Deepak Sharma
Chapter 1:
If you had asked anyone in Pimplepur a month ago who Rajeev Banerjee was, they might’ve said, “Wasn’t he the boy who tried to bake a pizza on the car bonnet in Class 8?” Or, “Is he the one who added glitter to gulab jamuns thinking it was edible silver?” Yes. That Rajeev. The boy who left for “London” and returned with suspiciously little luggage, an accent thicker than mayonnaise, and a lot of ideas no one had asked for.
Rajeev’s arrival back in Pimplepur was not exactly what one would call subtle. He didn’t just come home — he made an entrance. A bright yellow auto-rickshaw pulled up in front of his parents’ old bungalow, now spruced up with fairy lights, a “Welcome Back Chef” banner (painted by his cousin’s child), and a small band that included a tabla player, a flautist, and an uncle with a whistle.
Out he stepped: white linen shirt, jeans so tight they looked like they were stitched on, and sunglasses the size of windshields. He struck a pose, waved like royalty, and said in a dramatic tone, “Pimplepur, your culinary savior has arrived.”
No one clapped. Except his mother, who was holding back tears — partly of joy, partly of embarrassment.
The next morning, after thoroughly Instagramming his breakfast (two aloo parathas and a single basil leaf for “contrast”), Rajeev made the announcement:
“I am opening Pimplepur’s first fine-dining, modern-fusion, pan-Indian, global-contemporary, spice-forward, rustic-urban restaurant.”
It took the townsfolk a full minute to decode what he meant. When someone finally asked, “You mean a new dhaba?” Rajeev recoiled as if slapped with a raw bhindi.
“No, no, darling! This is not a dhaba. It’s going to be… Curry-osity — where curiosity meets curry!”
He paused dramatically.
“Tagline: Expect the Unexpected.”
“What’s the unexpected?” someone asked.
“Everything!” Rajeev beamed. “Like butter chicken ice cream, sushi with achar, chai foam on biryani — I’m blending worlds!”
Mrs. Kapoor, the local gossip queen and proud goat-owner, muttered, “Last time someone blended worlds, my husband’s pressure cooker exploded.”
But Rajeev was undeterred. Over the next week, he moved swiftly — like a chef on a cooking show with only ten seconds on the clock. He rented the old Sharma sweet shop, gutted it, and transformed it into something the town had never seen: chrome countertops, dim lighting, a quirky mural of spices shaped like the Taj Mahal, and chairs so uncomfortable they must have been expensive.
To “inspire the masses,” Rajeev held a press conference in front of Pimplepur’s only general store. A reporter from the Pimplepur Patrika came. She was also the editor, designer, and horoscopes writer.
Rajeev posed beside a stack of masala boxes and said confidently, “This restaurant will revolutionize how Pimplepur eats. Food isn’t just for the stomach. It’s for the soul. The story. The senses!”
She blinked and asked, “Will there be samosas?”
Rajeev smiled with the patience of a yoga teacher trying not to scream.
“Of course! But deconstructed. With avocado foam. And a lime-coriander drizzle.”
That night, his announcement was the town’s main topic of discussion — second only to Mrs. Kapoor’s goat, Shahrukh, who had learned to open gates and now roamed the streets like he owned them.
In living rooms, people argued:
“What is avocado foam? Is it like chutney?”
“Fusion food? We already have chhole on pizza at Munna’s stall.”
“Paneer sushi?! That’s just offensive.”
Even so, curiosity was piqued.
The real madness began when Rajeev started hiring.
Chapter 2:
Every great restaurant has a great team. Or at least, that’s what Rajeev had read in a self-help book titled “Spice Up Your Life (and Your Hiring Process)”. Armed with this philosophy and an extremely unnecessary clipboard, Rajeev began recruiting staff for Curry-osity.
He put up an ad on the local tea stall wall — which was the Pimplepur equivalent of LinkedIn. It read:
“NOW HIRING: Sous Chefs, Waiters, Cleaners, Visionaries. Must be passionate, fearless, and know how to pronounce ‘Quinoa’. Experience optional. Drama guaranteed.”
By noon, a crowd had gathered. Some were job seekers. Others were just curious if there was free tea involved.
The first applicant was Bittu, a lanky 17-year-old with hair like a wild squirrel and the confidence of someone who had once successfully microwaved a banana. He strode in wearing a T-shirt that said “#MasterChefInTraining”.
Rajeev scanned his resume. It was written in blue glitter pen and included the line: “Special skill: can whistle while frying.”
“You have any kitchen experience?” Rajeev asked cautiously.
“Yes, sir! I’ve made Maggi with egg, Maggi with ketchup, and Maggi with… more Maggi.”
“Hmm,” Rajeev murmured. “You’re hired.”
“Really?”
“No. But I admire your optimism. You start tomorrow.”
Next came Aunty Dolly, a widow in her sixties with a mysterious past involving five marriages and one lost recipe book. She walked in confidently, placed a steel tiffin on the table, and said, “Try this.”
Rajeev opened it. The aroma hit him like a nostalgic punch to the nose. Spicy. Smoky. Somehow emotional.
“What is this?” he asked, eyes wide.
“My late husband’s secret masala. And before you ask, no — I will not tell you what’s in it. I have trust issues and a legal agreement with his ghost.”
Rajeev blinked. Then smiled.
