Chapter 1 : Welcome to MAD

“DANCE.

LIVE DANCE. CELEBRATE DANCE. And VICTORY DANCE.

That has been the motto of MAD- the University of Movement and Dance since it opened its doors in 1980.

It’s a place famed worldwide for crafting legends and making history.”

Cultural head Mr.Vishal Motwani paused briefly to adjust his microphone, then resumed with the same enthusiasm with which he delivered the same speech for the last 17 years.

“HIGHER. HIGHER. AND HIGHER.

That is where MAD will take you.

The halls of MAD resonate with rhythmic beats and a kaleidoscope of personalities.

Here, the only thing we truly value is TALENT.”

Amidst the ongoing orientation session for newcomers, chaos was brewing within the enigmatic world of MAD.

At the back of the orientation hall, seated slightly apart from the rest of the crowd, sits a guy who, despite his low-key presence, seems to draw a certain quiet attention. 

He’s dressed in a loose, oversized hoodie, the fabric slightly faded. He paired it with baggy blue jeans that bunch around his ankles and white sneakers. His backpack is casually slung over one shoulder. 

He looks cute, his features soft and approachable yet undeniably handsome with a hint of maturity that’s emerging.  His long hair is a messy tousle of dark brown curls, the kind that seems like it could never be tamed but suits him perfectly. His eyes are large and expressive, framed by thick lashes, a warm shade of brown that seems to change with the light. Above his right eyebrow, there’s a small, faded scar—a reminder of childhood mischief, an accident from years ago that left its mark. 

MAD ID card bearing the name Malang Dingwani is dangling around his neck.

“At MAD, we believe Dance is not only for the elite to enjoy but also the right of everyone to experience and celebrate.

That is what we strive to make possible here. 

Every year students are admitted through the welfare quota at MAD.- a university without discrimination, a university where —”

Before Mr.Motwani finishes his statement, Malang’s phone starts buzzing, drawing curious looks from those around him. His eyes flick nervously to the phone screen. Baba flashes in bold letters. He tucks the phone into his pocket. The next call comes in almost immediately. Bzzz, bzzz.

This time he doesn’t need to look at the screen to know who’s calling.

His father’s voice echoes in his mind. He can still hear the threats from last night, the harsh words, the ultimatum. 

"Dance isn’t for boys. It's not a real career. It’s some… some show-off nonsense. Come home, Malang when you still have time. You’ll fail. You’ll come crawling back. You don’t belong there, don’t you forget that.”

By this point, Mr. Motwani had settled into the front row alongside the other professors and trainers. Meanwhile, Miss Piyali, the student counselor, was on stage discussing campus resources—health services, tutoring, student life—but Malang couldn’t focus.

Malang knew what he had to do. He stood up, silently excusing himself from the row of students. He stepped outside the building into the quiet, stillness of the campus. His phone buzzed again, and he took the call.

“Baba,” Malang says, his voice flat, trying to mask the crack of anxiety behind his words.

“Malang,” his father’s voice cuts through immediately, sharp and frustrated. “What’s going on? I’ve been trying to get a hold of you all day. Are you still there? You’re really going through with this?”

“Yeah, I’m here, baba. I’m at orientation. I told you this was happening.”

“Orientation, huh?” His father laughs bitterly. “Don’t make me laugh. Do you think that’s going to lead to anything? I know what you’re doing. Do you think you’re some big dancer now? This is just a phase, Malang—a phase you need to grow out of. Do you think you’ll get anywhere with that? You’re wasting your time. I want you to come home. NOW.”

“I’m not coming home, baba,” Malang finally managed, his voice trembling despite his effort to sound confident.

“Baba, it’s what I love. This is my dream. And I’m not giving it up.”

“You’ll regret this, Malang. You’ll see. I won’t support you if you keep this up. You’re making a mistake.”

“ I’m not asking for your approval,” Malang’s grip tightens on the phone, “I’m staying here. I’m not giving up on my dream,”

With that, he ends the call before his father can say anything more.

No matter what his father said, he wouldn’t let go of the one thing that made him feel whole.

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