R A N V I J A Y

I descended the stairs, channeling my inner Shah Rukh Khan from DDLJ, singing loudly, "Tujhe dekha toh yeh jaana sanam, pyaar hota hai deewana sanam." My voice echoed through the house, and as I reached the middle of the stairs, I spotted Dad standing in the living room.

I descended the stairs with a dramatic flair, channeling my inner Bollywood hero, my voice echoing through the house as I belted out the iconic lines, "Tujhe dekha toh yeh jaana sanam, pyaar hota hai deewana sanam." Each step was deliberate, as if I were the star of a grand romantic scene.

Dad appeared at the base of the stairs, his face frozen in sheer disbelief. He stood there, wide-eyed and slack-jawed, staring at me as if I’d lost my mind. Unfazed, I strutted toward him, still singing, letting my voice carry the full weight of my "performance."

Without warning, I grabbed his hands, locking my fingers around his and pulling him into the scene. He looked utterly horrified, but I twirled him anyway, continuing the song with gusto, "Tujhe dekha toh yeh jaana sanam. Pyaar hota hai deewana sanam, ab yahan se kahan jaaye hum."

As the lyrics reached their peak, I spun him one last time and placed my head on his chest, holding him in an overly dramatic embrace. With a faux-romantic sigh, I crooned the final line, "Teri baahon mein mar jaaye hum." Dad stood stiffly, his expression somewhere between horrified and amused. "What on earth are you doing?" he asked, but I simply grinned up at him, refusing to break character.