Exhaust-stuck mid-burglary
A Sunday night had something very different in store for a Kota couple, and it had nothing to do with unwinding over a TV show or easing into the week ahead.
As Subhash Kumar Rawat and his wife stepped back into their home after visiting a temple, they were greeted by the sight of a man jammed into the exhaust fan opening, suspended awkwardly between floors and clearly rethinking his life choices.
The intruder was stuck about 10 feet above the ground, with his head and arms inside the house and his legs helplessly hanging outside.
Asked what he was doing there, the man didn’t bother with excuses. He admitted he was a thief.
Even more impressively, despite being trapped, he decided confidence was the way forward and began threatening the couple, claiming his accomplices were nearby and warning them of consequences if they didn’t let him go.
Instead of negotiating with a man suspended in mid-air, the Rawats called the police.
Videos from the spot show officers attempting to extract the thief from his trap, with one policeman outside, two inside, and the suspect clinging desperately to a rod while crying out in pain.
After much pulling and protesting, he was finally freed and placed on the ground, where his bravado appeared to loosen along with his grip.
Police confirmed that the man has been arrested and is being questioned. His accomplices, however, chose self-preservation over loyalty and fled the scene, leaving him behind.
Officers also seized the car used by the gang, which oddly carried a ‘police’ sticker.
In the end, the burglary failed, the threats went nowhere, and the thief walked away not with valuables, but with an arrest and a story he probably didn’t plan on telling.
Seven years of playing IAS
For nearly seven years, Rajesh woke up every morning as an officer of the Indian state. Not officially, of course. But in his head, and often in everyone else’s, he was very much in service.
The 35-year-old from Kukhi village in Jharkhand never cleared the UPSC exam. What he did clearly, with remarkable consistency, was confidence. Armed with a fake ID card, a blue government nameplate, and a résumé that expanded or contracted depending on the listener, Kumar lived the IAS life, minus the actual appointment.
The long-running performance ended on January 2 at the Hussainabad police station in Palamu district, where Kumar walked in seeking help in a land dispute involving a relative. He introduced himself as a 2014-batch Odisha-cadre IAS officer, currently serving as a chief accounts officer in Bhubaneswar. He was on leave, he said, because even fake officers need time off.
He spoke fluent bureaucracy. He had the posture. He had the car. He even had the calm entitlement of a man who expected chairs to be pulled out for him.
According to the police, Kumar confidently listed his “postings”. Dehradun, Hyderabad and Bhubaneswar, while chatting with the officer-in-charge. Protocol was followed. After all, an IAS officer had walked in.
Then the plot twist arrived.
Officer-in-charge Sonu Kumar Chaudhary noticed something odd: the geography was doing parkour. Odisha cadre, postings across three states, and a career path that seemed designed by Google Maps rather than the DoPT.
When pressed, Kumar executed a smooth mid-conversation transfer. He was not IAS after all, he said, but an IPTAFS officer, apparently “equivalent to IAS”, a service no one present had ever heard of but which sounded important enough to attempt.
“This inconsistency raised serious doubt,” Chaudhary said, in what might be the understatement of the year. “No serving officer casually changes their service mid-sentence.”
After Kumar left the station, police did what real officers do: they verified. At the SDPO level, the answer came back quickly and brutally, no such officer existed. Not the name. Not the batch. Not the cadre. Not even the imaginary service.
Kumar was traced to a nearby area and brought back along with his Hyundai Aura, which featured a blue board reading ‘Government of India, Department of Telecommunications’.
Under questioning, the curtain finally fell. Kumar admitted he was not an IAS officer, not an IPTAFS officer, and not in any government service whatsoever.
“We have arrested him based on his confession,” SDPO S. Mohammad Yaqoob said, ending a seven-year solo performance.
Police inquiries revealed that Kumar had been playing this role for years around his village, travelling with the blue nameplate, using a fake number plate (JH01Z-4884), and introducing himself as an officer whenever authority could be helpful.
A search of his car produced the full props department: a fake ID card identifying him as a junior-grade chief accounts officer, a Chanakya IAS Academy ID card, a library card, and assorted paperwork designed to make lies look laminated.
During interrogation, Kumar explained his motivation. Becoming an IAS officer was his father’s dream, and his own. He had gone to Delhi, prepared seriously, and attempted the UPSC exam four times. He cleared the prelims once but never made it to the final list.
Unable to break the news at home, Kumar told his family he had succeeded. One lie became a career.
Kumar has now been booked under relevant provisions of the Bharatiya Nyaya Sanhita for impersonation, use of forged documents, and misleading public servants. He has been remanded to judicial custody, where, this time, the posting is very much real.
Missed the road, found the platform: Gorakhpur gets a biker on the wrong track
Indian Railways has seen many things over the decades. Delayed trains, surprise vendors, last-minute sprinting passengers. But Gorakhpur station recently added a new attraction to the list: a man riding a motorcycle straight onto the platform.
