BOLLYWOOD CALLING

Some days start off as regular workdays and end up becoming stories you’ll tell for years. Today was one of those. A normal day at the office took an unexpected, bizarre turn when my boss casually announced, “You and Sahil will go invite Bollywood celebs to Honey Singh’s concert.”

Wait. What?

Before we could even process it, a list of names was handed over—Ranbir Kapoor, Ranveer Singh, Shah Rukh Khan, Triptii Dimri, Sonu Nigam, Salim Merchant, Ayushmann Khurrana, Kartik Aaryan… and the list went on. Armed with confidence, invites, and absolutely zero idea of what we were doing, we set off on a mission that felt straight out of a dream.

In our heads, we had already built the most delusional scenarios—SRK himself opening the gates of Mannat, Ranbir Kapoor offering us a ride, and Sonu Nigam breaking into a melody as soon as he saw us. Reality, of course, had other plans.

After navigating Bandra’s infamous traffic, hopping from one building to another, we finally landed at Ranbir Kapoor’s house. Ting tong. First invite successfully delivered. One down. Many more to go.

Then came the big one—Mannat.

Now, I’ve grown up in Mumbai. Stardom doesn’t fascinate me anymore. Or so I thought. Just as we were about to approach the gates, the energy around us shifted. People started running, phones were out, cameras flashing. A convoy of at least ten cars lined up, and in one of them was the Shah Rukh Khan.

I’ve never seen people lose their minds over a car before, but there they were—video-calling family and friends just to scream, “We saw SRK’s car!” The frenzy, the madness, the sheer magnetism—what a stardom to witness.

Sahil, who had been whining about hunger till now, suddenly just wanted a glass of water from Mannat. Clearly, that wasn’t happening. Even an empty glass was nowhere in sight.

People often mock Mumbai, saying “Yahan jagah kahaan hai?”—to them, I’d like to offer a tour of Sonakshi Sinha’s new flat. Still under construction, but oh my god, the space! I could’ve skated in that living room—only if I knew how.

But what truly amazed us that day wasn’t Ranbir, Ranveer, or any other celebrity. It was Triptii Dimri’s house.

We had no proper address—just Bungalow No. XX. So, like true explorers, we asked around. In the narrow, winding lanes of Bandra, we stopped by a group of locals sitting around a bonfire. They confidently directed us, only for us to take a full circle and land right back at Point A.

Seeing our confusion, one of them finally said, “Ruko, main le chalta hoon.”

He led us to an under-construction bungalow. “Yehi hai,” he declared with full confidence.

Innocent as we were, we stepped inside—no windows, no doors, just a skeleton of a house. And that’s when it hit us. It’s not us who are innocent—it’s the people of Mumbai. Instead of just telling us “Waha koi nahi hai,” they let us see it for ourselves.One of them jokingly said, “Triptii ko bolo ek bada nameplate lagaye yaar.”

And that’s Mumbai for you. Helpful in the most unconventional ways.And if nothing else, at least now we know where not to look for Triptii Dimri’s house.