“You’re my Head Masala Consultant.”
“Done. But I need Sundays off. It’s poker night with the widows’ club.”
After that, applications got weirder.
A man named Tikku showed up claiming he could “talk to vegetables spiritually” and insisted the onions were “screaming in his aura.” He was gently escorted out by a watchman.
Finally, when Rajeev had nearly given up, in walked Jameela. Sharp eyes, crisp kurta, and a no-nonsense attitude that could fry pakoras without oil.
“I can serve. I can shout. I can memorize a menu after reading it once. I’m allergic to nonsense, coriander, and emotional men.”
Rajeev extended his hand. “Welcome to the team.”
She didn’t shake it. “Just pay on time.”
And thus, Curry-osity’s crew was assembled:
Rajeev: self-declared head chef and visionary
Bittu: chaotic sous chef
Aunty Dolly: spice queen and occasional philosopher
Jameela: server, bouncer, and unofficial HR. They had no training, no rhythm, and barely any clue. But they had something else: unfiltered enthusiasm and a shared delusion that things would go smoothly.
To celebrate the formation of his “dream team,” Rajeev hosted a mandatory staff meeting at 7:30 AM the next morning. Bittu arrived half asleep. Jameela brought her own stool. Aunty Dolly brought samosas and a deck of tarot cards.
Rajeev stood in front of a whiteboard with the words:
“Vision. Vibe. Vindaloo.”
He tapped the board like a TED speaker.
“This restaurant will be more than food. It will be theatre. Art. A revolution. We will serve paneer like Picasso, mutton like Monet, and desserts that speak the language of love!”
“Will they be edible?” Jameela asked.
Rajeev paused. “Hopefully.”
Aunty Dolly raised her hand. “When do we get uniforms?”
“Uniforms?” Rajeev grinned. “We’re going to wear designer aprons handwoven in—”
“No,” she cut in. “I meant, do I have to wear pants? I prefer lungis.”
“Approved,” Rajeev said, exhausted already.
As the meeting ended, Bittu asked the one question that had been bothering him all morning:
“Sir, what does ‘quinoa’ look like?”
Rajeev sighed. “We’ll Google it together.”
Outside, Pimplepur carried on as usual. But inside that strange little half-finished building, chaos was brewing — slowly, comically, and with far too much cumin.
And so, the stage was set. A team with no coordination, a town full of skeptics, and a chef who believed flavor and flair mattered more than fire safety regulations.
What could possibly go wrong?
Chapter 3:
Rajeev had dealt with many obstacles in life — burnt curries, failed flings, and once, an unfortunate accident involving a fondue set and a fire extinguisher. But nothing, nothing, could have prepared him for the twin challenges of small-town politics and neighborly intrusion — namely, Mayor Bhonsle and Mrs. Kapoor and her goat.
Let’s start with the goat.
Mrs. Kapoor lived next door to Curry-osity and firmly believed that her goat Shahrukh was not only family, but superior to most humans. Shahrukh had a gold-painted horn, a velvet scarf, and a diet that included marigold petals, peeled cucumbers, and — for some reason — biscuit packets stolen from the milkman.
Mrs. Kapoor introduced herself to Rajeev the day construction began. She leaned over the boundary wall, face smeared in turmeric and curiosity, and said, “You’re the new boy trying to confuse people with foreign food, no?”
Rajeev smiled politely. “We’re doing fusion, aunty. Global flavors. Elevating Indian cuisine.”
She nodded sagely. “That’s what Ramesh’s son tried to do with Chinese food. His Manchurian exploded. We had to repaint the entire post office.”
Shahrukh bleated in agreement and tried to eat Rajeev’s shoelace.
“Anyway,” Mrs. Kapoor continued, “if you ever need help with mascots or celebrity animals, Shahrukh is available for appearances. Reasonable rates. Just no flash photography — he gets moody.”
Rajeev blinked. “I… appreciate the offer.”
The very next day, a banner appeared outside Curry-osity:
“GRAND OPENING SOON! CURRY MEETS CREATIVITY!”
Directly beneath it, someone (most likely Mrs. Kapoor) had pinned a smaller sign that read:
“With guest appearance by SHAH RUKH (the goat, not the actor).”
Rajeev took it down. She put it back up. He took it down again. She stuck it inside his kitchen window.
Meanwhile, trouble was simmering on the political front.
Mayor Bhonsle, who had ruled Pimplepur’s municipal board for twelve years and three broken benches, summoned Rajeev to his office. His secretary, a sleepy man named Munnalal, handed Rajeev a handwritten notice that read:
“URGENT MEETING. FOOD MATTERS. BRING SNACKS.”
Rajeev showed up nervously, carrying a box of slightly burnt mini-samosas.
Bhonsle, a round man with a walrus mustache and the grace of a startled elephant, leaned back in his chair and sniffed the samosas.
“Hmm. You made these?”
“I did, sir,” Rajeev said proudly. “With quinoa crust and—”
“Terrible.” The mayor popped one into his mouth anyway. “Listen here, boy. I’ve heard you’re opening some modern foreign nonsense next to Shastri Nagar. We are a town of values. What is all this avocado chicken foam and curried cake?”
“It’s culinary innovation, sir.”
The mayor squinted. “And will there be coriander?”
Rajeev froze. “Maybe… some garnish?”
