Chapter 1: The Barbeque Nation Incident

The moment we stepped into Barbeque Nation that evening, it was as if we’d walked into a desi carnival. The sizzle of paneer tikka mingled with the clang of steel skewers; kids darted between tables, and the air was thick with the smoky aroma of roasted masala. Waiters in black uniforms hustled from table to table, balancing platters of kebabs, while the crowd’s laughter rose above the hum of the AC. We’d barely pulled out our chairs when chaos erupted—a man, wild-eyed and muttering, suddenly staggered up to the salad counter and, to everyone’s horror, unzipped and urinated right there. Mothers yanked their children away, people screamed, the manager sprinted over, face red with shock and embarrassment. Only in India, I thought, could dinner out become tomorrow’s WhatsApp forward for the entire mohalla.

After the mess was cleared and the police had come and gone, the restaurant staff apologized and handed us compensation—ten times the meal cost. The whole thing was surreal. But the real twist came the next morning, when my colleague turned up at the office, eyes shining with mischief and calculation.