Ishaan Talwar
Part 1: The First Note
The first time Aryan strummed his guitar on the old green bench outside the Fine Arts Block, the sun was melting into the Delhi skyline and the air smelled of samosas from the canteen. He wasn’t playing for anyone. He never did. But someone was always listening. That evening, it was Tara—the girl with the nose ring and the journal full of angry poetry. She was standing near the rusted railing, scribbling something when his chords cut through the dusk like the beginning of something they didn’t yet know was coming. He looked up, their eyes met, and she didn’t smile. She just nodded, which in her language probably meant: not bad.
By the next week, Aryan had a routine. Monday and Thursday evenings were guitar-on-bench days. On one such Thursday, a lanky guy with messy curls walked up and said, “You play clean. Want a drummer?” Aryan raised an eyebrow. The guy extended his hand and said, “Name’s Rishi. I use the music lab on weekends. You’ll like my beats.” Aryan wasn’t sure if he liked the confidence or was mildly irritated by it, but the next Sunday they jammed in the tiny soundproof room beside the library. Rishi drummed like he was possessed, and Aryan played like the strings were an extension of his skin. Something clicked.
Three days later, Tara showed up again. “You guys suck at lyrics,” she said flatly. Rishi laughed, but Aryan squinted. “Wanna fix it?” he asked. She shrugged, but the next day she brought a notebook. The first song was called Midnight Mess, and it was about insomnia, heartbreak, and the horrible mess at the hostel canteen after 11 PM. It wasn’t perfect, but it was theirs. They practiced after classes, skipped tutorials, and even lied to their parents during phone calls about “extra credit work.” Music became the secret tunnel under the chaos of college life.
Then came Rahul. Tall, good-looking, a Commerce major with a voice that could melt walls and egos. He was recruited accidentally—someone heard him singing John Mayer in the shower at the boy’s hostel and word got around. Rishi dragged him in. Aryan was skeptical, especially because Rahul didn’t seem the type to take anything seriously. But then he sang a few lines of Tara’s lyrics, and the room went still. They had a voice now. And a name, courtesy of Tara’s impulsive midnight inspiration—Strings Attached.
Their first performance was at the Annual Cultural Fest auditions. It was nerve-wracking, sweaty, and a little chaotic. Aryan broke a string midway, Tara forgot a line, and Rishi missed a beat, but Rahul brought it home with a closing note that had people clapping before the last word faded. They didn’t win, but they were noticed. A senior called them “raw but real,” and someone from the fest committee asked if they’d play at the Open Mic Night. That night, the group celebrated with chai and cheap parathas under the Sociology staircase. It felt like a beginning.
But beginnings are fragile. As their fame grew, so did the tension. Tara and Rahul clashed on lyrics. Aryan hated Rahul’s laid-back attitude. Rishi tried to play mediator, but even he had limits. One afternoon, after a particularly intense rehearsal, Rahul walked out saying, “Maybe this band doesn’t need a frontman. Maybe it needs therapy.” Tara threw a pen at his back. Aryan slammed his guitar case shut. Rishi just looked tired.
The next week was silent. No rehearsals. No messages. Tara stopped coming to the Arts Block. Aryan found himself staring at the green bench, his fingers unsure without purpose. He didn’t want to admit he missed Rahul’s voice or Tara’s angry edits. But he did. One night, he played Midnight Mess alone and recorded it. He sent it to the group chat with one line: “We’re better together.”
Tara replied with a thumbs-up. Rishi sent a gif of a dancing cat. Rahul sent voice notes humming harmony changes. And just like that, they were back. Not fixed, not flawless—but back. The band practiced harder, wrote deeper, and played louder. Tara and Rahul still fought, Aryan still rolled his eyes, and Rishi still snacked during breaks, but something had changed. They weren’t just a group of students who liked music. They were a band. A messy, emotional, talented band.
Their next performance was on an outdoor stage under fairy lights. It rained halfway through their set, but no one left. They played drenched, laughing, chords slipping, drums echoing against the wet tiles. Rahul sang like the world was ending, Tara screamed the last line of the bridge, and Aryan closed his eyes as his guitar wept joy. When the final note faded, the applause was deafening.
Later, huddled in a damp classroom with their clothes dripping and their hearts racing, Rishi said, “That was insane.” Tara looked at Rahul and muttered, “You still messed up the chorus.” Rahul shrugged, “But did you see the crowd?” Aryan, drying his guitar with a sleeve, said, “Next time, we bring a tarp.”
They laughed. Not the polite kind. The real kind—the kind that says, we survived. We belong.
They didn’t know where Strings Attached would go next. Maybe a college competition. Maybe a small city tour. Maybe just more green bench jam sessions. But in that moment, soaked and smiling, they knew one thing for sure—the first note had turned into a song. And they were all part of it.
Part 2: Chords and Cracks
The monsoon had officially arrived, and with it came a kind of grey hush that settled over the campus. Puddles pooled on the stone pathways between departments, the sky stayed sulky for days, and the canteen served stale pakoras with pride. But inside the practice room of Strings Attached, there was noise—glorious, chaotic noise.