Bhonsle turned red. “Do you want to kill me? I am deathly allergic to coriander! One leaf, one strand, and my face swells up like a football.”
Rajeev nodded furiously. “No coriander. I swear on Shahrukh the goat.”
“You know the goat too?” Bhonsle looked impressed, then wary. “Anyway. There’s a ribbon-cutting next week. I’ll come, but you’ll give me the VIP dish. Spicy, no coriander, and definitely no foams. I hate foams. I don’t even use shaving cream.”
Rajeev agreed to everything and fled the office with his dignity barely intact and two extra samosas missing from the box.
Back at Curry-osity, things were no less chaotic.
Bittu had accidentally locked himself in the walk-in pantry and was yelling, “Sir, I think the turmeric is attacking me!”
Aunty Dolly was arguing with the carpenter over the exact angle at which the spice shelf should tilt for “optimal masala chi.” Jameela was standing in the middle of the restaurant, arms folded, silently judging everyone.
And Shahrukh the goat had somehow made his way onto the kitchen counter and was trying to chew the fuse wire.
Rajeev looked around at the half-finished decor, the tangle of wires, the pile of unsorted menus, and the goat chewing through critical infrastructure.
“This is fine,” he whispered to himself. “Everything is going to be just fine.”
Then the lights flickered, the ceiling fan let out a loud wheeeekkkk, and Bittu screamed from the pantry, “I FOUND THE QUINOA!”
Rajeev took a deep breath and put on his apron.
The storm was coming.
But before that — he had to Google “how to cook quinoa.”
Chapter 4:
Rajeev’s dream was bold. But his kitchen was bold and highly flammable.
The interior of Curry-osity was finally ready. Mostly. The floor still smelled like wet plywood, the ceiling fan made an ominous creaking sound every 15 minutes, and the kitchen had only two working burners. But Rajeev stood proudly at the center like a captain on the deck of a ship made entirely of paper and ambition.
It was time for menu trials.
“Today,” Rajeev declared, “we test. We taste. We transform!”
Bittu, wearing a chef’s hat two sizes too large, raised a hand. “Sir, are we getting paid today?”
“No, Bittu,” Rajeev said. “Today you get something far more valuable — experience.”
Bittu nodded solemnly. “I’ll try to digest it.”
The trial began with Rajeev’s first creation:
Butter Chicken Milkshake.
An abomination of two national treasures in one glass. He blended tandoori chicken, yogurt, spices, cream, and topped it with a swirl of mint foam.
He passed the glass to Aunty Dolly, who took one dignified sip — and instantly spat it into the sink.
“What in Shiva’s name is this? A dairy disaster?”
“It’s modern!” Rajeev protested. “Edgy! Playful!”
“It’s vomit in disguise!” she shouted.
Next came Tandoori Sushi — a roll made of roti, paneer, and charred bell peppers, wrapped in banana leaf and then inexplicably microwaved.
Rajeev called it “Indo-Japanicana.” The microwave called it kaboom. There was a puff of smoke, a mild explosion, and Bittu yelled, “Sir! The sushi is angry!”
The fire extinguisher — rusted since 1993 — gave a single wheeze and died.
They all stared at the blackened microwave in silence.
Jameela finally said, “I’ll get the bucket.”
The third item was a “Dessert Dosa” — a paper-thin dosa filled with Nutella, cheese, and raisins.
“This actually doesn’t smell terrible,” Jameela admitted, cautiously taking a bite.
Then she chewed.
And chewed.
And finally asked, “Is… is this chewing gum?”
Rajeev checked his notes. “Oh no. I used gum arabic instead of jaggery.”
“Sir,” Bittu said, gently, “I think I chipped a molar.”
By the end of the day, the kitchen looked like a battlefield.
Aunty Dolly had nearly quit twice.
Bittu had turned yellow from a turmeric accident that left him glowing like a haldi festival ghost.
The chopping board had been mistakenly used as a coaster for a steaming iron teapot.
And someone (most likely Shahrukh the goat, who wandered in again) had eaten a tray of experimental gulab jamuns — which were filled with passionfruit, chili flakes, and confusion. Rajeev sat on the counter, head in his hands.
“This is a disaster.”
Aunty Dolly patted his shoulder. “Beta, you’re mixing too much. There’s no need to reinvent the rasgulla. Just make food that tastes good.”
“But I wanted to be different!” he groaned.
“Different is fine. But edible is important too.”
Outside, Mrs. Kapoor shouted, “My goat is vibrating. Did you feed him something strange again?!”
Inside, Bittu was mumbling to the masala rack, “If I don’t make it, tell mom I loved her.”
Jameela sighed. “This is not a restaurant. It’s a spicy circus.”
And then the gas stove made a low, threatening cough.
Everyone paused.
“Turn it off!” Rajeev yelled.
Bittu sprinted. Tripped. Slammed the knob. The flame disappeared.
Silence.
Then the toaster sparked.
A scream. Another cough. A minor flare-up.
“OKAY, THAT’S ENOUGH!” Rajeev shouted, using a metal tray as a shield. “No more experiments today! Everyone out!”
As the smoke cleared and the team retreated to the footpath, coughing and covered in flour, Rajeev looked up at the blackened signboard.
Curry-osity still glowed. Barely.
“This,” he said, “was just the dress rehearsal.”
