8:20 PM – Rooftop Barbecue Begins
We reached the venue—a terrace of a four-storey building near Besant Nagar beach, wrapped in fairy lights and humidity. Not the gentle, poetic kind of humidity. The Tamil kind. The kind that makes your jeans and dignity stick to your leg.
The scene was… surprisingly lit.
Lanterns floated on thin strings, casting soft amber glows on a canvas of blue dusk. The sound of laughter, grill sizzle, and indie Tamil pop filled the air like a perfectly curated Spotify playlist titled "Urban Suffering but Make It Aesthetic."
A girl passed us carrying two mocktails in mason jars. Mason jars. We weren't in Besant Nagar anymore. We were in... Pinterest Chennai.
In one corner, a DJ was setting up beside a table stacked with drinks like a mini Tasmac—but with a better playlist and the unmistakable smugness of being sponsored by someone's startup money.
People stood in loose circles, holding skewers and drinks, some making eye contact like they were auditioning for the next breakup in their life. One guy looked like he was networking. With God.
"And burnt paneer," Prakash added, sniffing suspiciously.
"Dei, this is tofu. I'm telling you, paneer doesn't bounce like this."
"Then bounce it off the terrace and get real meat, da."
"Bro, you're vegetarian."
"I'm flexible. For chicken, I'll convert."
We found a corner near the grill. A man with a beard longer than his resume flipped chicken wings with terrifying grace. He wore a tank top, a man bun, and the calm menace of someone who thinks cumin is a personality.
"Is this free?" Prakash whispered like he was asking about black market kidneys.
"Technically yes. Morally, we'll owe our souls," I said, grabbing a plate with the same caution I use when opening my credit card bill.
I didn't even RSVP. I don't know the host. I don't even know what half these sauces are. One of them looks like regret.
A girl in a black jumpsuit walked past us, gave Rajiv's shirt a two-second glance of judgment, and kept walking. Rajiv turned to us like a man freshly stabbed.
"She judged me, da. I felt it. Right in the liver."
"Maybe next time, don't dress like a lizard that fell in a garden," I said. Which was generous. He looked like a highlighter and a curtain had a fight and he lost.
Nearby, two people were in a heated debate:
"Bro, I'm telling you, Karthik Subbaraj is a better director than Lokesh."
"Aiyo shut up, you just like him because he wears glasses like you."
Why is it that every Tamil party conversation either becomes a film debate or a philosophical crisis within three drinks?
The music shifted to lo-fi Tamil rap—exactly the kind of genre that makes you feel like you're the villain in a documentary about mild inconveniences. Someone brought out hookah. Someone else tried to light it with a matchstick and set their own hair on fire.
"Do you think we're too uncool for this party?" I asked Prakash.
"We're too broke to be cool and too socially anxious to leave. So yeah. We're Goldilocks-ing our way through this party," he said.
Behind us, a girl was yelling over the music:
"No, di! I told him I'm not ghosting, I'm just in my self-love arc."
Meanwhile, some dude tried to casually lean against a wall that was actually just a curtain. He fell with the grace of a dropped dosa. No one helped. One guy clapped.
Rajiv was back, holding a red drink that glowed like nuclear juice.
"Is this edible?" he asked.
"That's not how drinks work," I said. "Also, it's glowing. If your pee starts speaking Sanskrit tomorrow, don't call me."
I took a sip from my own cup. Tasted like guava, betrayal, and forgotten dreams. With a hint of mint.
Someone shouted near the DJ:
"DAI DJ! Play 'Vaathi Coming' and stop this suffering!"
The DJ, unbothered, raised a finger to the sky like a prophet and said, "Patience. The drop is coming."
Rajiv sighed. "What is this crowd, da?"
"Chennai's answer to therapy, apparently," I muttered.
Behind us, two people had sat cross-legged on the floor with a tarot deck.
"I see fire in your future."
"That's just the grill, idiot."
It's amazing how every rooftop party turns into a slice-of-life anthology. One girl's crying on the phone. One guy's confessing feelings to a lamp. Someone is slow dancing with a skewer. And me? I'm hiding in a corner with two socially dysfunctional morons and slowly melting into my shirt.