The college had invited applications for the inter-university band competition. It wasn’t just another event; this one was big. Winners got to record a track with a professional producer and perform at a city music fest. For Aryan, that meant legitimacy. For Tara, it was a megaphone. For Rahul, it was stage lights. And for Rishi, it meant free drumsticks and pizza vouchers. Everyone had their reasons. Everyone wanted it.
They began rehearsals seriously—no late arrivals, no unfinished lyrics, no half-hearted chords. Tara turned brutal. “This isn’t a WhatsApp forward, Rahul. Sing like you mean it.” Aryan, already a perfectionist, now had spreadsheets for setlists. Rishi set alarms on his phone titled ‘Don’t Forget the Hi-Hat, Moron’. The only problem was—none of them could agree on what to play.
Tara wanted originals—songs that told stories, that left bruises and imprints. Aryan wanted to blend covers with a twist—something familiar but fresh. Rahul, surprisingly, voted for full originals too, which annoyed Aryan even more. “You barely show up on time, and now you want control over the setlist?” Aryan snapped one evening, the guitar strap hanging off his shoulder like a war medal. “Oh sorry,” Rahul shot back. “I didn’t realise punctuality was the key to soul.”
Tara sat between them, tired. “We’re not doing this again.” But they were. And it kept happening.
The arguments weren’t just musical anymore. It started bleeding into everything. Rahul mocked Aryan’s obsessive tuning. Aryan snapped about Rahul’s late replies. Tara accused Aryan of being tone-deaf to emotion and Rahul of treating music like Tinder—swipe, flirt, leave. Rishi, stuck behind his drums, muttered, “I miss when we were just bad at lyrics. Now we’re bad at breathing in the same room.”
But music, like relationships, is rarely neat.
One night, they stayed late, trying to fix a bridge section in their new song City of Ears. It was about how cities pretend to listen but never do—Tara’s idea, naturally. They looped the chords over and over, Rahul humming, Tara scribbling rewrites, Aryan adjusting gain levels, Rishi experimenting with brushes instead of sticks.
At some point, something shifted. The melody clicked, Tara sang her revised lines softly into the mic, and Rahul—eyes closed—layered his voice in a harmony that made Rishi stop mid-beat just to hear it fully. Aryan didn’t speak. He just nodded, eyes wide, almost afraid to breathe in case the spell broke. The song ended, hanging like incense in the air.
“That,” Rishi said, after a long pause, “was what we’ve been chasing.”
No one spoke. They didn’t need to. That’s what music does—it speaks when you can’t.
The next day, they submitted their entry. A live video recording of City of Ears. Tara insisted on keeping it raw—no filters, no touch-ups, no fancy lighting. “Let them see us exactly as we are,” she said. “Messy. Real.” Aryan agreed, though it itched his sense of polish. Rahul didn’t care—he looked good in shadows anyway.
The results would take two weeks. While they waited, life went on. Tara’s poetry was featured in the campus magazine, and she acted like she didn’t care but secretly reread the printed version seven times. Aryan got shortlisted for a music composition elective he thought he’d never crack. Rishi got ghosted by someone from the Lit department and wrote a parody song about it that went semi-viral on Instagram. Rahul? He disappeared for three days.
When he came back, Aryan was fuming. “You just vanish in the middle of rehearsals now?” Tara looked worried but said nothing. Rahul tossed his bag down and said, “My dad had a health thing. It’s fine now. But thanks for the concern, Aryan. Really warms my heart.”
Aryan swallowed his words. Tara stepped in. “Next time just text. We’re not your side gig.”
“I didn’t ask for a moral report card,” Rahul replied. He looked at Aryan, then Tara, then down at the floor. “I’ll get better at showing up. I promise.”
They believed him. Mostly.
Two days later, the email came. They were in. Not just in—they were one of the top five bands selected across the region. They would perform live at the university’s open amphitheatre, in front of hundreds of students, judges, and potential scouts. The date was set. Their slot was 4th, right before the evening headliner. The pressure was real. The band felt it in their bones.
Aryan doubled their practice hours. Tara rewrote lyrics she’d already declared perfect. Rishi kept breaking and taping his drumsticks. Rahul began actually showing up early—and Aryan didn’t know whether to be impressed or suspicious. They were functioning like a machine now. Imperfect, squeaky, slightly emotionally unstable—but a machine nonetheless.
The night before the competition, they held one final practice. Tara insisted they rehearse outside—under the stars, near the old bench where it all began. Aryan brought his amp, Rahul carried the mic stand, Rishi dragged a cajón drum, and Tara brought samosas. For once, no one fought. They just played.
When they finished, Tara looked up at the moon and whispered, “Whatever happens tomorrow, I’m glad we did this.”
Rahul laughed. “That’s so filmy.”
Aryan said, “It’s true though.”
Rishi added, “Guys, I’m just here for the samosas. But yeah. Love you all.”
They didn’t say it out loud, but in that moment, it wasn’t about winning anymore. It was about the song, the journey, the fights, the fixes, the puddles, and the poetry. About a group of unlikely friends who found harmony in the middle of noise.
And as they packed up under the sky that didn’t judge, Strings Attached stood quietly, ready for the storm—and the stage.