Aunty Dolly muttered, “Then the main event might kill someone.”
But despite the flames, the burns, and the questionable dairy products, one thing was clear: opening night would be unforgettable.
For better or far, far worse.
Chapter 5:
Rajeev stood at the entrance of Curry-osity, heart pounding like a drum solo in a bad indie rock band. Today was the Grand Opening — a day he’d dreamed about since culinary college, and slightly feared since the Butter Chicken Milkshake incident.
He wore a freshly ironed kurta, hair combed, beard trimmed, and confidence faked. Bittu stood beside him, nervously fiddling with a spoon tucked behind his ear “for chef vibes.” Jameela arranged the menu stands with the deadly precision of a samurai. Aunty Dolly, dressed in a shimmering sari with chili earrings, lit a small incense stick “for good luck… and to mask the smell of the dishwasher.”
A crowd began to gather — mostly locals, a few enthusiastic food bloggers who came for the “quirky opening,” and Mayor Bhonsle, who had brought his wife, two assistants, and his personal coriander-detecting Labrador, Subhash.
“Just remember,” Rajeev whispered to himself, “don’t panic, smile, and no coriander.”
At 7:00 PM sharp, the ribbon was cut.
Curry-osity was officially open.
7:05 PM, Mayor Bhonsle loudly asked, “What is quinoa and why is it in my pulao?”
Rajeev, sweating already, replied, “It’s… like rice, but more judgmental.”
Subhash the dog barked in protest.
7:12 PM, The first table ordered the “Deconstructed Samosa Explosion.” Bittu nervously plated it with tweezers, placed edible flowers on top, then dropped the entire dish while sneezing from chili powder. The guests clapped, assuming it was performance art. Rajeev cried silently in the kitchen.
7:20 PM, Jameela stormed in holding a tray.
“One customer asked for gluten-free naan. I told him we don’t serve hallucinations.”
“Just give him papad,” Rajeev said, sweating more than a Mirchi-eating contest finalist.
7:31 PM, Aunty Dolly served her signature “5-Husband Masala Curry” to a table of three women from the Pimplepur Ladies Society.
One bite later, the eldest among them gasped, clutched her pearls, and whispered, “It tastes like betrayal… but with cinnamon.”
“Exactly,” Aunty Dolly said with pride.
7:45 PM, Shahrukh the goat escaped from Mrs. Kapoor’s yard. Again.
He entered the restaurant, head-butted a table, ate half a decorative lemon centerpiece, and photobombed three selfies before being bribed out with two gulab jamuns and a biscuit.
Mayor Bhonsle muttered, “I thought that goat was banned from events after the Diwali parade incident.”
8:00 PM, The electricity flickered. Then died.
Total blackout.
Rajeev panicked. “Bittu! The backup generator!”
“I thought the blender was the generator!”
“IT’S NOT!”
A minute later, Jameela lit candles across the restaurant. Guests cheered. Someone played flute music on their phone. The bloggers whispered, “This is so rustic. So authentic.”
Rajeev whispered, “So doomed.”
8:10 PM, The fire alarm went off.
Why? Because Bittu dropped papad into the fryer and then tried to “cool it down” by pouring cold lassi on it.
Smoke billowed. The alarm screamed. Guests stood, confused, holding naan like protest signs.
Rajeev appeared through the haze like a war survivor. “Please don’t panic, the lassi is now under control.”
A child shouted, “I want more fire!”
8:25 PM, A food critic named Tanmay Khatri — known for one-star reviews and two-hour rants — approached the counter.
“This was,” he said slowly, “absolutely…”
Rajeev held his breath.
“…ridiculous. Confusing. Spicy. And delightful. Like being slapped by a delicious sandal.”
Rajeev blinked. “That’s… good?”
“It’s unforgettable. I’m writing about this. Especially the goat.”
8:45 PM, The power returned. The music played. The mood shifted. Guests danced near their tables. Someone proposed marriage next to the chutney station. Jameela rolled her eyes but clapped politely.
Rajeev stood outside, looking at the glowing sign:
Curry-osity — Where Madness Meets Masala
Aunty Dolly joined him.
“Was it terrible?” he asked.
“Disastrous,” she replied. “And also magical.”
“You think we’ll survive tomorrow?”
“No,” she said. “But we’ll definitely make headlines.”
Just then, the kitchen fan exploded.
Rajeev didn’t even flinch.
And so, Curry-osity had its grand opening. It was messy, loud, spicy, and entirely unpredictable. In other words, a complete success.
Chapter 6:
Three days after the grand opening of Curry-osity, Rajeev sat at the cash counter nursing a headache and a suspicion that Bittu had replaced the sugar with salt in the chai again.
Online buzz had exploded. Photos of flaming gulab jamuns, “Goat photobomb moments,” and a viral video titled “Mayor Nearly Dies from Quinoa Panic” had spread across foodie circles like pickle oil on fresh paratha.
In other words: they were famous.
But fame in Pimplepur came with a price — and that price was sabotage.
It began with the influencers. Rajeev, desperate to keep up momentum, invited three “culinary influencers” from Mumbai to dine for free in exchange for “honest, positive reviews.”
FoodiePriya with her perfect contouring and a camera guy named Kunal who referred to food as “content.”
TheRealGaramMasala, who wore sunglasses indoors and once cried on camera while eating a spicy momo.
