I finally squeezed onto one. My official mission: a promotion exam. The honest truth: I wasn’t prepared at all. Zero chance I’d top it—my destiny was to tank it spectacularly. (Top the exam, tank the exam—say it out loud; the rhyme almost makes failure poetic.)
But really, the exam was just a decoy. My actual goal was to watch *The Villain* in theaters—a triple dhamaka of Shivarajkumar, Sudeep, and Prem’s direction. Pure fireworks.
So there I was in the exam hall, scribbling half-heartedly while humming “Endu Ninna Noduve” under my breath, daydreaming about the movie. Exam tanked (as predicted), we zipped in an auto to the theater, and honestly? It was a fantastic experience. Two days later, the internet was roasting it Morbius-style. I scrolled through the memes thinking, *Did we even watch the same film?*
It’s okay. Taste is personal.
On the bus ride back, though—that’s when the real magic happened.
It was a conductor-less non-stop from Shivamogga to Tarikere: one door, driver doubles as ticket collector. I stood near the front, juggling wallet, coins, phone, and a timed chess game while the bus jerked forward. Sudden lurch—wallet dropped. I grabbed most of the coins, but not all.
As I rushed to a seat, a girl in the front row stopped me and quietly handed over two ₹2 coins. For a split second, my mind raced: *Does she think I’m some homeless guy begging?* I judged myself, and judged her for judging me.
Then it hit me: those coins were mine—fallen unnoticed during the jolt. She’d simply picked them up and returned them. No fuss, no photo, no expectation. She could’ve kept them; no one would’ve known.
I felt ashamed. Not of her—of myself. That bad wolf inside me had assumed the worst before giving kindness the benefit of the doubt.
She was just good. Quietly, purely good.
And that small act struck something deep.
In India we bow to elders, touch feet, seek blessings: long life, happy marriage (which, let’s be honest, feels like a contradictory package deal—sorry, wife, couldn’t resist). In English movies, blessings seem limited to asking the girl’s parents for permission. Here, we greet everyone—good morning, good evening, had lunch?—until it gets exhausting. I’ve settled on the foolproof “Namaste.” One word, timeless, safe.
I’m 35, still feel like a kid in an uncle’s body—rushing home from school to catch old Upendra movies on TV, only to realise they’re 25 years old. Whaaat?! Don’t bullsheet me, Rogers.
I’m mostly 90% atheist. I don’t deconstruct the idea of a higher power, but I don’t pray for things, don’t bargain with seva. Still, when I stand before any god, I say the same line:
*Ellarigoo Olledagali, Adaralli Naavu Irali.*
Let good happen to everyone, and let me be part of it.
Another day, another exam, this time on my bike. Slow rider—no earphones, no rush, eyes on the road like an off-beat Dr. Rajkumar song. Between Bhadravathi and Shivamogga, a kid waved for a lift. His stop was on my way. Then his friend appeared—peas-and-carrot dynamite combo. Technically three on a bike is illegal, but kids are half-size, right?
I couldn’t say yes to one and no to the other. So both climbed on. They bombarded me with questions—bike price, my salary, college stories—shattering my autopilot peace in the best way. Near their school, a massive Tamannaah billboard in a Kanjeevaram saree stopped traffic… and apparently stopped the kids too. We all stared. I laughed inside: *This is why I got low grades, and why these two will end up like me.*
Kindness costs nothing, they say. I disagree. It costs patience, risk, sometimes money or sanity. That day I had just enough for the exam and a matinee show—no valuables, familiar route, students I trust. Still, what if they’d been someone else? Robbed, injured? Kindness has a price.
High school days, my friend coined a phrase after we accepted arranged marriage was probably our fate:
“Whatever Happendella Happendoo Happendu.”
Whatever is meant to happen will happen exactly when it’s meant to—no earlier, no later.
Girls took 75% of our brain; studies got the remaining 25%, hence the 35/100 marks. Later, jobs came, and suddenly everyone obsessed over cars. At the mall, past makeup stalls full of girls, we’d think: *That car looks affordable—maybe a loan?* Girls forgotten.
I dreamed of a car too. Then one day at the bus stand, after passing my driving test (and paying the usual “speed money”), someone slit my bag and stole ₹40,000 cash—forty days’ salary back then. I realised only after the bus left. Too late to chase, too late for a complaint. The pain stabbed deeper than the blade. Tears wouldn’t even come.
That loss haunted me. *If I’d had a car, this wouldn’t have happened.* Desire returned stronger. I saved every penny, always calculating how four months earlier my goal would’ve been if that money hadn’t vanished.
Eventually I got the car—story for another day.
Then came the floods. Chennai, Meghalaya—houses floating, cell towers ripped apart. I saw an Audi bobbing like a paper boat we used to float in rainy streams. All that wealth… nothing. Maybe sell the car, move to the hills, farm? Farming’s hard. Trade? Risky. Job? Back to square one. Circle of life.
My pain wasn’t diluted by others’ greater losses. Pain is personal—let me suffer, as Arjun Reddy’s grandmother said.
A few days ago, eating puri sagu with one hand, playing five-minute chess with the other, I lost in eight moves. Rage hit hard. Then a line from *Barry* flashed: “You cannot control other people’s actions.” Murphy’s Law, *Interstellar*, *Kaithi*—everything reminded me: what can happen, will.
I’ve been the atheist, the tolerant bystander, the quiet believer. I’ve learned: don’t treat God like an ATM. It’s okay to whisper Ram Ram entering a dark room, but don’t ask for the bus-stand girl’s number.
I’ve lost money, friends, jobs, interviews. I’ve gained a bike, a car, some success. Still, I choose goodness—not for reward, not because bad people thrive, but because I want to be good.
Every night now, before sleep, I say this quiet prayer:
*Oh Dear God,*
*I may not*
*understand everything,*
*but I know*
*this one thing:*
*The world*
*is a mix of both*
*chutney and sambar—*
*the people*
*who do good*
*and get high*
*on others’ misery.*
*I promise*
*myself, and*
*sometimes You:*
*I’ll try,*
*to the maximum extent,*
*to be good*
*and do good,*
*expecting nothing.*
*Ellarigoo Olledagali,*
*Adaralli Naavu Irali.*
Let good happen to everyone.
And let me be one among them.
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