In His Custody ✎ (MaNan)

✰ 3 - hidden clauses

The media box is precisely foreshadowing, because as much as Manik may think it's his friends who make his life worth it, his true sukoon is Nandini Murthy <3

Rewritten: 26 February 2024

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Manik

Every tick of the antique yet perfectly maintained 18th-century clock hit a chord with my sprinting heartbeat. Q Label's magnificent logo illuminated before me. Renowned for its exclusivity yet impeccable track record in launching diverse niches, the company proudly claimed an award last year for topping the billboards, with every debut leading the charts for at least a quarter of the launch year, if not more.

A class apart from the rest.

I was dressed in the most impeccable suit, having taken my father's reprimands from the previous day very seriously and currently desiring to make the best first impression that I possibly could. It was unfortunate that my routine of being up until four in the morning was heavily reflected in my gaping dark circles, which peeked through despite Diyah's desperate efforts to conceal them in the earliest hours of the day.

After the previous day's tiff, I promised two things to myself: first, I had had enough of being at my father's beck and call for petty cash and was going to actively search for musical projects that nourished me – regardless of the pay grade; and second, no matter how uncomfortable I was with deafening silence, I would not be the first to break the frostiness with him.

Finally, I had proven myself wholly unworthy of inheriting the fashion house, what a huge accomplishment that was! I should have been relieved for being finally off the hook, but that hollowing ache of yet again disappointing my father pricked me.

Any in-depth discussions regarding my career choices would be shelved for a few weeks after the stupid stunt I pulled off; that was what I had presumed until at the awkwardly long breakfast table with three chairs – one empty for the unofficially adopted son he was actually fond of – he was pricking an omelette when he kindly informed me of the album deal.

My cutlery was gently aside as I filtered the details sporadically from his long overly placid dialogues: great money, launching in Mumbai, an artist with a 'lived-in' desi feel, amp up the Indian vibes. Unwilling to unwind my high horse, as Cabir dearly put it, I refused to ask any further questions or information regarding it.

If it was Q Label that reached out without any interventions or preferential treatment for the surname I possessed, they deserved blind approval. In person. And that was where I was, for the first time in my life, patiently waiting.

I flicked my 'kada' around casually while seated on the cream leather loveseat, watching it hula hoop over my wrist and come to rest and was summoned after twenty minutes of lodging an appointment to meet with Khurana's business partner. Not even Khurana; if that didn't speak volumes of how unattainable the man was, what else could?

An assistant guided me to the meeting room which opened with a click. Seated on a cream revolving chair and armed by a compact white bookshelf filled with colour-coded tones of grey, cream and white books, the man exuded a domineering aura and evidently spoke of class. "Muhneek, what a pleasure to meet you!" He gestured to a cream chair on the other side of his table. His name board, which was partnered with a tiny succulent, read 'Rohit M.' and posed over a white wooden desk along with a desktop.

The classy extravagance of everything white, a colour I associated with a girl I knew several years ago, deeply violated me to the core but I tried to push the feeling away as I pulled a chair for myself.