And @VeganSanskari, who had a tattoo that said “Tofu Forever” and refused to sit at a table that had “meat memories.”
They arrived, posed in front of the restaurant sign, made peace signs beside poor Bittu, and began ordering like royalty.
“This lighting makes my soup look fat,” said Priya.
“Can someone rotate this chutney for a boomerang?” said GaramMasala.
“Is this paneer certified cruelty-free?” asked VeganSanskari, poking it with a spoon like it might bite.
Rajeev smiled painfully. “It’s local. Hand-pressed. Possibly by a man named Ramu.”
“Hmm,” they all murmured, vaguely threateningly.
The trio began recording Instagram stories.
“Guys, we’re here at Curry-osity, the place that’s totally redefining Indian fusion!”
Snap.
“Look at this Pani Pesto Pasta! Isn’t it wild?”
Swipe up for confusion!
Rajeev noticed Jameela in the background sharpening a butter knife.
Then came the Sabotage.
It started subtly.
The tamarind jars were switched with expired cough syrup.
Someone dumped jeera into the mango lassi.
The restaurant’s Wi-Fi was renamed to “Curry-Or-Cry-LOL.”
At first, Rajeev blamed Bittu. Then Mrs. Kapoor. Then, in a moment of low blood sugar, he suspected Shahrukh the goat.
But it wasn’t any of them.
It was… Sharma Uncle from across the street, owner of “Sharma Bhojanalaya — Estd. 1984.”
Rajeev spotted him one afternoon disguised in a fake mustache (over his actual mustache), sneakily dropping a printed flyer inside Curry-osity’s menu:
“Real Food. Real Taste. No Foam. Come to Sharma Bhojanalaya. Where We Don’t Offend Your Ancestors.”
Rajeev confronted him.
“Sharma Uncle! This is culinary warfare!”
“It’s culinary survival, beta,” he said, spitting paan into a nearby cactus. “Ever since your Italian dhokla and caramelized pav bhaji hit Instagram, I’ve had two customers. And one of them was my wife.”
“Let’s compete fairly!” Rajeev begged. “No sabotage. No spice-switching warfare!”
Sharma Uncle shrugged. “Fine. But if you ever serve ‘curry cappuccino’ again, I will sue.”
Then came the Paneer Panic.
One evening, Jameela burst into the kitchen yelling, “All the paneer is gone!”
Rajeev dropped a plate. “Gone? What do you mean gone?”
“I mean Bittu stored it in the wrong freezer — the ice cream freezer. It’s now frozen solid like Himalayan quartz.”
Bittu poked his head out. “It’s crunchy paneer now. New texture idea?”
“No, Bittu,” Jameela groaned. “This is not MasterChef. This is disasterchef.”
They had five minutes before a table of eight food vloggers expected the “Paneer Poppers with Pepper Pesto.”
Rajeev panicked. Then improvised.
He grabbed leftover idli batter, coated chunks of frozen paneer, deep-fried them, and added smoked salt and mint chutney. He named it:
“Accidental Alpine Paneer.”
It became an instant hit.
“That texture!” a blogger moaned. “So cold, so hot, so philosophical!”
“I feel like my tongue has been through trauma,” another said, smiling.
At the end of the night, after the influencers left, the sabotage stopped (thanks to an “anonymous” bribe to Sharma Uncle), and the goat was tucked into a blanket outside, Rajeev collapsed on a bench outside the restaurant.
Jameela joined him. “Weirdest day yet.”
“We’ve survived fake influencers, paneer theft, and food terrorism.”
“I also caught Bittu trying to ferment Frooti.”
They laughed. Softly. Tired.
Then Bittu stuck his head out of the kitchen.
“Sir, the chili trifle is ready! Should I pour the custard over the wasabi or under it?”
Rajeev groaned. “Under.”
Jameela grinned. “Why not just light it on fire too?”
Rajeev sighed. “Why not.”
And thus ended another day at Curry-osity.
Where nothing made sense. But everything — somehow — still tasted like a miracle.
Chapter 7:
It started like any normal day at Curry-osity — which, by definition, meant complete chaos by lunchtime.
Rajeev was in the kitchen conducting a “flavor meditation” (smelling cardamom with his eyes closed), Bittu was attempting to create “Masala Foam Clouds,” and Aunty Dolly was yelling at a confused tomato delivery boy about why no one brings decent bhindi anymore.
Then came the knock.
It wasn’t just any knock.
It was a knock that screamed rich uncle energy, reeked of imported perfume, and followed with the entrance of a man wearing sunglasses indoors and a sherwani that sparkled like a disco ball had sneezed on it.
Enter: Mr. K.K. Kohli.
“HELLOOOOO!” he announced, arms wide. “I am planning the wedding of the year for my niece — and I want it catered by Curry-osity!”
Everyone froze.
Bittu dropped a spoon into the dal.
Aunty Dolly gasped and clutched her pearls (which were actually dried chickpeas strung together).
Rajeev blinked. “You mean… us?”
Kohli grinned. “You served goat-chased dessert and exploding chutneys — you’re exactly the kind of quirky she wants. She’s marrying an influencer DJ-poet. The hashtag is already trending: #MehendiMeinMasala.”
“Oh no,” Jameela whispered. “A social media wedding.”
The wedding was scheduled for Saturday — just four days away. Three days to prepare. One day to regret everything.