Part 3: Soundcheck and Silence
The day of the competition arrived wrapped in nervous humidity. The sky was undecided, swaying between sun and sulk, much like Aryan’s mood. He woke up at 6 a.m., earlier than any exam day, and retuned his guitar thrice. His roommates grumbled as he softly plucked through the opening bars of City of Ears. Aryan’s hands weren’t trembling, but his stomach felt like it had swallowed an amplifier stuck on loop.
Across campus, Tara was standing in front of the mirror, lining her eyes like it was war paint. She wore her usual black kurta, hair in a messy braid, but her lips had a faint tint of maroon—not for the audience, but for confidence. On the desk lay her lyrics, scribbled and rewritten so many times that some corners had been patched with tape. Her roommate, half-asleep, mumbled, “You’ll kill it.” Tara just nodded. She wasn’t after blood—she wanted hearts.
Rishi, predictably, was late.
He’d forgotten to charge his phone and woke up to ten missed calls and a panicked group message from Aryan: “Where the hell are you, man?” In typical Rishi style, he replied: “On my way with coffee and chaos.” He stuffed drumsticks into his sling bag, grabbed his cap, and sprinted through puddles that painted the back of his jeans like abstract art.
Rahul showed up at the venue early, to everyone’s shock. He was wearing a plain white shirt, sleeves rolled up, jeans, and a smile that made some juniors do double takes. But beneath the charm, there was something off. He kept checking his phone, looking over his shoulder, as if expecting someone. No one asked why. Everyone had their own ghosts to wrestle.
The amphitheatre buzzed with energy. Tents were set up for each band. Volunteers in yellow tags moved like caffeine-fueled bees. A stage crew was adjusting mics, guitars, lighting. The audience was trickling in—some genuinely excited, some just bunking classes. Judges sat under a canopy on the far side, serious and spectacled.
Strings Attached got the fourth slot—just after a pop-rock band with neon outfits and synth backing. Their soundcheck was brief. Tara tested the mic with a whisper that sent shivers. Rishi tapped a soft rhythm. Rahul sang one line, his voice rising like steam in winter. Aryan checked every knob twice, muttering, “Please don’t crack. Not today.”
Backstage, they circled up.
Aryan broke the silence. “Okay, whatever happens out there—we don’t stop, no matter what. Got it?”
Rishi gave a mock salute. Tara looked serious. “Don’t let the crowd throw you. Just tell the story.”
Rahul added, “We’ve already won if we leave our mark. And hey, if we suck, at least we’ll suck in style.”
When their name was announced, Aryan’s heart jumped. They walked onto stage under the floodlights, guitars slung, drum box in place, lyrics taped near the monitor, and Rahul in front, mic in hand. The crowd buzzed with curiosity. Some people whispered, “Are these the City of Ears people?” Others just waited to be impressed—or disappointed.
The opening chord rang out, rich and clear. Tara’s voice followed—low, steady, painting pictures with syllables. Rishi set a heartbeat with his cajón. Then Rahul took over, and suddenly, the amphitheatre wasn’t a college anymore—it was a world they were building live.
City of Ears wasn’t just a song. It was confession, rebellion, a love letter to every unheard story on every lonely terrace. People swayed, some closed their eyes. By the second chorus, a few were humming along. Aryan played like the guitar owed him money. Tara’s bridge verse left a pause so thick that even the judges looked up. And when Rahul hit the final high note, it wasn’t just perfect—it felt like closure.
Silence.
Then thunderous applause. Cheers, whistles, a few standing claps. Aryan’s ears rang from it, or maybe it was his heartbeat. Rishi threw a stick into the air, caught it. Tara gave a small, crooked smile. Rahul bowed with both hands in a namaste. They walked offstage breathless, sweaty, electric.
Backstage, there were hugs. Real ones. No sarcasm.
“You nailed that bridge,” Rahul told Tara.
“You didn’t butcher the last note,” she replied, which from her was equivalent to a standing ovation.
Aryan didn’t say anything. He just looked at them and nodded. That was enough.
Then came the wait.
Other bands played. One did a fusion of Carnatic and EDM. Another brought an entire saxophone quartet. But none of them, at least to Strings Attached, felt as raw, as lived-in, as their own music. They didn’t know if that was enough.
The results were announced at sunset. Third place. Not them. Second place. Not them.
“And finally,” said the emcee, pausing like all emcees do, “the winners of this year’s Inter-University Band Competition… for their original composition that made us all listen a little differently—Strings Attached!”
It was a blur. Cheers. A trophy. A bouquet that Rishi tried to eat. Aryan shaking hands with a judge. Tara hugging Rahul for exactly two seconds. A photo on the main stage. Flashlights. Noise. Joy. And then, quiet.
They sat on the grass afterwards, barefoot, still in shock. The trophy sat between them like a sleeping pet.
“So… now what?” Rishi asked, sipping a Coke.
“Studio session next week,” Aryan said. “With a real producer.”
“Also,” Rahul added, “someone from a city label left their card. They liked our vibe.”
Tara smiled, then stood up. “Let’s not rush. Let’s just… be here for a second. Let it soak in.”
So they sat, letting the moment breathe.
That night, Aryan played his guitar on the green bench again. Tara sat beside him, writing. Rishi beat rhythms on the railing. Rahul sang softly, not for the crowd—but for them.
And somewhere, beneath the moon and amidst the puddles, a band named Strings Attached rewrote the chorus of their story—one note, one fight, one lyric at a time.