Yes, not the station road, not the parking lot, but the actual railway platform, where trains arrive and passengers wait. A video of the incident quickly went viral, showing the biker confidently cruising along as if platforms were just narrow highways with better shade.
Railway officials, clearly unimpressed by this creative interpretation of last-mile connectivity, stepped in. The Railway Protection Force and Government Railway Police seized the bike, brought the ride to an abrupt halt, and reminded the man that platforms are for people, not petrol-powered confidence.
When questioned, the rider reportedly expressed regret and promised never to repeat the stunt. A classic line, delivered only after the bike had been confiscated and court proceedings mentioned. The motorcycle will now be produced in court, where it will likely become Exhibit A in a case titled How Not To Use Railway Infrastructure.
Social media, meanwhile, had a field day. Some joked that Indian stations are slowly becoming multi-purpose spaces. Others wondered if the man had mistaken the platform for Google Maps’ fastest route.
Drunk, detained and dramatic
Hyderabad traffic police thought they were dealing with a routine drunk-driving case. What they got instead was theatre, intimidation and a dead snake thrown in for emphasis.
An auto-rickshaw driver, stopped for driving under the influence, was asked to cooperate as officers moved to seize his vehicle. That is when the situation slithered off script. The driver, unhappy with the idea of parting from his auto even temporarily, allegedly pulled out a dead snake and began threatening the traffic cops, demanding his vehicle back immediately.
Witnesses watched as the roadside enforcement exercise turned into a low-budget wildlife thriller. The snake, clearly not in a position to object, was waved around as if it were legal counsel or a VIP pass. The driver reportedly shouted that he wanted his vehicle then and there, apparently confident that reptiles fall under acceptable negotiation tools.
The police, to their credit, did not panic, bargain or retreat. They restrained the man, seized the auto and ensured that the snake did not get promoted from prop to weapon. The driver was booked under relevant sections, proving once again that intoxication does not improve decision-making skills.
Social media reacted with predictable disbelief. Some wondered where the snake came from. Others asked why common sense had left much earlier.
In the Great Indian Bizarre handbook, this episode earns a special entry: when drunk driving meets wildlife diplomacy and loses badly.
Blinkit delivers Freedom
At 3 AM, when most of the city was asleep, two men in Pune found themselves trapped by a locked balcony door.
According to a video shared online, the two friends had stepped out onto the balcony while their parents slept inside. Somehow the door got locked. Knocking failed because the parents slept on.
Faced with a locked door and no backup plan, the men did what modern citizens do when confronted with a crisis: they opened an app.
Blinkit, an online grocery service known for delivering essentials in minutes, was summoned, not for milk or chips, but for rescue. The plan was direct and oddly hopeful. Order something. When the delivery agent arrives, ask him to open the lock.
A small order was placed. Somewhere in the city, a delivery agent picked up the request, unaware that he was about to become an emergency response system.
The video suggests the plan worked. The agent arrived and the lock was opened. Freedom was restored.
Blinkit, without updating its mission statement, had quietly expanded its services. Even locked doors, it turns out, are just another delivery away.
Prime-time turns into Puja time
What was meant to be a news studio briefly turned into a festive spirit of Bengali culture.
Inside Republic Bangla’s newsroom, anchors and staff swapped scripts for dhol beats, bhajans and coordinated devotional moves, dancing for over two minutes in full saffron flair.
The usual boundaries between newsroom decorum and prime-time spectacle quietly took the day off, as cameras rolled on what looked less like a broadcast and more like a theatre practice.
The burst of devotion was reportedly part of a film promotion, with director Srijit Mukherjee present in the studio, leaving viewers wondering whether they had tuned into a news debate or accidentally walked into a cultural programme.
Social media, meanwhile, seemed genuinely puzzled, with many wondering when prime-time news quietly transformed into a full-blown cultural festival.
“Is this Republic Bangla or Navratri rehearsal footage?”, wrote one user on X.
“Somewhere Arnab is proud. Somewhere a journalism textbook just sighed,” wrote another.
Varanasi ropeway swings, internet panics, physics quietly intervenes
A ropeway gondola in Varanasi recently did what ropeway gondolas are designed to do on windy days: sway a little. The internet, however, reacted as if gravity itself had filed for resignation.
A short video showing a gondola gently swinging mid-air went viral, triggering alarm bells, dramatic captions and instant safety verdicts from expert commentators armed only with Wi-Fi. The visuals were enough to convince many that the ropeway was moments away from becoming a free-fall pilgrimage experience.
Enter the calm voice of reality. The government’s fact-checking unit stepped in to clarify that the movement was normal, expected and well within safety limits. Ropeways, after all, are built to respond to wind, not resist it like concrete pillars. The swaying, officials explained, is part of the design, not a sign of danger.
Still, the damage was done. Screens had been clutched, forwards had been shared, and panic had enjoyed its moment.