I turned. It was the jumpsuit girl. She raised her eyebrow at me. "Hi, Nice shirt."
I blinked. I nodded in approval.
She laughed and walked away. I didn't know if that was flirting or a prelude to public execution.
Prakash leaned in. "Did you just get semi-approved by a hot girl?"
"I don't know, man. She could be drunk. Or blind. Or both."
"Doesn't matter. That's a win in Besant Nagar metrics."
The lights flickered again. Someone was now beatboxing into a funnel. The DJ dropped a beat. The crowd erupted.
And I stood there, skewers in one hand, trauma in the other, wondering if this was adulthood. Loud music, sweaty faces, stolen glances, and grilled mushrooms that tasted like pencil shavings—but somehow, I didn't hate it.
I looked up at the sky, exhaled—and immediately inhaled secondhand hookah smoke.
"Let's go get another plate," I said.
Rajiv looked at me. "You're finally in party mode?"
"No, I'm just hungry again."
We had just demolished our second plate of grilled pineapple and existential crises when Rajiv turned to me, mouth already twitching like he was holding back either a secret or a sneeze.
"Okay, bro. So remember I told you I joined that gym last month near Thiruvanmiyur?"
"No," I lied. "And if I did, I've deleted it for self-preservation."
Rajiv ignored me. "So there's this guy—Ajay. Works out like he's getting ready for a prison break. Does pre-workout, post-workout, and mid-workout like he's doing rituals. Nice guy though."
"Do I need to know this or are you just giving me your gym diary?"
"No da, Ajay is the cousin of the fiancé of the girl who's organising this party."
I blinked. "So… your gym friend's cousin's fiancé is the host?"
"Yeah."
"And that's why we're here?"
"Technically no. I just saw the poster on his story and followed the Google Maps pin."
"You are the reason kidnappings happen."
He grinned proudly. "Anyway, he's calling us to meet his gang."
Before I could object, he had already dragged us to a group standing like a human flower arrangement—five girls and four guys. All decked up in that confusing Chennai party aesthetic—jeans, ethnic tops, sneakers, and enough perfume to violate airspace.
Ajay, a broad-shouldered guy with a hair fade sharp enough to slice papad, waved us over.
"Yo Rajiv! You came! And you brought…" He looked at me, paused, nodded. "A serious guy."
"I'm not serious," I said.
"He just looks like he files IT returns on time," Prakash added.
That got a laugh. Ajay clapped my back like I was a goat being auctioned.
"So this is my cousin's fiancé, Shruthi," he pointed to a tall girl in a rust-red kurti who looked like she made to-do lists for her weekends. "And this is her gang. You're in for it now."
The girls introduced themselves with a rapid-fire efficiency that reminded me of corporate onboarding.
"Hi, I'm Shruthi."
"Swathi."
"Revathi."
"Priya."
"Jaanu."
I swear that was her actual name. She even did a little finger wave.
"And these are the boys," Ajay continued. "Arun, Vishnu, Bala, and Roshan. They have no personality but they can carry stuff."
The guys laughed like they'd heard this joke seventeen times and accepted their fate.
I nodded at everyone like I was attending a funeral.
Then it began.
The small talk.
Shruthi asked, "So what do you do?"
I always struggle with this question. Not because I don't have an answer. But because the answer feels like a trap door into a TED talk I never signed up for.
"I work," I said.
Shruthi tilted her head. "Like… work where?"
"In front of a screen."
"What field?"
"Digital one."
She blinked. "Oh… okay."
Yes. Let the mystery ferment. Be the ocean. Be unreadable.
Next, Swathi chimed in. "What kind of movies do you like?"
"Ones that end."
She laughed. "No seriously!"
"So am I."
Revathi joined in. "What are your hobbies?"
"Breathing. Occasionally blinking."
All three girls stared.
Prakash leaned in, whispering, "Bro, you're going full monk mode. You'll either scare them or marry them. No in-between."
I wasn't trying to be cold. I was just… conserving energy. Social batteries don't recharge on charcoal grill fumes and hookah.
But something strange happened.