Came alone14 sundays
I came alone.
I didn't know anyone.
I almost didn't speak.
Then someone told a story.
I stayed.
I came back the next Sunday.
as overheard, on the way out
Every Sunday,
a few strangers gather in Bengaluru
and tell each other stories.
Some are true.
Some are invented.
Some are impossible to forget.
And every once in a while,
someone tells a story
that makes the whole room go quiet.
Come listen.
Or come tell yours.
↓ keep reading
Chapter 02What is this?
A storytelling club is a strange thing to start in a city that already has a hundred stages. We started it anyway, on a Sunday in February, because we wanted somewhere to bring the stories that did not fit on a stage. The ones that are too small, or too private, or too unfinished, or too true.
— what it isn't
This is not an open mic.
This is not a stage.
This is not a place to perform.
This is not a place to be impressive.
— what it is
This is a room.
A small room, with chairs in a circle,
and a single candle on a low table,
and tea that someone made on purpose.
— why
We do this because most weeks
we forget to say the true things out loud.
We forget that strangers
are just people we haven't heard yet.
“You don't have to perform. You don't have to be interesting. You don't have to have a perfect story.”
Just come.
Chapter 03The Stories
A library of
unfinished stories.
Each story here was told at a Sunday. We give you only the first line — because the rest of it belongs to the room it was told in. If a fragment catches you, maybe Sunday is where you'll hear it finished.
The rest of these — and a hundred more we haven't written down — wait in a room in Indiranagar, on Sundays.
Chapter 04The People
This isn't an audience.
This is a room.
We don't collect testimonials. We collect the half-thoughts people say on their way out — the soft, surprised things — and we keep them here, exactly as they were said.
Came to listen7 sundays
I came to listen.
I was sure of that.
Then someone told a story
about a letter they never sent.
And I realised
I had one of those too.
as overheard, on the way out
Came back32 sundays
I came back the third week
even though I had told myself
I wouldn't.
I think I just missed
the feeling of being
in a room full of strangers
who were not strange
for two hours.
as overheard, on the way out
First time1 sunday
It was my first Sunday.
I told a story about
a cat I had when I was nine.
I had never told anyone
about that cat.
I don't know why I told it then.
I think I just needed
someone to know.
as overheard, on the way out
The first time you come, you are a stranger.
The second time, someone remembers your name.
The third time, you bring a story you didn't know you had.
— and that's how it starts.
Chapter 05Sunday
What happens,
hour by hour.
Two hours, roughly. Once it was three. Nobody complained. Here is the shape of a Sunday, if you've never been to one.
5:30
The room begins to fill
You take off your shoes at the door. Someone hands you tea without asking if you want it. The chairs are in a circle, but only barely — there's always one that's slightly out of place. That's the chair someone sat in last week and forgot to push back.
5:50
The candle is lit
We don't start with announcements. We start with a candle. Someone lights it. The room gets a little quieter. That's how you know we've begun.
6:00
The first story
There is no MC. There is no signup sheet. Someone, when they're ready, starts talking. It might be the person you expected. It might be the person who's been quietest the whole time. It's usually the second one.
6:25
The room goes quiet
There's a moment — sometimes five minutes in, sometimes an hour in — where the entire room exhales at the same time. You can hear it. That's the story. That's the one they came to hear, even though nobody knew it would be this one.
7:15
Tea, again
We take a break. People stand up. People who were strangers forty-five minutes ago are now talking about a story neither of them told. Someone always cries in the kitchen. Nobody makes a thing of it.
7:30
More stories
Some Sundays there are three stories. Some Sundays there are nine. Once, there were none — we just sat and talked for two hours. That was one of the best Sundays anyone can remember.
8:00
The candle goes out
Whoever lit it, blows it out. That's the end. People don't leave right away. They linger. They exchange numbers. They walk part of the way home together. Someone always says, 'see you next Sunday,' like it's a small prayer.
And then — somehow — it's Monday again.
And you find yourself, on the bus or in the lift or in the middle of a meeting, thinking about a stranger's story. And you find yourself, by Wednesday, looking forward to Sunday.
Chapter 06The Next Gathering
the next sunday,
There's a chair,
somewhere in
Indiranagar,
waiting for someone.
It might be yours. There's only one way to find out.
When
Every Sunday
Doors at 5:30. Stories from 6.
Where
Indiranagar, Bengaluru
Address shared with confirmed seats — the room is small and we like to keep it that way.
How long
About two hours
Sometimes a little more. Once it was three. Nobody complained.
How many
16 seats
Small enough that everyone is part of it. Big enough to surprise you.
Fee
₹500
Covers the room, the tea, the lights, the small bits of magic. Anything left goes back into the next Sunday.
Can I tell a story?
Yes, if you want to.
Or you can just listen. We mean that. Half the room usually does.
Chapter 07Your Story
So —
what's yours?
You don't have to tell us the whole thing. Just answer, in a word or two. We're not recording any of this. (We mean it.)
01
What story would you tell?
enter to send
Chapter 08Come Sit With Us
You came here looking at a website.
But somewhere along the way,
you started remembering your own stories.
Maybe that's what stories do.
They remind us
that we're not the only ones
who have lived through strange things.
See you Sunday?
Save me a seat→
Bengaluru · Every Sunday