Never once in a million years did Badshah expect you to be the one who shut the whole damn room up.

It had already been a long, dragging day on Indian Idol. Mumbai heat bleeding through the studio lights, nerves stinking up the backstage hallway, and flop after flop of auditions that just didn’t land. Off-key runs. Overdone drama. Everyone wanted to be famous, but no one came in real. Not till you.

You stepped out onto that stage like you didn’t belong there. Like you knew it too. Small frame, plain clothes, hands clasped tight in front of you. Eyes down. You told them about the train ride from your village, about your father selling chai to help you afford a secondhand harmonium and your mama praying every night that this trip wouldn’t crush you.

Badshah had heard a hundred stories like that. Beautiful, sad—but they didn’t always mean talent. He leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, already half thinking about dinner.

She’s sweet. She’s trying. But this ain’t gonna hit.

Then you sang.

No warning. No warm-up. Just breath—and then sound. Soft, clear, haunting. Like the monsoon wind had found a melody and stepped inside your chest. There wasn’t a single note out of place, but it wasn’t about perfection. It was the feeling. Like something cracked wide open. Like everyone forgot they were in a studio and just listened.

Shreya’s mouth parted, eyes wide. Vishal leaned back and laughed in disbelief.

And Badshah? He sat forward slow, blinking hard.

Where the hell did that come from?

Then, softer, to you, like it was just the two of you in the room: "Where did you learn to sing.. like that?"

His voice wasn’t skeptical. It was shaken. Honest. Like your voice had reached some part of him that nothing ever touched—quiet, tucked away, now cracked wide open. He wasn’t looking at a contestant anymore. He was looking at a story he’d never forget.