Part 4: Between Echoes and Offers
The trophy glinted from the shelf in Aryan’s room like a mischievous grin. It wasn’t large, nor particularly beautiful, but it was loud in what it stood for. Every time Aryan passed by it, something in his chest swelled—a strange mix of relief and disbelief. They had done it. They weren’t just another campus band anymore. They were something real. Validated. Heard.
But success, like feedback from an amp, can be both thrilling and terrifying.
The Monday after their win, the group met for their first official “band meeting.” Aryan had brought a notepad. Tara had brought her silence. Rishi had brought leftover biryani. Rahul came late with a chocolate milkshake and sunglasses he clearly didn’t need indoors.
“So, studio recording date is next Friday,” Aryan said, flipping pages. “Producer’s name is Ronit Das. He’s done stuff for indie artists—might push us into Spotify territory.”
Tara raised an eyebrow. “You trust him?”
“No,” Aryan admitted. “But I’ve heard his mixes. He’s legit.”
Rahul nodded. “As long as he doesn’t auto-tune me into sounding like a cartoon.”
“He should auto-tune your brain,” Tara muttered, scribbling something.
Rishi, mouth full, said, “Guys. We’re recording. That means we might actually end up in someone’s playlist. That’s wild.”
Aryan continued. “We also got a message from EchoBeat India. They’re organizing a youth music series—think city tours, interviews, festival gigs. They want to ‘discuss possibilities.’”
Now even Tara looked up. “That’s big.”
Rahul leaned back in his chair, looking entirely too comfortable. “So now we’re famous?”
Aryan rolled his eyes. “We’re not famous. We’re visible. It’s different.”
And that difference, they would come to learn, meant everything.
The next few days were blurry with activity. Studio prep wasn’t as glamorous as it sounded. There were forms to sign, schedules to confirm, discussions on who would lead which track, whether to rerecord old songs or write new ones. Tara insisted on recording Midnight Mess first. “It was our beginning. It should be the first thing the world hears.”
Aryan wasn’t sure. “What if it’s too raw?”
“Exactly,” she said. “That’s why it matters.”
Meanwhile, Rahul had started drawing attention on campus. Freshers wanted selfies. Seniors asked him to sing at birthday parties. A journalism student interviewed him for a feature titled The Voice of Strings Attached. He didn’t tell the others about it. It wasn’t out of malice—he just liked having something that was his alone.
Rishi floated through all this like a golden retriever in a thunderstorm—happy to be there, confused by the storm.
And then came the twist.
During one of their late-night practice sessions, as Rahul was leaving, a man approached him outside the rehearsal room. He was in his mid-thirties, dressed sharp, with a voice like velvet dipped in ambition. “Rahul Sharma, right? I saw your performance. You’ve got a voice made for radio, son.”
Rahul narrowed his eyes. “Thanks. And you are?”
“Name’s Karan Bhalla. I work with FireNote Records. We’re scouting solo talent. Think Ed Sheeran meets Prateek Kuhad. Intimate voice, acoustic storytelling. We think you’d be perfect.”
Rahul laughed awkwardly. “I’m with a band.”
“And you’d stay with your band,” Karan said smoothly. “But you’d also do a solo EP. Parallel journeys. Happens all the time. You deserve your own spotlight.”
He handed Rahul a card. “Call me. No pressure.”
Rahul didn’t sleep much that night. The card stayed on his desk, daring him.
The next morning, he didn’t mention it to anyone. He wanted to talk to Tara, maybe even Aryan. But he didn’t. Something told him it would spark a fire he wasn’t ready to fight.
A few days later, the band entered the studio.
It was tucked into the basement of a co-working space near Hauz Khas. Dim lighting, walls covered in foam, a lingering smell of coffee and wires. Ronit Das, the producer, wore a ponytail, sunglasses indoors, and spoke in beats per minute. “Okay, let’s lay it down like this,” he said, snapping his fingers. “Track by track. Layered vocals. We’re gonna build this like a tower.”
They recorded Midnight Mess first. Tara’s voice came in low and bruised. Aryan’s guitar felt like rain hitting rooftops. Rishi’s beats were restrained, elegant. And Rahul’s voice? It soared—clean, aching, pulling the listener by the collar into the memory.
After the take, Ronit looked through the glass and simply said, “That’s gold.”
Tara flushed. Aryan allowed himself a smile. Rishi did a small fist-pump. Rahul looked away.
By the end of the session, they had recorded three songs. Each one different, each one stamped with their signature: unpolished emotion. Ronit said he’d mix and send the first cuts in a week.
That night, as they sat on the grass again, trophy between them and leftover fries in their laps, Tara asked, “Where do we go from here?”
Aryan replied, “Let’s finish the album. Then take the city gig if it feels right.”
Rishi added, “And also make new songs. Maybe lighter ones. All our stuff is so sad. We sound like break-up poets.”
They laughed.
Rahul didn’t.
He stood up and said, “Hey, I might be late to practice tomorrow.”
Aryan asked, “Class?”
Rahul hesitated. “Something like that.”
No one noticed the small card tucked inside his wallet.
Later that night, he stood on the hostel terrace, staring at the city’s blinking lights. The card was in his hand again. Solo EP. Spotlight. Future. He looked up at the stars. Then at the dark outline of the campus below.
