In His Custody ✎ (MaNan)

✰ 1 - a fallen star

Rewritten: 23 February 2024

⭒

Manik

'This is just a job, don't listen to what the others say. You are worth much more. Music is your calling, your passion, your everything,' my subconscious mind lectured yet again, soothing my rapidly firing neurons in the best way possible. I braced myself and tugged the heavily embroidered sherwani over my broad trunk and smoothed it out before pinning the garment in place.

Delicately handwoven with intricate little peacocks that glimmered like stars in the Victorian-style full-length mirror, it outwardly eradicated all darkness I sourced and emanated an ethereal glow, reflecting in my slightly appreciative smile. I could somewhat understand why my father thought I was the perfect successor to the only baby he put his heart and soul into – his fashion house, of course. Why, did I wrongly give the impression that I was referring to myself?

I would have to be reborn again for any of the Malhotras to give a crap about me, perhaps that too wouldn't change my destiny.

Bubbling with unchartered resentment that needed the first blow to erupt violently, I vouched that gig would be the last one I would ever do for Manish Malhotra's Fashion House; no more of my time would be enslaved into meagre tasks meant for peons to take over just so I could pay my bills.

Fuck it, if push came to shove, the streets past dusk would warmly embrace me and my guitar, while deserted footpaths would give me a podium to perform and earn my living wages from it. Manchester was filled with budding blips of such unbounded talent and unconditional support from ones near and dear to them, but I had a better thing up my sleeve: the privilege of a classist parent with a luxurious reputation attached to his name – one who found such lifestyles pitiful and disparaging for his standards.

A couple of short, well-groomed men clad in sherwanis themselves, dressed beyond the means of their class, blocked some time in their busy schedules to assist me. See, in music one did not need to be so vain; none of Fab 5's performances considered reputation or class to be one of the criteria of soulful music, talent automatically rang in hearts.

One of them brushed my forehead, and those distasteful memories resided within it, with a dense revolving poof, tiptoeing slightly to step in range while the other effortlessly hung a pearl-beaded chain over my left shoulder blade.

"How may I service you, Your Majesty?" Diyah, my 'girlfriend' chuckled as she playfully bowed, covering her mouth with her two forefingers as she always did whenever she giggled. The epitome of beauty in the human form. Except for her distinct native accent, it was hard to point out what part of her was half-British.

King.

"Is that what they call slaves in this era?"

The excitement on her face blurred in an instant as she regarded my smirk. She took a step to rub my back affectionately, sympathising with my failure as an artist for sure. "Manik..."

Nope. Don't want none of that.

Suddenly, the extremely expensive outfit that had impressed me merely moments ago coiled my gut in a tight wrench. "I don't see why anyone would pay a thousand pounds for this mediocrity." I remarked, my Indian accent still faint underneath the covert 'r's.

She shrugged coyly at the shifted topic, perhaps glad that my mood hadn't faltered, and let her dark medium-length curls bounce off. "It suits you so well, but we can choose whatever you like when it's our turn."