I was 20, armed with a brand-new high-end camera from Singapore, and buzzing like a live wire. My late friend—my partner-in-crime from those early photography days—had just bagged us an outstation assignment at the Andhra Cement Factory, 250 km from Hyderabad.
This was my first real “professional” shoot outside the city. I felt like I’d finally arrived.
We travelled with two gentlemen from the ad agency—an Art Director and a Branch Manager flown in from Bombay, both very proper, very polished, very… Bombay.
### **The Shoot: Smooth Like Fresh Dosa Batter**
Not a single glitch. Good frames, easy light, cooperative workers—one of those rare days when photography behaves like an obedient child.
And then came the drive back:
Windows down.
Songs.
Samosas.
Chai.
Dusty roads.
Pure 1980s bliss.
### **The News that Changed the Tone**
Just as Hyderabad’s skyline began to appear, the radio crackled:
**“Curfew imposed in the city due to Ganesh immersion riots.”**
Shops burned. Streets tense.
Hyderabad had turned into a ghost town.
### **Plan B: The Hotel, the Brainwave & The Aunt**
The Bombay guest had a booking in Secunderabad—one of the few places not under curfew. He suggested dinner at his hotel.
And then it hit me—my aunt lived nearby.
Now, this wasn’t your regular polite-tea-serving aunt.
No.
This was my legendary widowed aunt—living alone, drinking neat whisky, and known for talking endlessly on the strangest topics… always with a little giggle.
A *very* distinct giggle.
I suggested we crash at her place for the night.
She was thrilled to see me.
My two colleagues were not ready for what followed.
### **The Whisky, The Giggles & The Horror**
She poured all three of us whisky.
She began her marathon conversation session.
The topics had no beginning, no middle, and no end.
Her giggle after every sentence could break a man’s soul.
I watched the Bombay fellows suffer politely for **two to three hours**. Their faces said:
*“Why did we trust this boy?”*
### **The Penthouse with… Mosquitoes**
She finally offered us a first-floor room—a makeshift penthouse of sorts.
Only catch?
She had forgotten to close the door earlier.
It was a **mosquito festival** in there.
Sleep? Impossible.
We spent the night talking, laughing, and accepting our fate.
### **Curfew Morning: The Police, The Cameras & The Poor Autowala**
At daybreak we took a rickshaw.
But Hyderabad was full of CRPF personnel and checkpoints.
Stop.
Frisk.
Question.
Repeat.
We kept explaining, “Photographers, sir! Returning from a shoot!”
And the poor rickshaw driver—he asked us for just **₹10 extra** because he risked driving during curfew.
Instead of sympathy, one cop scolded him ruthlessly for being on the road.
### **End of a Wild Night**
By the time we finally reached home, we were exhausted, amused, and full of stories—just the kind you remember forever.
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