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.***

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