The Devil is in the Dee-tails :)

Scene One: Gossip Girl, But Make It Bangalore
Old school friends. A dessert place in Bangalore I can’t even remember the name of because the laughter drowned everything else out. We were supposed to be grown-ups: respectable, job-holding adults. But there we were, revisiting Class 9 lore like the board exams were next week. And doing it over and over and over, like woh neighbourhood waali aunties who never get tired of telling the same stories.

We laughed so hard people at the next table looked. (They always do. I think we thrive on being that group.) Somewhere between stolen brownie bites , we were catching up on who married who at 23. Don’t ask. I still can’t explain it.

We felt 15 inside. And the flight back? It sucked in that heartbreaky, post-reunion way only grown-ups pretending to be kids can feel.

Scene Two: Allergies, Order Returns, and the Overthinking Olympics at Marcels
Next up: the college gang. Fancy coffee at Marcels, then dinner at Genre. Multiple allergy checks. At least two order returns. The poor waiter’s soul left his body somewhere between the mocktails and the mains.

We dissected trips that never happened, relationships that shouldn’t have, and careers none of us fully understand. It was one of those evenings that’s 70% laughter, 20% existential dread, 10% wondering: Should I book that impulsive trip or get bangs instead?

A little chaotic, a little unfiltered, the kind of night that could heal you if you let it.

Scene Three: Kolaveri Di & Screwdrivers
And then came the night.

Hazratganj Social. Iconic coworkers. A farewell that became folklore.

We danced till our feet gave up (RIP my chappals), sat on the floor because chairs were clearly optional, and made the DJ our best friend. At some point, my manager made a puke-cleaning pact with the restaurant and we ate awesome-osas like they were the last supper of our very dramatic lives. We also stole a scredriver because why not?

When Kolaveri Di blasted and we lost our collective minds as we sat on the dance floor and vibed? That’s the shot I’ll play on loop. It was messy. It was unplanned. It was perfect.

DDLJ endings? Overrated. Give me this chaos any day.

The Instagram vs Reality We Don’t Talk About
The grid always looks polished hands in the air, “besties ❤️” captions, perfect lighting.

But what I remember are the after hours:

• The stolen fries.
• The half-drunk heart-to-hearts.
• The “I’m so glad we did this” whispered in someone’s Ola backseat while someone else begs the driver to stop because they’re definitely not gonna make it.
• The “kal ki kal dekhenge” said like it’s gospel truth.

We don’t talk enough about how these chaotic hangouts where nothing quite goes to plan feel more alive than any carefully curated night. They remind you you’re still young enough to be silly. Still old enough to be grateful for it.

In Defense of Overplanning (And Ditching It)
I’ll admit it: I’m the overplanner.

I will 100% toko mercilessly if the playlist sucks.
I will make mood boards.
I will read Zomato reviews like I’m writing a PhD thesis.

But you know what? The best nights survive because they fall apart. Because someone forgot the reservation. Because we ended up singing Senorita at midnight. Because someone’s wearing my earrings and we’re all sharing fries no one ordered.

The real plan? Just show up. The rest writes itself.

Closing Scene: Chappals Break, But So Do Walls
At the heart of it, these hangouts are my favorite kind of therapy. They remind me that no matter how much the week sucked, we’re still here.

Breaking chappals. Swapping scrunchies. Dancing to songs we forgot we loved.

These are the scenes I’d rewind and play again.
These are the moments that stay.