Chapter 10 : Campus Beats Part I

The lights snapped on one by one.

String lights blinked across the dorm ground, lanterns swung gently in the night breeze, and parked bikes cast long shadows under the sharp glare of headlights. All came to life around the dorm ground, casting the area in a hazy golden glow. Students had already formed a wide circle, their mobile flashlights raised high, waving like glowsticks at a concert.

A thunderous chant echoed through the air:

“Ruthless! Ruthless! Ruthless!”

The name wasn’t just a team—it was a declaration.

In the heart of the circle stood two teams: The Ruthless—Neil, Figo, Sam, and Rihanna—and across from them, Netra’s team—Netra, Malang, Kiran, Amit, and Sulekha.

Where The Ruthless radiated calm confidence, Netra’s team, though putting on brave faces, couldn’t hide their nerves. Beads of sweat glistened on their temples. Their eyes flicked between the crowd and the competition.

Without a word, each dancer stepped forward until they stood toe-to-toe with their rivals. A hush fell over the crowd, like the air before a storm. Then—

Figo swaggered forward and planted a water bottle upright in the center of the circle. With a smirk, he spun it. It whirled on the dirt and stopped, pointing at Netra.

Figo stomped on the bottle, kicked it aside, and grinned.

Netra stepped forward. Calmly, she removed her shoes, pressed her palms together in a Namaskar, and whispered:

“Ganpati Bappa Morya.”

BANG!

A beat dropped, a fusion of tabla and sitar layered over retro Bollywood vocals.

♬ Ghar more pardesiya Aao padhaaro piya ♬

Netra took the center.

Arms flung to the sky, she spun with such grace that her dupatta twirled around her like silk in the wind, her hair catching the lantern light. Every step grounded her like roots into the earth, and every leap elevated her as if in flight. Graceful and powerful, she fused Bharatanatyam postures with freestyle flares. Her ghungroos clinked with each thud of the earth.

Malang watched, mesmerized.

But as the music faded, the crowd stayed still. Enthralled, yes—but not loud. Not convinced. Not like they had been for Ruthless.

Then—like fire bursting from ice—Rihanna stepped forward.

The music shifted. Western trap hip-hop beats dropped, fierce, and dirty.

Rihanna didn’t walk, she claimed the ground. Her body moved with dangerous fluidity—backflips, body rolls, twists, kicks. She was a storm in a crop top. She was untouchable, fierce. A lioness mid-hunt.

With a final flip, she landed inches from Malang.

He froze.

She leaned in, so close he could smell the jasmine in her hair, her face nearly touching his and then she flipped it dramatically across his cheek, teasing.

Malang’s breath caught in his throat. His heart pounded like a dhol under his ribs. She was fire. And for a second, he forgot who he was.

“Is this a dream?” he thought. “She’s insane. Beautiful. Lethal. I need to breathe.”

The music cut and she turned on her heel, smirked, and walked away. The crowd screamed.

All eyes turned to Netra again. But her mind was racing.

We’re not polished like them. We’re not professional.

Kiran noticed the hesitation and nudged her forward. Startled, Netra stumbled into the center.

Netra and Kiran took the floor together.

Together, they tried to dance—but it wasn’t clicking.

Then Amit dove into the center. Shirt untucked, confidence oozing, spinning low and hard.

He didn’t have finesse. But he had a soul.

His desi moves were gritty, real, bursting with joy and rage and roots. He danced with a kind of madness that couldn’t be taught.

It wasn’t clean—but it was alive.