“Whose hand is this?” he shrieked…

This blog is dedicated to Madras, Gemini flyover, sambaar, dosa…and all the blessed souls still haggling with the auto annas in Chennai.

There are times when it’s practically impossible to differentiate your one day from another. The same daily chore – wake up, freshen up, get dressed for work, work…get drained, come back home, eat, sleep. Then wake up again the next day, freshen up…and it goes on.

But what happens when on an otherwise regular dreary day, there’s something startling that you experience, and from there on you develop a fear…a fear of the unknown hand!

This was the summer of 2010…

…the summer when I, along with my other north Indian friends was trying to decode the art of living in the city of Madras. Every single day was a new experience. Every single encounter was matchless in its own strange way. And every single auto rickshaw-ride was like surrendering to death, each time.

Anyone who has been to Chennai even once and was privileged to enjoy the auto rickshaw ride would completely relate to this common notion – every auto anna is Rajnikanth in the makingand every auto rickshaw ride would give an experience of sitting in a flying open-air F-20 Tigershark, which not just offers adrenalin rush but also minor heart attacks and may be a short trip to the grave and back.

The story is about my friends, Sniggy and Bobby on the roads of Chennai, in the silent summer night. 

Like every day, Sniggy and Bobby headed for dinner to some shady restaurant, straight from work. Once there, they hogged on bowls of sambaar, glasses of rasam and variety rice. By the time they finished, it was already late and that’s when they decided to hire an auto from outside the restaurant. They were now being driven back to their homes. Chennai like always was dead by this hour – with streets looking empty, dark and uncanny.

Both quiet, were staring outside at the stillness of the night, when suddenly Bobby felt a hand on his shoulder. Knowing it is Sniggy’s, he limply turned towards her and was stoned in horror! Sniggy had both her hands resting calmly on her lap.

Eyes wide with fright, shitting bricks, Bobby shrieked his lungs out, “WHOSE HAND IS THISSS…?” Screaming like maniacs, both Bobby and Sniggy leapt out of the speeding possessed auto…gunning for their lives. And that’s when they heard a baby cry…

A baby crying! In the auto rickshaw! In the middle of a dark-f***ing-silent night!!!

Seeing half their bodies flying outside, peeved auto anna yelled in his massacred English, “Saar – shhh…my baby…sleeping-aa…auto backside-aa!”

The moment froze. And so did the auto rickshaw. Sniggy still shaking and Bobby numb in disbelief. 
With defunct legs and sprinting heartbeat, they decided to get down from the auto and walk back home, praying that the remaining handful night is saner and ordinary.

Even after four years, when observed, both Sniggy and Bobby unfailingly frisk the rear of the auto before placing their rear on its seat.

When daddy met lizzie…

This blog is truly dedicated to my dad – someone whom I brand as a living repertoire of craziness and bottomless humor.


Since childhood, one thing that has been a constant source of laughter and sheer amazement to me is my dad’s stories and bizarre experiences. Be it stopping a public bus in the middle of the road to teach the driver a lesson, or travelling on the train top, or crossing villages in trucks and tractors or teasing a bull sitting under the tree and then running Milkha to save his own life… In fact many a time I have been made to believe that my own quirky episodes are nothing but genetic, dad-sent and come as a legacy to me.

But dad’s dad! His absolute goodness is reflected in his regular day, and that when coupled with his level of madness, creates an eccentric combination of awe and glee.

This one particular incident would stay with me forever. In fact I have narrated this to a million people till now, in both sober and smashed state – and have received the same mixed reaction of ‘awww… and hahahaha…’, time after time. So one more time…

Dad, on a usual summer day, was sauntering in the house from one room to another. As he entered the kitchen he spotted a lizzie (a house lizard) sitting at the windowsill, gazing at him. Hovering around it, stomping his foot and clapping his hands to shoo it away, dad tried his best to make the lizzie move. Flabbergasted by such stock-still conduct, he sat down watching closely his new small and skittish friend…and there it all began…

…an instant cosmic connect (and with dad in question, can imagine ABBApixies dancing on the tunes of Fernandoin the background) and budding general fondness, both daddy and lizzie, looked at each other with what else but affection. Still wondering why his friend didn’t move or flinch, dad did some R&D around it and figured that it was sitting on some sticky fluid and was fixed on the sill.

