Lost to Urooj - Standup comedian
London in early November—grey skies, as usual, that constant drizzle making everything feel a bit quiet. I was 24, fresh out of uni, handling social media for this event agency that books comedy tours. Nothing flashy, just snapping pics, posting clips, keeping the online buzz alive. Ended up at Soho Theatre for her tour, phone in hand, capturing crowd vibes for the feed. She hit the stage like she’d built it herself—Urooj Ashfaq, all quiet, witty and killer timing. Laughter built slowly and then went high. I filmed a bit, but mostly just watched, hooked on how she held the room without trying. Backstage was a mess—gear everywhere, people chatting loudly. I was packing my camera when she walked by for water. Eyes met mine quickly. “Thanks for the posts,” she said, nodding at my phone like she’d seen the stories already. Her smile flashed briefly but was real. I mumbled something dumb, and scrolling pointlessly, hoping for another glance. Didn’t happen, but it felt like destiny was planning something, me being a huge believer of destiny. Chapter 2 – The Cafe near Soho Slept like anything as I am so tired, her set looping in my brain. Woke up around 3 PM, and as usual, it is raining. At 4, hit this cafe round the corner from the theatre—fogged windows, wobbly tables, killer flat whites. And to my surprise, Urooj is in that cafe. She was sitting in the back, notebook out, mumbling lines to herself, messy hair in a bun like she always liked. Fingers inked up, that focused look in her eye. Looked real, and that hit me at once. She was confused about ordering. The waiter flubbed her order—mild spice mess. She clarified calmly, but I was right there, so I leaned over. “Authentic hot, not UK mild, yeah?” Voice came out low, like we were in on it. Caught a whiff of her—warm and subtle. She spun, eyes sparking. “Social media guy being my saviour now?” Teasing, but warm. She pulled out the chair opposite. “Sit. I will repay you with bad company.” I dropped in, knees bumping hers under the table. Stayed bumped. She doodled jokes; I am sipping my americano. Eyes kept meeting—hers curious, mine probably too eager. Fingers grazed, passing her a napkin. Laughed over nothing, air humming close. And the day ended with a bye at the cafe! Chapter 3 – Leeds The tour went to Leeds. My boss wrote an appreciation message for the engagement we were getting—likes pouring in on the reels I’d posted from Soho. I was full-time on it now, handling social media for the agency: stories, reels, and fan chats. Felt good, like I was part of the momentum. Backstage before the show, she spotted me. “Arre, café hero,” she said with a big grin, switching to Hindi since she knew I was Indian too—must’ve cracked it from my accent. Her hand was lightly on my arm. The touch felt electric in the cold. The show rocked. After, she grabbed my elbow. “Chal, walk karte hain?”(Let’s walk) Streets were empty, fog heavy. Shoulders bumped while walking, she is breathing heavy because of the cold. She talked about a bad joke, her voice in my ear. I felt her relax when I said, “Your other 99 jokes went bomb.” She blushed hearing that. Toward the end of the walk, as we looped back to the venue, she stopped and turned to me. “Waise, tera naam kya hai?” (What’s your name?) she asked casually, her eyes curious. It had just hit her that we hadn’t done names yet. I spoke back, “Vicky!” And age? I’m 25! Chapter 4 – Manchester So, we became good friends after that walk in Leeds. Felt natural, like we’d skipped the awkward phase. Train to Manchester. We were travelling together now, part of the same team buzz. Sitting facing each other, knees touching lightly through the jolts. She looked easy in her casual vibe with a messy bun, listening to songs, until her AirPods died. I offered one of mine without thinking. Fingers fumbled connecting it, hers warm on mine—a small spark. I was listening to Marshmello; she scrunched her nose and said, “Eww,” teasing, then shared her playlist with me. First time we exchanged numbers. Hers was full of Hindi melody songs, felt like sneaking into her thoughts, soft and personal. A girl from her team shifted seats, so she asked me to sit beside her—she wanted a nap. She scooted close, head dropping onto my shoulder, even nabbing a few fries from my fingers mid-yawn. “Tu itna steady kyun hai?”(Why so steady?) she murmured in Hindi, breath tickling my skin, like it was already our little thing. I’d never had a girl touch me like this before—I froze up as she rested on my shoulder. She noticed, chuckled softly. “Relax,” she said, “lower your shoulder.” I’m 6’1″, she’s 5’4″, so I slid down a bit, making it comfy. She drifted off quickly, and outside it was raining again, drops streaking the window. I wanted Manchester never to come—the feeling was just too great. Chapter 5 – The Lost Bet Manchester hit after that train nap. A crowd-packed show that day. I was buzzing from her head on my shoulder earlier, still feeling the warmth. Backstage, during soundcheck, she pulled me aside with that mischievous grin. “Bet karte hain,”(Let’s bet) she said, eyes sparkling. “Predict kaise land karega mera opening joke tonight. Land karega ya nahi?” (Predict how my opening joke will go?) I thought about it, shook my head. “Nah, tough crowd—won’t land.” She laughed. “Deal. If you lose, you’re under my command for the rest of the tour.” The show went on; her opener killed—the room exploded. I lost the bet badly. After, she found me in the green room, stepped close, chest almost brushing mine. “Ab tu mere saath stuck hai,”(You’re stuck now) she whispered, breath hot on my face—playful, not too forward, but enough to make my pulse jump. Started right away—told me to grab her water, then sit next to her, no questions.