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Zeenie ke Insta videos

The morning belonged to Anjali

Each morning, she left her husband, children and her known world behind. She got up early, wore a comfy T-shirt, stepped into tracks, slipped on socks and sneakers, and a small sling pouch that had her mobile and some money. Then she headed out leaving them behind.

She told her husband and assorted others that she went for a walk to lose weight, but that was a convenient excuse. The truth:

She loved making videos.

She got hooked through YouTube. Then her hubby gifted her a good phone — the video-making kinds. She made one and put it under an alias — a yesteryear heroine she liked. Because her hubby also knew she liked the heroine, she tweaked it further and Zeenat became Zeenie.


She liked to capture moments; runners not running, quiet couples, people waiting. Her favourite were street cats.

She had a fixed route. From her house in Chimbai Village, she would capture the fisherman do fishy things. At the intersection of St. Andrew’s Church and Yatch Bar, film revelers eye the repenters and vice-versa. On Hill Road, there were the lazy runners, serious children and mischevious old men by the sea.

She would amble towards Bandra Fort, headphones in her ears, pretending to be on a voice call to not be caught. She never was. Yet, people took one look at her and didn’t look again. Here she followed her favourite subjects — cats and dogs doing all sorts of things. Then she sat in a secluded section of the fort, looking at the sea and the flyover with cars zooming by in the distance.

Her lover would call then — that was the only time he was allowed to call. He told her the number of followers had gone up. She would shrug — it meant nothing to her. She had met him through Instagram, but never met him in real life.

On her way back Anjali would never shoot. She would stop at Mount Mary Church and pray before the Mother’s Grotto. She would ask that she kept getting to make videos in the morning. Then, for the rest of the day, she didn’t mind being Anjali.


Published by appamprawns

soni writes about children and people in controlled spaces, in his quest for appam stew. homi writes in the hope of being able to buy prawns to make patiyo.

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