“This ‘Nawazuddin Siddiqui Superhit’ DVD Almost Got Me Disowned”
There I was, walking down the stairs, watching my American dream crumble like a poorly made dosa. The United States Citizenship and Immigration Services (USCIS) had given me the boot—visa extension denied. I had five days to pack up and scram.
Waiting in the hall was Ashwin, my partner-in-crime since our MS days, clutching both my suitcases like a proud but sad parent sending his kid to boarding school.
“Machha, take care of yourself da,” he said, trying to sound casual.
“Of course, I will!” I replied, doing my best to look unbothered.
I had a direct flight from Newark to Mumbai—a silver lining in an otherwise cloudy goodbye.
“I’ll miss you, da!” Ashwin called out.
“The feeling’s mutual, Ash!” I said, stepping out.
Then, out of nowhere, he darted into his room and emerged holding a DVD.
“Machha, tell me your favorite actor,” he asked, all excited.
“Why?” I squinted at him.
“Just tell me, da!”
“Nawazuddin Siddique.“
He scribbled something on the DVD and slipped it into my laptop bag like it was a precious artifact. I didn’t even glance at what he wrote—I trusted him with my life (mistake #1). One final hug, and I left for Newark.
I touched down at Mumbai airport at 8:50 PM the next evening, after five long years away. Seeing my family at arrivals felt like a dramatic reunion scene straight out of Karan Johar’s playbook.
“Machha, I reached India da,” I texted Ashwin.
“The USA misses you da ;-)” he replied. Legend.
Back home, it was like a wedding reception—nonstop guests, overflowing snacks, and long-forgotten relatives resurfacing like bonus level bosses.
One fine afternoon, my nephews and nieces were over. I was working from home, still half-dead from jet lag. Somewhere between “Let’s circle back” and “synergy,” I passed out on the bed.
That’s when my 11-year-old nephew’s detective instincts kicked in. He found the DVD in my laptop bag.
“Let mama sleep,” my younger brother told the kids.
“But Chinna mama, look! A DVD!”
“Nawazuddin Siddique Superhit Movies!” my brother read the handwritten label. “Must be a movie DVD he brought from the U.S.”
He shrugged. “Let’s watch it.”
My brother, nephews, nieces, uncles, aunts—basically half the family tree—gathered in the main hall. My mom was in full storytelling mode, narrating my American escapades like an epic.
DVD in. Play.
Title screen: “Monamour.”
“Hmm, whose movie is this da?” my uncle asked.
“Nawazuddin Siddique’s, Chithappa,” my brother confidently replied.
“Directed by… Tinto Brass?”
“Tinto who?”
“Never knew Nawaz acted in Hollywood!” someone exclaimed.
“Wasn’t he in Jurassic Park and Life of Pi?” asked another cousin.
“Ayyo Akka, that’s Irrfan Khan!” my brother corrected with full authority.
“Let’s just watch, okay?”
And so began the screening.
15 minutes in… no Nawazuddin. Just mood lighting and a lot of slow camera pans.
“You sure he’s in this?” someone whispered.
“That guy in makeup, maybe him?” my brother guessed.
Then BAM—plot twist. The male character strips. The woman on the bed is already naked, beckoning him. He joins her. Intimately. Visually. Graphically.
“THAT is definitely NOT Nawazuddin!” someone shouted.
Chaos. Kids got evacuated like it was a fire drill. My brother fumbled with the remote, tried fast-forwarding. More steam. More sweat. Less clothes.
Click. DVD player off.
Silence.
“RAGHAV!”
My mom’s voice exploded like a missile.
I stumbled out of bed and into the main hall—where my father stood dramatically over the shattered remains of the DVD.
My entire extended family stared at me like I’d just starred in the movie myself.
I had no idea what just happened.
My mom, clearly traumatized, dragged me into the other room for a “chat.” Meanwhile, outside, my cousins debated whether Nawazuddin had suddenly started doing French art films.
In my head, I was screaming just one thing:
“Ashwin, I SWEAR, the next time I see you, you’re dead!”
Moral of the story:
Never trust your best friend with a blank DVD and a permanent marker. Especially when it says “superhit”.