Kohli was specific.
150 guests.
All vegetarian. Except for one table of hardcore keto gym bros who wanted “mutton with no emotions.”
No coriander. Unless it was ironic.
No peanuts. Unless they were shaped like hearts.
A live food performance by someone with a dhol. Rajeev said yes. Because dreams, like paneer, are soft and occasionally collapse under pressure.
Curry-osity turned into a food lab, event planning center, and therapy circle all at once.
Jameela handled logistics like a war general.
“150 biodegradable plates. 60 feet of fairy lights. Bittu, stop putting chili flakes in the cupcakes!”
Bittu, of course, misunderstood half the assignments.
“You asked for a live dhol performance, so I taught Shahrukh the goat to headbutt a tabla!”
Aunty Dolly prepared a list of 48 wedding-appropriate curries, half of which included warnings like “only serve if guests have insurance.”
Rajeev, meanwhile, was trying to perfect a signature wedding dish:
“Shaadi-Special Shahi Surprise”
It involved layers of pulao, pomegranate reduction, and edible rose petals that fluttered when served (with the help of a tiny fan). It looked like romance and indigestion in one plate.
Just as things were finally under control… disaster struck.
Rajeev entered the pantry Thursday morning and froze.
The masala shelves were empty.
No turmeric.
No cumin.
No garam masala.
Nothing but a single clove sitting in the middle of the shelf like it had survived a battlefield.
He screamed.
“WHO STOLE MY SPICES?!”
A note was taped to the door.
“You took my customers. I take your coriander-free dreams. — Sincerely, Sharma Uncle”
Jameela found Rajeev sitting on the floor, whispering to the clove. “He’s gone too far…”
They couldn’t cancel the wedding. Not with 150 guests, a celebrity couple, and a goat trained for percussion.
So they did what any desperate, unlicensed restaurant would do:
They broke into Sharma Bhojanalaya.
At 2 AM. Dressed in black. Armed with spice jars and a flashlight taped to a rolling pin.
Rajeev, Jameela, and Bittu crept through the back door (unlocked — classic Sharma laziness) and entered the holy vault of his masala stash.
“Look at this,” whispered Jameela, holding up a jar. “Actual saffron. He is evil.”
They filled three duffel bags with spices. As they turned to leave, a noise froze them in place.
The lights turned on.
And there stood Sharma Uncle in his night kurta, holding a ladle like a sword.
“Caught red-handed, paneer pirates!”
Before Rajeev could explain, Shahrukh the goat — who had followed them in — headbutted a spice rack. Paprika exploded into the air like red confetti.
Chaos.
Screaming.
Sneezing.
Goat noises.
And a very slow chase scene involving Aunty Dolly on a scooter (she’d followed them for “moral support”).
By dawn, they’d escaped.
They didn’t get all the spices. But enough.
The final day of prep was a blur of cooking, crying, and Bittu accidentally using glitter instead of salt on the raita.
And yet… it all came together.
Rajeev looked at the banquet spread and whispered, “We did it. It’s chaotic. It’s colorful. It’s Curry-osity.”
Aunty Dolly patted his shoulder. “Now go shower. You smell like stolen cumin.”
The wedding was tomorrow.
A hundred and fifty mouths. One goat percussionist. Several hundred potential mishaps.
What could possibly go wrong?
Chapter 8:
The sun rose over Pimplepur with the kind of energy that promised drama. And Curry-osity, for the first time, had been transformed.
Fairy lights draped across the ceiling.
A temporary buffet stage was set up with dishes labeled in glitter calligraphy.
There were flower garlands on the walls, marigold confetti near the entrance, and — naturally — Shahrukh the goat in a custom sherwani, tied loosely to the dessert table.
Rajeev stood by the front gate in a kurta that he had definitely not ironed, holding a walkie-talkie he didn’t know how to use.
“This is Raj to Base. Do we have chutney clearance?”
Static.
Then: “This is Jameela. We have a mint overload. Bittu tripled the leaves.”
“Abort garnish. Repeat, abort garnish.”
This was going to be a wedding no one would forget.
At 11:15 AM sharp, the first wave of guests arrived — influencers, distant relatives, and a man who said he was the groom’s “nutritionist” and promptly asked for gluten-free papdi.
DJ-Chiku, the groom, arrived wearing sunglasses shaped like naan and holding a portable speaker blasting a remix of “Tumse Milke Dal Ho Gayi Masaledaar.”
Behind him walked the bride — Mira — radiant, rolling her eyes at his naan-glasses, and mouthing: “Sorry. He’s like this.”
K.K. Kohli hugged Rajeev so hard, a paneer pakora flew out of his pocket.
“Today, you feed them! Tomorrow, I’ll put you on every billboard in Mumbai!”
Rajeev smiled, then turned to Bittu. “Hide the chili fudge. We’re not making that mistake again.”
It all started when…
It was Bittu’s idea: a continuous mango lassi flow as centerpiece. But the motor overloaded. The fountain gurgled once… and sprayed a ten-foot arc of lassi onto the groom’s aunt, soaking her sari and wig.
She screamed, slipped, and landed directly into the raita bowl.
Jameela calmly handed her a towel. “Complimentary cleansing ritual.”
The DJ accidentally placed a bass speaker directly beneath the dal cauldron.
