Chapter 1: The Dog-Napping

Mumbai ki sabse bigdi raani barged into my flat at 2 am just to kidnap my dog. And after pulling off her heist, she had the gall to post on Instagram: [Finally stole my son back.]

The photo? Her beaming beside a massive Himalayan Mastiff, both looking entirely too pleased with themselves.

Barely half an hour later, a young Bollywood heartthrob—none other than Kabir Malhotra—posted a pouty selfie from his own home: [Wuwu, my dog was taken away by his mum, now I’m all alone.]

Within minutes, #DogHeist trended. Everyone began shipping the two of them as Mumbai’s latest power couple.

After I wrapped up recording and finally reached my bungalow, I looked around my empty room, confusion prickling at me.

Arrey yaar. Where’s my dog?

I kicked off my sneakers, the cool marble floor sending a chill up my tired legs. Somewhere outside, a stray dog barked, making the silence inside even sharper. The late Mumbai night pressed in, sticky and humid, the ceiling fan lazily circling overhead as I dumped my backpack by the shoe rack. Normally, the house would be alive with the rapid clack of paws and the faint, comforting smell of Parle-G biscuits Chhotu Shaitan stashed under the sofa. Tonight, though, only emptiness answered back. A lizard clicked somewhere, but there was no happy barking.

Late at night, after wrapping up a reality show, I headed home. Outside, the city’s honks and the aroma of bhutta roasting on a street vendor’s cart floated up as I trudged up the stairs. Mumbai felt oddly hushed for once.

Usually, as soon as my dog hears me punch in the passcode, he’ll go wild scratching at the door, but tonight—nothing.

My fingers hovered over the number pad, half-expecting that thumping tail and eager yelps. Instead, there was only my own tired breathing, and the distant clang of utensils from a neighbour's kitchen.

I pushed the door open and called his name.

Chhotu Shaitan.

“Little Monster, where are you? Daddy’s home.”

My voice echoed through the hallway, bouncing off the empty walls and the pile of mismatched shoes Chhotu Shaitan loved to gnaw. Not a sound, not even a whine or a shuffle.

I called a few more times, but silence pressed in.

A flicker of worry crept in as I checked behind the old wooden swing, peeked under the kitchen table, and even inside the laundry basket—his favourite hideouts. My heart began to pound just a bit faster.

Room by room, I searched. Nothing.

I even checked the terrace, shoving aside drying bedsheets, and in the tiny pooja corner where he’d once stolen prasad. Still nothing. The absence pressed on me, heavy as the city’s humidity.

Getting worried that Chhotu Shaitan was in trouble, I immediately checked the CCTV footage.

I fiddled with the remote, cursing the laggy internet as the footage buffered. My mind spun with every horror story of pet theft and mischief-making colony kids.

On the screen, who should appear but Ananya Singh, Mumbai’s most notorious party princess, sneaking around at my door and glancing left and right.

There she was—bold as ever, oversized hoodie, those ridiculous pink slippers, double-checking the corridor like she was on a secret mission. It hit me: once upon a time, we had an inside joke about pulling off ‘covert ops’ for late-night snacks. She was still at it, but now with my dog as the prize.

She entered the password and waltzed in. Chhotu Shaitan hadn’t seen her for half a month and immediately started wagging his tail and whining, all eager to please.

My dog, the ultimate traitor, leapt into her arms like I’d never existed. His tail was a blur, knocking over a stack of newspapers. The affection in his eyes was pure filmy reunion—straight out of a desi soap.

Ananya clipped on a leash and ran out with him.

She even paused to check her reflection in the shoe rack mirror on the way out, fixing her hair. Only Ananya could turn dog-napping into a mini photoshoot.

The whole operation was so smooth, I was both angry and impressed.

I shook my head, a rueful smile spreading despite myself. How many people could pull this off with such style? My anger mingled with reluctant admiration—and a pinch of pride that my dog was so wanted.

I dragged Ananya out of my WhatsApp blocklist and video-called her.

Scrolling through my blocklist, I muttered a few choice gaalis under my breath. Of course, her DP was some over-filtered selfie from Goa.

She must have been waiting—her phone was right beside her.

Classic Ananya. Her notifications must go off whenever she’s stirring up drama.

As soon as the call connected, she picked up, but turned her head away, acting all nakhrewaali, refusing to look at the camera. She pursed her lips and fussed with her dupatta as if she was on an OTT show. Not even a proper hello.

“Hmph. Didn’t you say whoever looks back first is a dog? So why are you calling me?”

Ananya rolled her eyes, but I could see the smudge of kajal under them—she’d clearly been up all night too. She stuck out her lower lip, making a show of her hurt pride.

I glanced at Chhotu Shaitan, happily munching biscuits next to her.

There he was, sprawled on her lap, gobbling up Marie biscuits like a pampered nawab. Shameless fellow.

“Would I be calling you if you hadn’t come to my house to steal my dog?”

I tried to sound stern, but she could see through the bluster. We’d played this game before.

“Do you know what it means to break into someone’s home and steal their property?”

My words sounded so dramatic, even to my own ears. I could almost see my mother’s face: ‘Beta, what is this drama?’

Ananya, the granddaughter doted on by Dadi Singh and spoiled since childhood, was as willful and arrogant as ever.

Dadi Singh’s darling, with enough attitude to fill all of South Mumbai. She always got what she wanted—birthday ponies, imported chocolates, and now, apparently, my dog.

She lounged on the sofa, petting Chhotu Shaitan’s head with a big grin. She looked as if she owned the world, tilting her head and ruffling his ears, her diamond bangles jingling softly. The scene was straight out of a Karan Johar film.

“I brought my son home. What law did I break?”

She shot me a look, half-innocent, half-defiant. Like a Bollywood heroine caught red-handed yet unrepentant. She even winked at Chhotu Shaitan.

I reminded her, “Chhotu Shaitan was bought by me.”

I put on my most lawyerly tone, trying not to laugh. “He’s mine, yaar. Bill bhi mere naam par hai.”

Ananya’s lips curled into a smile. “But I was the one who fed him, bit by bit, since he was two months old. If you want to see Chhotu Shaitan, come home.”

She flipped her hair, sounding like a proper Marathi mulgi challenging me. Her hand gripped her dupatta tightly, and for a split second her voice trembled before she snapped back, “He misses you. I told him his papa will come.”

After a whole day of shooting, I was exhausted and not in the mood to argue.

I slumped back on the bed, the ache in my shoulders returning. The idea of fighting with her over the phone felt as exhausting as a twelve-hour shoot.

“I’ll give you ten lakhs. Chhotu Shaitan is mine.”

I was half-joking, half-serious, but she took it as an insult. Only Ananya could turn a ransom negotiation into an emotional meltdown.

At this, Ananya jumped up like a street dog whose tail had been stepped on, instantly bristling: “Kabir, you’re unbelievable.”

Her eyes went wide, and she smacked the coffee table with enough force to rattle the glasses. “Paise se sab kuch nahi milta, samjha?”

She angrily hung up the call.

The abrupt silence was louder than the honking autos outside. Typical. End the call before I could apologise.

A few minutes later, Ananya deliberately posted a photo on Instagram with Chhotu Shaitan, captioned:

[Secretly took my son from my boyfriend.]

The picture had her in pyjamas and a messy bun, Chhotu Shaitan’s tongue out, both looking like partners-in-crime. My phone started buzzing nonstop with comments and DMs—notifications piling up, the whole city’s FOMO on display. How many likes did it get in five minutes? Probably more than my entire feed this month.

I laughed. “Childish.”

But in a city where everyone’s always performing, maybe childish was the only way to be real.