Fanfic: The Journey of Digvijay Rathod -5

Chapter 5: The House of Broken Strings

The news hit the Rathod household like a late-summer storm—violent, unexpected, leaving devastation in its wake.

Pandit RadheMohan Rathod stood frozen in the courtyard, the porter’s words echoing in his skull like a wrong note in a flawless raag.

Digvijay was gone.

Not to Bikaner, as he'd assumed—no, the railway porter had been adamant. "Mumbai ki train mein chadhe, Pandit ji. Seedha ticket liya." The words slithered through RadheMohan's veins like ice. For one terrifying moment, the great Sangeet Samrat was not a legend, not a titan of music—just a father whose son had vanished into the belly of a city that devoured dreamers.

Mumbai. The city that swallowed boys whole and spat out ghosts.

For one terrifying moment, his carefully constructed world cracked.

What if he's lying in some alley with his throat cut?
What if the drug peddlers near Grant Road got him?
Uma... oh gods, Uma's soul will never forgive me.
Uma—his first wife, long gone but never forgotten—would never forgive him from whatever afterlife she watched from. The thought sent a shiver down his spine. He loved the boy. God, how he loved him. But love, in RadheMohan’s world, had always been a discipline, not an embrace. Every harsh word, every impossible standard, every snapped tanpura string—all of it was love.

His fingers trembled against his tanpura—the same fingers that had once broken a string across Digvijay's knuckles for missing a komal swar. The memory rose unbidden: his son's blood blooming on the steel string, the way Digvijay hadn't cried. Hadn't even flinched. Just like his mother.

Then, the guilt curdled into something uglier.

That girl. That damned girl.

Mohini’s voice—clear as temple bells, sharp as a dagger—had defeated him in the Sangeet Samrat competition. The humiliation still burned. If Digvijay married her, if he let her sing freely, what would become of his legacy? The Rathod name would be a footnote in her story.

His jaw clenched.

No. I did what I had to do.

Yet, the Maharaja’s proposal for Digvijay sat untouched on his desk. A royal alliance, Maharaja has personally proposed his niece to Digvijay. A future glittering with prestige. All thrown away for what? A runaway son and a wedding now stained with absence.

Gayatri, his second wife, wept silently in the kitchen. She knew about the Maharaja's niece's proposal, she was very happy for Digvijay. But didn't know her husband was sacrificing Digvijay's happiness to crush Mohini's voice. All she knew was that her boy—the lean, quiet one who forgot to eat unless she pushed a thali into his hands—was gone.

"Main theek se dekha nahi usko," she whispered to the rolling pin, tears salting the dough. "Itna patla tha... ab kahan khayega? Kahan soyega?"

---

The Children Left Behind

Devendra's Fury
The youngest Rathod kicked at the courtyard peepal tree, his schoolbag abandoned. "Traitor!" he hissed. Digvijay had promised him two kites and a trip to the mela. Now who would sneak him mithai? Who'd cover for him when Pandit ji checked his riyaz? The injustice burned—he should've taken me with him!
The betrayal stung. Worse? His father’s indifference.

Rajendra's Cold Fire
In their shared bedroom (now achingly empty), Rajendra stared at Digvijay's abandoned tanpura. The strings still held the ghost of his brother's fingerprints.

Digvijay was gone. Not just his brother—his other half. The one who’d shared cigarettes and secrets and stolen mithai. The one who’d taken the blows from Pandit ji so Rajendra wouldn’t have to.

Why?

Was it jealousy? Over Mohini? That made no sense—Digvijay had the Maharaja's niece waiting! Royal blood, a dowry that could buy half of Jodhpur! Rajendra was the one who should be resentful.

His hands clenched. Digvijay's favorite shirt still hung on their shared peg. Without thinking, Rajendra yanked it down, pressing it to his face—sandalwood oil, stale cigarette smoke, the faint metallic tang of the sitar strings. The scent of home.

You didn't even say goodbye.

Rajendra’s fists clenched. The hurt hardened into something darker. Anger. Let him stay gone. Let him rot in Mumbai.

I don’t need him.

(Lie. A lie so thick he could choke on it.)

The betrayal crystallized into something hard and sharp in his chest. "I hope Mumbai eats you alive," he lied to the empty room.

---

The Girl Who Knew Too Much

Mohini sat very still by her attic window, her wedding henna already staining her palms.

She should hate Digvijay. He ran when I stood.

But all she could remember was his voice, shaky that last night: "Mohini... meri himmat nahi hai."

The truth was a knife twisting: She loved him more for his cowardice. Because it meant he was real. Not some golden idol like Rajendra. Just a boy who broke.

Outside, a street vendor sang "Chitti Aayi Hai"—the film song they'd heard together at the carnival. Mohini pressed her forehead to the cool glass.

Don't die out there, Viju. Even if I never see you again.

---

Pandit Ji's War Within

RadheMohan looked at the small framed photo of Uma's. His first wife's eyes seemed to follow him.

You killed our son twice, they accused. First his music, now his heart.

His own rage flared in response:

• That girl had dared to defeat him on stage!
• Digvijay would've let her sing, let her eclipse the Rathod legacy!
• This marriage to Rajendra was the only way to silence her forever!

But then—

A memory: Digvijay at five, struggling to hold a full-sized sitar. "Pithaji, dikhao na yeh swar..."

RadheMohan's knees buckled. He caught himself on the wall. Come home, he begged the son who couldn't hear him. Come home and fight me properly.

---

The Last Thread

As dusk fell, Rajendra found his father in the music room. The old man was tuning a tanpura with unnatural focus.

"Pandit ji..." Rajendra hesitated. "Should we... look for him?"

RadheMohan didn't look up. "Mumbai uska riyaz hai," he said, plucking a string so hard it snapped. "Either he'll return a maestro."

Or not at all. The unsaid words hung between them.

Outside, the desert wind howled through the city—carrying nothing but dust and the echoes of a broken family's grief.