Each beat made the dal shudder, ripple, and — to many guests’ horror and delight — bounce.
One blogger filmed it in slow-motion and posted:
“Dal so fresh, it dances before you digest.”
#DancingDal #ViralVada
Even Kohli was impressed. “I smell a franchise deal!”
Rajeev wiped sweat from his forehead. “That’s probably the mustard seeds.”
While everyone was distracted by the dal, the goat had casually strolled toward the gift table and eaten three pages of RSVP names.
Guests were now being identified by vague descriptors:
“Pink Sari Loud Laugh”
“Tall Uncle With Cough”
“That One Who Hates Peas”
Jameela, now in full command mode, redirected people with brutal efficiency.
“No, Uncle, you are not the DJ’s manager. You’re his yoga teacher. Please stand near the idli tower.”
As the bride prepared to garland her groom, DJ-Chiku tried to be creative and played his remix of “Tip Tip Biryani Barsa Pani.”
The bride paused.
The guests giggled.
The groom danced.
The bride threw the garland over his face like a net.
Rajeev muttered, “We’re one remix away from a lawsuit.”
Finally, as the wedding approached the end, it was time for the pièce de résistance: Gulab Jamun Volcanos — hot syrup-filled balls served in sizzling earthen pots.
But Bittu, inspired by “molecular gastronomy,” added dry ice into the pots “for drama.”
The result?
Mini explosions.
Syrup bubbles. Flying jamuns. A puff of mist that made three aunties scream, “Black magic!” and drop their clutch purses.
Mayor Bhonsle, who’d quietly attended, said, “Delightful! Is this food or theatre?”
Rajeev simply replied, “Yes.”
Despite the spice clouds, molten sweets, and a goat photobombing the couple’s kiss, the wedding ended with applause, laughter, and satisfied bellies.
Mira hugged Rajeev. “This was perfect. Messy, but perfect.”
DJ-Chiku handed Rajeev a flash drive. “Put my dal remix in your playlist. Trust me. It slaps.”
As the last guest left and the fairy lights dimmed, Rajeev looked around at the battlefield of empty plates, spilled chutney, and a goat wearing headphones.
“Jameela,” he sighed. “We survived.”
She nodded. “Barely.”
From the kitchen, Bittu shouted, “I’m inventing spicy ice cream tandoori kulfi now!”
Rajeev groaned. “No. NO.”
Shahrukh bleated in agreement. Curry-osity had survived a wedding.
And somehow, instead of collapsing… their bookings tripled overnight.
Because in a world of ordinary food, people were hungry for a little madness.
Chapter 9:
Rajeev had barely caught his breath after the wedding chaos when the universe hurled another curveball — this time in the form of a mysterious email with a subject line that read:
CONFIDENTIAL: POSSIBLE MICHELIN EVALUATION – URGENT
Attached was a brief, ominous message:
A pair of Michelin inspectors may visit your restaurant anonymously in the coming week. Please maintain standards. Do not attempt to bribe, hypnotize, or serenade the inspectors. We repeat: do not serenade them.
Rajeev gasped. “We’re being considered for a Michelin star?!”
Bittu misheard. “Michelin tyre? Why are we being judged by rubber?”
Jameela squinted at the email. “Could be a prank.”
“But what if it’s not?” Rajeev whispered. “What if we’re about to be judged by… the Gods of Gourmet?”
He paused.
“Everything must be perfect. From chutney swirl to table leg symmetry.”
The next morning, Curry-osity underwent a transformation. Menus were rewritten to include poetic descriptions:
Paneer Poppers became “Locally Curated Cottage Cheese Cubes Embracing a Spiced Soul.”
Raita became “Yogurt Confessions with a Hint of Minted Emotion.”
Jameela held a session titled “How to Look Casual While Judging Guests Who Don’t Appreciate Saffron.”
Aunty Dolly taught a “Smile Through Gritted Teeth” workshop.
Bittu spent two hours practicing a bow that looked like a yoga injury.
One poor dosa took 45 minutes to leave the kitchen — because Bittu insisted on folding it into the shape of the Taj Mahal.
It collapsed mid-serve, covering a lady’s handbag in coconut chutney.
“Modern art,” Rajeev declared solemnly. “Symbolic of impermanence.”
Who Are the Inspectors?
And then came the mind games.
Every guest who walked in was a suspect.
The man in the beige blazer who asked, “Where is your turmeric sourced?”
The old couple who licked the spoon, frowned, then scribbled in a notebook.
The child who ordered “aloo tikki, but with a molecular twist.”
Rajeev followed them all with a terrifying level of enthusiasm.
At one point he whispered to Jameela, “That woman adjusted her fork angle twice. That’s either OCD or Michelin.”
“Or she just doesn’t want to drip chutney on her lap.”
“No, it’s a sign.”
As if the Michelin madness weren’t enough, a protest erupted just outside the restaurant.
Led by a new group called PaneerPurityFront (PPF), they carried signs that read:
“Paneer is Sacred, Stop the Fusion Madness!”
“No More Chocolate Paneer Pudding!”
“Justice for Soft Cubes!”
Rajeev stepped outside. “What is going on?”
A skinny man with glasses and a megaphone shouted, “You have dishonored the Paneer Legacy! Tikka was enough! Why must it be turned into pizza?!”
“It’s called innovation!”
