner’s smile faltered. "Sammy? He’s just a temporary driver, Inspector. A freelancer. Why? Is there a problem with the vehicle?"

"The vehicle is fine," Pradhan said, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous rumble. "But the boy has been seen in places he doesn't belong. There are reports of him 'assisting' with a high-profile birthday exit. I want to know who he is, where he lives, and exactly how he got the keys to a life that isn't his."

The owner stammered, "He’s just an orphan from the docks, sir! I only hired him because he knows his way around an engine. If he’s caused trouble, I’ll fire him immediately—"

"Don't fire him yet," Pradhan interrupted, his eyes hardening. "Just tell me where he went. I hear he’s found himself a ticket onto a very expensive boat tonight."

The owner nodded because he had taken some days off.