Tangled Beliefs

Chapter-56: Mine, Now, And Always

I sang not because they asked me to... I sang because her eyes told me I could.

Manik’s POV,

The soft hum of voices, clinks of glasses, and occasional laughter filled the grand office lounge, transformed tonight into a lively celebration space. The colors of tradition painted the room—men in crisp kurtas, women in elegant sarees, lights strung across every corner, and a warmth in the air that felt... unfamiliar.

I stood beside Dad and the head of our finance department, Mr. Mehra, listening to the ongoing discussion about budget expansion for the upcoming international project. I nodded at appropriate moments, added input where necessary, but my eyes—my attention—kept drifting toward her.

Nandini.

In that soft pastel pink saree with tiny pearl like embellishments borders, pinned just right, and the pearl waist chain I gifted her gleaming subtly beneath, she looked ethereal. My Nandini. She was talking to an intern when I felt her gaze meet mine across the hall.

“Manik,” Dad’s voice snapped me back.

“Huh?” I blinked, realizing I had zoned out.

“Regarding the quarterly allocations, are we still merging the marketing and design budgets for Q3?” Mr. Mehra asked.

“Uh, yes. But let’s monitor the returns before finalizing,” I replied, clearing my throat.

Just then, a soft strum echoed through the room.

Guitar.

The moment the strings played, something inside me shifted. I froze. My vision blurred slightly, the room fading as a memory from years ago clawed its way back into my mind.

My fingers moving over the fretboard, dadu clapping, his voice guiding me... the fire... the screams... the smell of smoke... the sound of strings snapping as flames devoured everything—

“Manik,” came a soft voice. Real, grounding. Her hand gently slipped into mine.

Nandini.

I looked at her. She didn’t say a word. She didn’t have to. That silent warmth in her touch was enough. She knew. She always knew when to reach out.

The man playing the guitar finished his song, and the room erupted in applause. The vibrations of the clapping didn’t touch me. I was still staring at the guitar.

Then it happened.

Mr. Kulkarni—one of our oldest employees, loyal since my grandfather’s era—smiled warmly and called out, “Manik beta, it’s been years… but I still remember how beautifully you used to sing. Why don’t you sing something for us tonight?”

I opened my mouth. Closed it. My throat dried. My heart pounded.

“No, I…” I began.

More voices chimed in. “Yes, sir, please!” “We’d love to hear from you!” “One song, sir!”

I looked at Nandini again, panicked. But she didn’t push. She didn’t ask.

She just smiled.

And in that smile, I saw my strength.

I took a shaky breath and walked toward the man who held the guitar. He handed it to me with reverence, not knowing what it meant to me. My hands trembled as I took it. My fingers curled around the neck of the instrument—fragile, almost scared.

I closed my eyes.

And then... I heard him.

“Manik... tu rokega toh music bhi ruk jaayega. Play, mere sher.”