There are some evenings that arrive quietly and then stay with you forever. And will probably be one of my very favourite nights.
Last Friday was one of them.
When my husband ordered a karaoke machine, I remember looking at him with complete disbelief.
“What a waste of money,” I said.
“Who is even going to use this? Do you really think everyone will sing?”
But homes have a strange way of surprising you when laughter enters them.
I do not know when the evening changed. Perhaps it was when Abbu picked up the microphone first. He has always been rather fond of microphones, of speaking a little louder than necessary, of turning even ordinary moments into performances. And before we knew it, everyone had joined in loudly singing “Mere sawaalon ka jawaab do…” with the kind of confidence only family can have.
Soon the karaoke gave way to Bollywood card games, which became unnecessarily competitive between my husband, my best friend, and my brother. At one point, we genuinely felt one of them might burst into tears over a Bollywood clue card. Accusations of cheating floated freely across the room while I sat there feeling very important as the self-appointed game master trying to maintain “fairness” in complete chaos.
And then came dumb charades.
The real magic of the night, perhaps.
My mother joined. My phupphi joined. My phuppha joined. Abbu acted out movie names with complete seriousness while all of us shouted impossible answers over one another. There was so much noise, so much terrible acting, and so much laughter that the walls themselves seemed happier.
And just when we thought the night had begun to slow down, my husband with the excitement of a ten-year-old at a sleepover sat down dramatically and said,
“Accha, koi bhoot ki kahani sunao.”
That was all the invitation Abbu needed.
Out came stories from old motels he had once stayed in during his travels. Stories of shadowy corridors, strange footsteps, and rooms where sleep never came easily. Then came the village stories the kind every Indian family seems to carry quietly from another generation. Tales of jinns, lonely roads, and children who had drowned near the riverbank but were still seen, people claimed, playing cricket there at night under dim moonlight.
By then the house had grown quieter. The laughter softened. Some of us listened with wide eyes, others interrupted with theories and disbelief, and someone kept insisting every story was exaggerated.
Still, no one got up to sleep.
We kept talking and listening until sleep slowly took over all of us, one by one, somewhere around four in the morning.
What stayed with me most was not just the games or the ghost stories.
It was seeing these adults people we usually find discussing medicines, relatives, bills, politics, or old worries suddenly become playful again. Like children who had quietly been waiting for permission to come out.
And somewhere between the singing, the cheating accusations during card games, and the ghost stories whispered past midnight, loneliness quietly left the room.
I think years later, when life becomes busier and evenings become quieter, this Friday night will remain one of my favourite memories to return to.
Thank you @thodi-si-guftugu for that day. It was all your idea and @gulabi-dil for being a part of our madness. ❤️
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