There are stories you *remember*, and then there are stories that tug you straight back into a time, a smell, a street, a mood. This one belongs to the second category—straight from the mischievous mid-70s, when our photography studio turned into the most unexpected stage for late-night comedy.
Back then, Diwali cleaning wasn’t just about scrubbing the floors or dusting the cameras. For us, it was the unofficial season of *masthi*—pure, harmless mischief. Our studio sat right on a busy main road, directly under a huge hotel with individual balconies for every room. Three floors tall, nearly 200 feet wide, like a giant watching over the street. At night, when the city slipped into silence, that entire hotel became our private auditorium.
Around midnight, the operation would begin.
We’d lower the studio shutter halfway, switch off every light, and instantly melt into the shadows. With the dim streetlights of those days, we became invisible—just a set of naughty, disembodied voices.
And our favourite targets?
The ever-trusting, ever-hardworking cycle rickshaw-walas of the city.
The moment one pedalled past, we’d whisper from the darkness,
**“Oye, rickshaw-wala… chalte kya?”**
Screeeeeech!
A sudden brake.
A startled face.
A hopeful glance, left and right.
Seeing no one, the poor fellow would mutter, confused. That’s when we’d strike again, this time with a drunken slur:
**“Arre, upar dekh na! Hotel ki khidki pe!”**
And like obedient soldiers, they’d crane their necks up, staring at the silent balconies of the hotel—waiting for the invisible drunk customer calling them from above.
We’d stretch this drama for a good 20–25 minutes. Then the grand finale—quoting an absurdly tiny fare.
The transformation was immediate.
A flood of Hyderabadi gaalis,
**“Khaali peeli time kharab karre!”**
**“Dimagh kharab ho gaya kya tumhara?”**
And off they’d go, pedalling furiously, still cursing the mysterious “shehar ke namune.”
What made it priceless wasn’t just the prank—it was our commitment. The voices, the slur, the timing… and the sheer innocence of those nights when fun was simple, free, and shared.
Today, when I walk past that spot, I can still hear the faint echo of those midnight chuckles, the brake screeches, and the confused “Kaun bola?” floating in the air.
That’s the charm of our *nukkad tales*—they remind us how naughty, creative, and wonderfully alive the old days were.
https://thecompletemagazine.blogspot.com/2025/11/daring-autowaalas-of-hyderabad-love.html
https://thecompletemagazine.blogspot.com/2025/11/august-1984-curfew-camera-crazy-aunt_25.html
https://www.tell-a-tale.com/panchatantra-story-the-elephant-and-the-sparrows/
Please share the story to your friends who are as naughty as you are or the author...
BTW: Do let us know your favourite/unusual Hyderabadi gaalis (not the bad ones though) & we shall be happy to share them with our naughty readers...
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