And wondered what he was willing to leave behind to chase what he’d always dreamed of.
Part 5: Static Between Us
The rehearsal room felt colder than usual. Not in temperature—but in energy. It had been five days since their studio session, and Aryan was pacing in slow, tight circles, the guitar strap across his chest but the strings untouched. Tara sat in the corner, legs crossed, staring at her notebook but not writing a word. Rishi, with drumsticks in hand, kept tapping an anxious beat on the floor. One person was missing.
Rahul.
Again.
“He said he’ll be late,” Aryan muttered without looking at anyone.
“He’s always late,” Tara replied, her tone flat, not angry—just done.
Rishi offered a half-hearted shrug. “Maybe we should just start?”
Aryan nodded and began to play. The opening of their new song Petrichor Pulse—a track about love that lingers like the smell of wet earth—was quiet, layered, uncertain. Tara came in with soft vocals, but without Rahul’s voice, the harmonies felt unbalanced, like a chair with one leg too short.
Twenty minutes later, Rahul walked in.
He was wearing a new shirt, expensive sneakers, and sunglasses on his head. The kind of cool that didn’t match the mood of a struggling indie band on a Tuesday afternoon. He said nothing at first—just unpacked his mic, adjusted it, cleared his throat.
Aryan stopped playing. “You could’ve texted.”
“I did,” Rahul replied.
“‘Late’ isn’t a real update.”
“I was stuck,” he said, not offering more.
Tara narrowed her eyes. “Stuck where?”
Rahul avoided her gaze. “Nowhere important.”
Aryan stepped away from his mic. “Look, we get it. You’re busy. Maybe you’ve got… other things going on. But we’re building something here. Together. And if you want to do something else—”
“I didn’t say that,” Rahul interrupted.
“No, but you’re showing it,” Tara said. “You don’t talk to us anymore. You’re in and out like we’re just… background music.”
Rahul clenched his jaw. “You think I don’t care? I’m here, aren’t I?”
“You’re physically here,” Aryan shot back. “Mentally, you’re wherever that business card came from.”
The room fell silent.
Rahul’s face dropped. “What?”
Tara looked stunned.
Rishi, caught in the middle as always, looked between them. “Wait… what business card?”
Aryan turned to Rahul. “You left it on the windowsill at the studio. FireNote Records. They want you for a solo EP, right?”
Rahul swallowed. “I wasn’t going to hide it. I just… I didn’t know how to say it.”
“So you were going to wait until it just showed up on Spotify?” Tara asked.
“It’s not like that,” Rahul said quickly. “They approached me. Said it could be parallel. Not replacing the band—just adding something. Why’s that such a crime?”
“Because we built this together,” Aryan said. “And you didn’t even talk to us.”
“I didn’t sign anything!” Rahul exclaimed. “I haven’t even decided. I needed time.”
Tara stood up. “You had time. You still didn’t choose to share. That says everything.”
Rahul looked at her, pain flickering behind his irritation. “You think I want to leave? This band saved me, Tara. Don’t pretend it didn’t matter to me.”
“Then act like it,” Aryan said, softer now.
For a moment, no one said anything. The room buzzed with silence—the kind of silence you can only hear when you care too much.
“I’m scared,” Rahul finally admitted. “That I’m only good as long as I have you guys behind me. That without you, I’m just noise. But part of me wants to try. Just once. To see if I can carry a song on my own.”
Tara folded her arms. “Then go.”
Aryan looked away.
Rishi, unusually firm, said, “You should do it. Just tell us when you do. We’ll still make music. We just need to know where we all stand.”
Rahul looked at all of them—really looked. Then nodded. “I’ll go to one meeting. Just talk. Nothing more. And then I’ll come back, and we’ll finish this album together. No matter what.”
Aryan didn’t smile, but he nodded.
Tara picked up her notebook. “You get one chance.”
That night, Rahul met with Karan Bhalla in a small café near Lodhi Road. Karan ordered cold brew and wore the kind of smile that made people say yes to things they weren’t sure about.
“I heard your studio tracks,” Karan said, sliding a phone across the table. “That last note in Midnight Mess—it’s gold. But I’m telling you, solo will let you explore things you can’t inside a band.”
“I’m not leaving them,” Rahul said, trying to sound firmer than he felt.
Karan nodded, unfazed. “Of course not. It’s not betrayal—it’s evolution. Take a risk. We’ll start with two songs. See the response. No contracts yet. Just… creation.”
Rahul bit his lip. “If I do this, they’ll watch everything I do.”
“Let them,” Karan said. “When you rise, they’ll rise with you.”
But Rahul wasn’t so sure.
Back on campus, Aryan stayed up late, replaying their demo recordings, tweaking sounds. Rishi doodled on his drum pad, imagining new rhythms. Tara stared at a blank page, rewriting a song that didn’t yet exist.
The next day, Rahul returned.
No sunglasses. No swagger.
Just him.
“I went,” he said.
No one replied.
“I’m still here,” he added.
Aryan looked up. “Then pick up the mic.”
And just like that, Strings Attached resumed.
But now, there was static. Not always loud—but always there.
