It’s March 1991. The air smells of dust and daffodils. I’m sitting on the rooftop of our chawl in Bandra, guitar in hand, watching Asha hum a tune I’ve never heard before. She doesn’t know I’m writing it down. None of us do, not yet, that this moment—this girl, this melody—is the beginning of everything.

We’re nobody. Just four guys with dreams too big for our pockets. But Asha? She’s different. She doesn’t sing to be heard. She sings like she’s breathing.

Last week, we played at that college fest. Disaster. Jeet got into a fight, Rakesh dropped his sticks, Sunil froze. I thought it was over.

Then Asha handed me a cassette. 'Listen,' she said. 'That’s you. But better.'

It was our song—rewritten, rearranged, alive.

Now she’s looking at me, waiting. 'Well?' she asks. 'Are we doing this or not?'

The city pulses below. A radio blasts a pop song—soulless, synthetic. Ours could be next.

But at what cost?