“It’s called culinary crime!”
They began chanting:
“No more fusion! Paneer needs union!”
Shahrukh the goat joined in with aggressive bleating, entirely misunderstanding the cause.
Bittu offered protestors a Tandoori Paneer Kulfi Sample in an attempt to make peace.
Two protestors fainted. One sobbed, “I’m confused… but I liked it.”
Eventually, the protest dispersed — partly due to unexpected rain, partly because Aunty Dolly offered everyone free masala chai and gave a 15-minute speech titled “Paneer Through the Ages: From Village to Volcano.”
On Friday night, the air was thick with anxiety — and ghee.
Three guests arrived:
1. A British man who sniffed his curry like it was perfume.
2. A woman in a linen dress who asked about “mouthfeel evolution.”
3. A quiet gentleman who ordered everything, took notes, and tipped nothing.
After dinner, the trio stood at the door, nodding slowly.
Then left.
No card. No confirmation.
Just a slow, haunting exit like food judges in a fever dream.
Rajeev collapsed onto a chair. “It’s over. We’re either doomed or divine.”
Jameela looked at him. “Either way, we didn’t burn anything this week.”
“Except the goat’s tail.”
“Minor.”
As the night wrapped up, Bittu came out of the kitchen, flour on his face.
“I created something new,” he said.
Rajeev sighed. “No more innovation this week. I’m emotionally sautéed.”
“It’s Butter Naan Baklava.”
There was silence. Then…
Rajeev nodded. “Serve it.”
Because at Curry-osity, that was the only rule:
Keep things hot, hilarious, and hopefully, edible.
Chapter 10:
It was a Monday afternoon when it arrived.
Not with trumpets.
Not with a dramatic entrance.
Just a plain, cream-colored envelope slipped under the restaurant door.
Jameela picked it up, turned it over, and gasped.
Stamped in red:
MICHELIN – Confidential Notification
Rajeev sprinted from the kitchen like a samosa on fire.
“Open it. Open it! Don’t read it yet. No—wait—read it to me but not out loud. Whisper it, maybe hum it in Morse code!”
Aunty Dolly calmly snatched the letter, adjusted her reading glasses made of actual dried red chillies, and declared:
“Dear Curry-osity, after a thorough anonymous evaluation, we are delighted to inform you…”
Rajeev stopped breathing.
“…that your establishment has been awarded…”
Time slowed.
Bittu dropped a tray of gulab jamuns in slow motion.
“…One Michelin Star.”
And then all hell broke loose.
Rajeev hugged the tandoor.
Jameela called her mother and cried into a plate of rice.
Bittu high-fived Shahrukh the goat, who headbutted the spice rack in joy.
Aunty Dolly fainted. Or pretended to faint so she could lie on the floor with a rasgulla.
Within an hour, the restaurant was packed with news reporters, curious foodies, and one man from the Pimplepur Poultry Board demanding to know if the goat was now a “certified staff member.”
Rajeev stood on a table and addressed the crowd.
“We began with chaos. We maintained chaos. And through that chaos… we have achieved greatness!”
Jameela leaned over and whispered, “You’re standing in the biryani tray.”
With their newfound fame, they needed a signature dish—something that screamed Curry-osity.
So Rajeev, Bittu, Aunty Dolly, and Jameela locked themselves in the kitchen for 48 hours with only caffeine, leftover mango lassi, and a playlist of Bollywood villain monologues for inspiration.
And they emerged with:
“The Bhaji Bomb.”
A golden orb of mashed spiced vegetables, encased in a crisp shell, placed in a silver thali with dry ice steam wafting dramatically, and surrounded by four chutneys in the shape of the four cardinal directions.
It exploded gently with the tap of a spoon, releasing aroma and a tiny edible flag that said:
“Made with Love, Masala & Mild Regret.”
On the night of the Bhaji Bomb’s debut, the restaurant was at capacity.
Influencers livestreamed.
Food bloggers typed so fast, their fingers looked like rotis spinning on a wheel.
Someone tried to smuggle the recipe via Morse code blinking.
Then, Bittu screamed from the back.
“THE OVEN’S ON FIRE!”
Shahrukh bleated. Jameela ran with a fire extinguisher. Rajeev tried to smother it with naan. Aunty Dolly poured lassi on it like a confused fire priestess.
They managed to contain the blaze. The only casualty: a tray of experimental Masala Sushi Biryani Rolls (which was probably a mercy).
When the smoke cleared, applause broke out.
A man in a suit stepped forward.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “I am Michelin’s Lead Reviewer for South Asia. And that… was the most delicious, disastrous, delightful night of my life.”
He bowed.
Rajeev wept into his apron.
Curry-osity now had a second branch in Mumbai. A third was opening in Dubai. The fourth? Rumored to be on a cruise ship named S.S. Samosa.
Jameela became a TEDx speaker: “The Art of Logistical Survival in Hot Kitchens with Low Wages.”
Aunty Dolly got her own podcast: “Rage, Recipes & Raita.”
Bittu released a cookbook with recipes that came with danger ratings, like:
Paneer Paradox (May induce emotional confusion)
Chili Choco Surprise (Not suitable for dentists)
And Rajeev?
He still stood behind the counter every morning, tying his apron, humming old Hindi songs, and asking every customer the same question:
“Mild, medium, or mad?”
—
THE END