Part 6: Cracks in Harmony
The next few weeks passed in a blur of practice sessions, half-finished lyrics, late-night sound edits, and cautious silences. Strings Attached wasn’t broken—not quite—but something had shifted in the air around them. The band still rehearsed every evening, but there was a carefulness now, a fragile diplomacy in every interaction. No one mentioned FireNote Records. No one asked Rahul how the meeting went. And Rahul didn’t volunteer any updates.
Tara had started arriving early and leaving the moment practice ended. Rishi, usually the glue, seemed to be running low on his natural optimism. Aryan immersed himself in mixing, editing, tuning—anything that didn’t require conversation. And Rahul… Rahul sang. He always sang. But now, there was an edge in his voice, a tremble beneath the notes, like he wasn’t sure who he was performing for anymore.
One Friday evening, the four of them sat around the rehearsal room, a tangle of wires and silence between them. They had just finished a rough cut of Rainproof Regret, a new song Tara had written about holding onto things you should have let go.
“It’s too fast,” Tara said, frowning at the playback.
“It’s too slow,” Aryan said at the same time.
Rishi sighed. “Maybe we just don’t know what it’s supposed to be yet.”
Rahul leaned back, his face unreadable. “Maybe it’s not about tempo. Maybe it just doesn’t feel… honest.”
That made everyone look up.
Tara’s voice sharpened. “Meaning?”
Rahul hesitated. “It feels like we’re pretending everything’s fine. But we’re not writing the way we used to. You’re not bleeding on the page anymore, Tara. Aryan’s mixing like a machine. Rishi’s distracted. And I—”
“You think you’re the only one struggling?” Tara cut in. “We’re all trying to keep this alive. Just because we’re not shouting doesn’t mean we’re not hurting.”
Aryan stood up abruptly. “Okay, enough. Let’s not do this now.”
“No, let’s,” Rahul said quietly. “Because we’ll keep circling until we crash. I don’t want that.”
Rishi dropped his sticks. “Then what do you want, man?”
Rahul looked down. “I want us to matter. With or without the offers. With or without the noise. I want us to be a band again. Not four people orbiting different lives.”
Tara stared at him for a long moment. “Then stop hiding. Be real with us.”
There was a pause, and then Rahul took a breath. “FireNote sent me a proposal. They want two solo tracks. Originals. Recorded and released on their YouTube channel and Spotify. One acoustic, one experimental. They’ll do the production, promotion—everything.”
Aryan’s jaw tightened. “And?”
“I haven’t signed it. But I want to.”
Silence.
Then Tara asked, “And where does that leave us?”
Rahul looked at each of them, guilt tightening around his throat. “Here. I want both. I want to stay, and I want to go.”
“You can’t straddle two boats forever,” Aryan said, voice calm but cold. “Eventually, you’ll drown.”
“Or maybe,” Rishi said softly, “he’ll figure out how to swim.”
Tara didn’t say anything. She picked up her bag. “I need air.”
She walked out, her exit followed by a door creaking shut behind her like punctuation. Aryan sighed, rubbing his eyes. “We need to decide.”
“We need to wait,” Rishi corrected. “She’s not done. She just needs space.”
Rahul sat down heavily. “I didn’t want this. Any of this. I thought I could balance it. I thought if I tried hard enough, I wouldn’t have to choose.”
Aryan looked at him—really looked. “You can chase your solo career. That’s fine. But be clear about what this band means to you. Don’t hold onto us like a safety net.”
Rahul nodded, throat dry. “It means everything. But I also need to grow. I’ve always sung someone else’s words. Maybe I need to find mine.”
Aryan didn’t argue. He simply said, “Then write them.”
The next day, Tara didn’t come to practice. She didn’t message anyone, either. Aryan didn’t call. Rishi said she’d return when she was ready. Rahul spent the evening writing in a corner, headphones on, mouthing words to a melody only he could hear.
On the third day, Tara returned.
She stood in the doorway, pale but composed. “I’ve written something,” she said. “It’s not a song. It’s a goodbye.”
Aryan froze. Rishi sat up straight. Rahul stood still.
Tara opened her notebook. “No, I’m not leaving the band. But this version of us—the one walking on eggshells—it needs to end. So here it is.”
She began to read, not as a poet, not as a lyricist—but as a friend:
“We began in rain and ruin,
With broken strings and bruised hearts,
We stitched chords into comfort,
And found rhythm in ruin.
But somewhere between studios and spotlights,
We stopped listening.”
She paused.
“I want us to listen again. To fight, but also forgive. To not be perfect, but to be present. If Rahul needs to fly solo, we cheer. If Aryan wants to guard our sound like a secret, we trust. If I need to write in silence sometimes, let me. But let’s not lose this—us—to ambition.”
She looked up. “So. Who’s in?”
Aryan raised his hand, slow but steady. Rishi, of course, both hands.
Rahul looked down, then at Tara. “You’re the voice in my songs, even the solo ones. I’m in.”
And just like that, something shifted again. Not back to what they were—but into what they were becoming.
They still had songs to finish. An album to release. And yes—maybe even a few solo ventures along the way. But they were no longer pretending.
They were four people with different dreams—but the same heart.
Strings Attached was messy, imperfect, full of cracks.
But inside those cracks, the light poured in.