All emotions pouring from every artery and nerve in his heart, dad carefully lifted lizzie with his bare hand and took it to the wash-basin. With all his efforts to be gentle and hospitable, dad scouted for something to clean lizzie’s base so that it doesn’t get stuck on the surface again. There he found something soft and bristly (as lizzies are smooth at the base – and this I know from my dad only!). With his shaving brush in one hand and lizzie in another, dad dipped the brush in a puddle of shampoo, which again he managed by inverting a bottle of my favorite L’Oreal, and started laundering.

Happily enjoying the wash, friend lizzie didn’t twist or turn and sat calmly between his fingers. Once done, dad checked whether it’s really clean by putting it back on the floor and lifting again. Eureka! It was back to its plain, non-sticky self.

Realizing (read coming back to his senses) that the relationship should last only for this much time, and with half of his own family running helter-skelter screaming ,‘dad has lost his marbles’ and another half almost passed out – dad goes back to the windowsill and bids adieu to his friend…the small and skittish one.

Earnest request to dad – …please stop using that shaving brush. This father’s day, let’s buy you a fresh one meant for shaving purpose only!   

Let’s play “if I were…”

Cheers to the first one… and this one’s for you Smriti. Much love.


Not a very flashy title to begin with my first blog, but because the memories are so fresh that I would definitely want to capture this insane incident, which proved me nothing less than a retard, yet again!

To set the stage in your minds, this was one big night for me and many others who had worked with my now exited boss, Smriti. It was her farewell night. After exchanging some emotional notes in office, a gang of 12 of us headed for a party, with only music, alcohol and dance on our minds, and needless to say, heavy hearts emotionally wired with that of Smriti’s.

And here it begins…

As we entered the club, we witnessed the usual. Usual because this would be the nth time we were coming to this place and I think that’s how all clubs are decorated…with loud music, dim lights, skimpily clad girls, hot and not-so-hot men, and all this comes complimentary. But this time what we had as a special offering was a bunch of boisterous Punjabi men and women dancing on the tunes of Maroon 5 with glass of whiskey on their head. As we slowly circled our necks around, the scene seemed strange but of course, by now each one of us was so used to the drill of first feeling awkward, and then fueling our system with spirit and finally being a part of such distinctive crowd.

We all walked towards our table, settled ourselves into our seats, one level above the dance floor and started exchanging happy notes. One drink down…and two…and three…and now it was time to rock and roll.

After few hours of dancing, realizing that we aren’t too young to continue for another minute and not too old to call quits, we decided to head back to our seats where we had our left over food and drinks waiting.

Suddenly, Prachi – one of the pretty, light-eyed missies in our team, comes to me and suggests, let’s play ‘if I were…’. To help the drunken me understand what exactly the game is, she starts explaining – for example, if you were Shruti Rawat, you would barge into that group of guys, and start dancing with that angrez standing right there (conveniently pointing towards him, making it beautifully OBVIOUS).

As I type, I’ve devoured another “E” of Toblerone, realizing this was the last E!

I, being my usual self (here I would want you readers to refer to my introduction, of how my senses work when a guy smiles at me…), follow the ‘Prachi-given’ instructions making her believe that I’ve understood the game to the tee, and head straight to the table. Standing right in front of that seemingly-angrez looking guy (or to put it rightly, imagine a love-child of Enrique and Tiger Shroff. Yoikes!) I begin my saga of mortification. Picturing myself nothing less than a desi-Shakira, I move like one demented girl in polka dotted dress looking straight into his eyes and smiling like always, ear-to-ear. Embarrassed to his gut, the poor chap left with no other option but to twist and turn, stands up and starts dancing – stuck to the ground, not moving an inch from where he is and smiling lovingly at me (blush blush) and being a true sport.

Just when it all seemed to be getting beyond comprehension, what came to my rescue was a change in the song by the DJ that pulled me back to my apparently matured friends with weird game ideas, who stood there half shocked, half embarrassed, half rolling on the floor laughing and if there was any room left for another emotion, it would be of judging me as ‘one crazy woman’.

Trying to be high on sangfroid and adding some drama to my reactions, I smiled at them sheepishly, batting my eye lashes…waiting to be tagged in the heads of my friends, pseudo angrez and the remaining audience as nothing less than a retard, yet again!

What followed were the aftershocks. I thought my jig got captured only in the minds of few tipsy friends, but no…there was a sober one with a camera!

***dear alcohol, we had a deal where you would make me wittier, debonair, and a better dancer… I saw my pictures of the jig, guess we need to talk.***