Part 7: The Sound Between Seasons
Winter crept into the Delhi campus with soft breath and cold fingers. The trees along the Arts Block shed their leaves like forgotten lyrics, and the college corridors echoed more with laughter than deadlines now that the semester was winding down. Sweaters came out, chai stalls flourished, and evenings arrived early—carrying the scent of smoke, street food, and nostalgia.
For Strings Attached, things had finally settled—not into comfort, but clarity.
Rahul signed the FireNote deal, just two tracks, no album commitments, no tours—yet. He brought the contract to practice one day and laid it out on the floor. “This is it,” he said. “Read it if you want. I don’t want secrets anymore.”
Aryan was the first to flip through it, nodding slowly. “Okay,” he said. “Just don’t record anything that sounds like elevator jazz.”
Tara snorted. Rishi said, “As long as we get free passes to your shows, we’re cool.”
But Rahul didn’t smile. He looked at Tara. “I need you to know—your words are still the ones that built my voice.”
Tara met his eyes. “Then carry them carefully.”
In the following days, they threw themselves into finishing the band’s debut EP. The studio sessions were tighter now, filled with mutual respect and an unspoken promise not to take each other for granted. Aryan crafted the arrangements with surgical precision. Tara pushed her lyrics deeper, digging into themes like identity, youth, and belonging. Rishi held the songs together with intuitive rhythm, adding unexpected textures—an old tambourine here, a tabla loop there. And Rahul? He sang like he was trying to tell the truth each time, and sometimes, he did.
They titled the EP Backyard Universes, a phrase Tara had once used in a poem about how their hostel terrace felt like a galaxy when the world got too loud. The cover art was simple: the four of them sitting cross-legged on the grass, their instruments between them, the moon hanging low in the sky like a listening ear. Aryan designed it himself.
One night, after a long practice session, they sat on the sociology department roof, wrapped in shawls and sarcasm. Rishi was humming some nonsense melody about “chai and revolution.” Tara was writing it down as a joke. Rahul had just received the final mix for his solo track and was debating whether to let the band hear it.
“I think it’s too personal,” he said. “Like, it’s not polished. It’s just… me.”
“Good,” Aryan said. “That’s how it should be.”
Rahul blinked. “You… want to hear it?”
“Not yet,” Tara said. “Let us hear it when you’re proud of it. Not when you’re scared of it.”
That surprised him. In a good way.
By mid-December, the EP was ready. They uploaded it to Spotify, YouTube, Bandcamp—everywhere they could. They wrote a little blurb for it together, the words passed between them until it sounded like all their voices at once:
“We are four people who don’t always agree. But music is where we meet. These songs are our stories, stitched with honesty, tension, and the kind of love that survives arguments. If you’ve ever felt lost in a city that pretends to hear you—this one’s for you.”
They shared it on Instagram, and to their shock, it caught fire faster than they expected. A few student-run pages posted about them. Some indie blogs picked it up. Within a week, their first track City of Ears crossed 10k plays. Their inbox filled with invites—small café gigs, interviews with podcast hosts, even one quirky request from a college in Manipal asking them to headline a fest.
One particular message stood out.
It was from a local music channel that hosted intimate rooftop sessions. They invited Strings Attached to perform a 3-song acoustic set to be filmed and aired.
Tara didn’t hesitate. “We should do it.”
Aryan looked skeptical. “What if we mess up? What if the mix isn’t clean enough?”
“Then it won’t be,” Rishi said. “But it’ll be real.”
Rahul was quiet. “Can we do one of mine too? From the solo thing?”
Tara and Aryan exchanged a glance. Rishi said, “If it sounds like you, then yeah. That’s all that matters.”
They chose three songs: Midnight Mess, Backseat Galaxy (an unreleased track Tara and Aryan had co-written), and Quiet Loud, Rahul’s first solo piece. They rehearsed them endlessly—stripped down, unplugged, emotional.
On the day of the rooftop session, the sun was bright but cold. The venue had fairy lights, beanbags, and warm lemon tea served in clay cups. The camera crew set up slowly, giving the band time to adjust.
When it was finally time to perform, Aryan took the first breath. Tara started the first line. Rishi closed his eyes and tapped into the beat with two fingers. And Rahul—Rahul sang like it was his first and last chance to be understood.
Midnight Mess hit like memory. Backseat Galaxy was haunting and beautiful, Tara’s voice breaking just slightly in the last verse. And Quiet Loud—Rahul’s song—was stripped down to a single acoustic guitar and his voice. He sang about hiding things you’re afraid to name, about wanting applause but fearing silence. He didn’t look at the camera once.
When they finished, there was no applause. Just stillness. And then, someone behind the camera whispered, “That was perfect.”
Later, sitting in the corner with tea and tired smiles, Tara said, “That last song—it hurt. But in the best way.”
Rahul replied, “It was yours too. All of this is.”
Aryan raised his cup. “To not falling apart—even when we wanted to.”
Rishi clinked his. “To Strings Attached—forever chaotic, always together.”
They all drank to that.
That night, as they walked back through the misty streets of campus, Tara reached into her pocket and pulled out four small silver pins she’d ordered secretly.
They said: S/A — Backyard Universe.
She handed one to each of them.
“No matter what we do,” she said, “we came from here. That’s our anchor.”
They each pinned it onto their jackets.
And for the first time in months, it felt like the sound between them wasn’t silence anymore.
It was harmony.
Part 8: The Last Song, The Long Echo
The rooftop session went live on a foggy January evening. The kind of evening when the city lights flicker like half-forgotten stars and the campus lanes shimmer under the orange of sleepy sodium lamps. They didn’t host a watch party. No fanfare. Just four bandmates, curled up in their favorite corner near the green bench, huddled over one laptop and a packet of chips Rishi insisted on bringing.
The video began. Tara’s voice floated through the speakers like a secret. Aryan’s chords followed like wind threading through window grills. Rishi’s beat was quieter than usual, more like breath than rhythm. And Rahul, when his voice rose into Quiet Loud, wasn’t a boy singing anymore. He was someone transformed—by struggle, by love, by the ache of growing up while holding onto something fragile.
When the video ended, no one spoke for a full minute.
Then Rishi exhaled loudly. “Well… that’s gonna ruin some people emotionally.”
Tara chuckled, but her eyes shimmered. “That last line still gets me.”
Aryan nodded, rubbing his arms. “We didn’t just make music. We made memory.”
Rahul looked up. “Do you think it’ll last?”
Tara tilted her head. “What?”
“This,” he said softly. “Us. The songs. The closeness. Or will it just… fade into adult life?”
Silence again. Not awkward. Just reflective.
Rishi broke it, tapping his drumstick on the bench. “You know, I once read that echoes last longer than the sounds that create them. Maybe we’ll be the echo in someone’s headphones years from now.”
Aryan smiled. “Poetic for a guy who rhymed ‘chai’ with ‘do or die’ last week.”
They laughed. Not loud. Just enough.
The weeks that followed were full of change. Their EP crossed 100k streams. They got invited to perform at a café in Jaipur. FireNote officially announced Rahul’s solo EP with a teaser image that had half the college swooning and the other half speculating. Tara’s spoken word video was featured on a feminist poetry page. Aryan received an internship offer from a music company in Mumbai. And Rishi—somehow—was offered a minor role in a quirky web series as “The Drummer Guy.”
Life, as it tends to, began pulling them in different directions.
But they didn’t fall apart. Not this time.
Instead, they scheduled what they called The Last Gig Before Life Happens—an informal, campus-only farewell concert in the open amphitheatre where they had once stood trembling before a crowd that didn’t yet know their name. This time, they didn’t care about perfect sound. They just wanted to say goodbye properly—to the stage, to the songs, to the versions of themselves they had grown through.
Flyers went up across campus. Hand-drawn, intentionally messy, with doodles by Tara and a caption that read:
Strings Attached: One Last Song (Before We Scatter Like Notes)
Free entry, no drama, full volume.
The amphitheatre was packed.
Professors, juniors, seniors, even the grumpy librarian who once yelled at them for jamming in the corridor—all showed up. Some came for the nostalgia. Some came because they’d always meant to listen, and this was their last chance.
They opened with City of Ears, of course.
And then came Backseat Galaxy.
And then Midnight Mess—the original, raw, reckless version that had started it all.
People sang along. Someone cried. Someone proposed mid-song (Tara refused to pause for it). And just when the night was beginning to blur into stars and echoes, Rahul stepped up to the mic for a solo piece.
He didn’t say much.
Just, “This one’s for the version of me that almost never sang.”
And then he sang Quiet Loud, stripped of perfection, full of ache. And when he reached the last line—“I am my loudest when I whisper the truth”—Tara added a harmony that wasn’t planned. It was instinct. And Aryan followed with a guitar counterpoint. Rishi tapped a heartbeat.
And suddenly, it wasn’t solo anymore.
It was the band.
Their last song was a new one—unreleased, untitled. Tara had written it the day they booked the amphitheatre, and it had one line they repeated together like a chorus and a prayer:
“We were never lost—just tuning.”
When the last chord ended, the crowd stood. They clapped, cheered, called for an encore.
But Strings Attached didn’t play another song.
They bowed.
Not like performers—but like people who had finally said what they came to say.
Afterward, the four of them stood in the dark, just offstage. No cameras. No crowd.
Just them.
“Promise me something,” Tara said, looking at each of them. “No matter what happens next, we’ll meet here, five years from now. Same date. Same place. Even if we’re different.”
Rishi placed a hand over his heart. “Even if I’m famous for playing triangle in Bollywood scores.”
Aryan chuckled. “Even if I’m married to sound design and two cats.”
Rahul looked at them and whispered, “Even if we don’t play a single note again.”
Tara nodded. “Deal?”
“Deal,” they echoed.
And then, with one last group hug and a shared smile, Strings Attached walked away—not broken, not ending—just changing key.
Five years later, on a similar winter evening, a girl named Naina walked through the college campus wearing oversized headphones. She was in her first year, studying literature, full of poems and confusion. She found a worn flyer stuck behind a noticeboard. It was yellowed, torn, but she could still read the text:
“Strings Attached: One Last Song (Before We Scatter Like Notes)”
She googled the name.
Then she pressed play.
And in her ears, four voices rose—different, clashing, real.
Somewhere, across the campus, echoes stirred.
Because music doesn’t end.
It just waits.
THE END
