The Stick That Walked With Me

Few days before Shivaratri, I was travelling to Mangaluru for office work. I was in the bus, and I had forgotten my earphones.

Suddenly, I had too much time and very little time at the same time.

There are many things one can do on a mobile with a window seat and enough battery. But battery was precious. It had to be preserved—not for Instagram, not for chess, but for that one important call. Because nothing feels more irresponsible than your family calling you and hearing, “The number you’re trying to reach is switched off.”

So I did what any sane person would do.

I turned on battery saver mode, locked my phone, and slept.

Or at least, I tried to.

Sleeping in a moving bus is like negotiating with gravity. You win small battles and lose many wars. The bus stopped for a break. I had coffee. Boarded again. Played chess for some time. Watched the passenger in seat D5 carefully guard his pet parrot like it was carrying national secrets.

After about 60 kilometers, some seats became vacant. I moved to my favorite seat—the one behind the driver.

That seat is not a seat. It’s a theater.

It’s a giant LED screen where the movie is real life.

Schools passed by. Temples. Cemeteries. Flower markets. Small shops. Big lives. Small lives.

For someone who forgot his earphones, this was free Netflix.

I watched a man pick up his daughter from school. A tired barber sitting outside his shop. A blind singer trying to cross the street carefully, negotiating survival step by step.

Then I noticed groups of people walking along the roadside, some resting near temples and schools. They were devotees walking to Dharmasthala.

Walking.

Not driving. Not booking. Walking.

I wondered if I could ever do that.

As Mr. Murtaugh said, I’m too old for this stuff.

No, he said it slightly differently. But this is a PG-13 blog, fellas.

Then I saw people much older than me walking with determination.

And I remembered a Japanese quote:

If someone can do it, you can do it too. If no one can do it, you must do it.

Or something equally intimidating.

Samurai motivation is powerful. But after office work, I’m mentally more Murtaugh than Samurai.

I told myself, there is a time and place for everything. When my time comes, I’ll see.

For now, let’s see what happens next on the road.

---

The road has a strange power. It doesn’t just move you forward. It moves you backward too.

It reminded me of a scene from the Telugu movie Manmadhudu. In a song, Nagarjuna jumps over a small wall by placing one hand on it and lifting himself smoothly.

Simple stunt. Elegant.

I used to do that in Shimoga. HPC Circle was my Olympic stadium.

Back then, knees didn’t negotiate. They obeyed.

Now, they ask for written permission.

Life changes quietly.

I’m married now. I don’t ride fast with Ugramm songs blasting like background score to my own action film. The hero has become supporting character in his own movie.

But once upon a time, I climbed Kumaraparvatha with friends.

Climbed is a generous word. Struggled is more accurate.

We were young. Unemployed. Energetic. Financially sponsored by pocket loans from our mothers.

After an hour of climbing, I was ready to retire permanently.

That’s when my friend—the Captain America of our group—handed me a stick.

“Use this,” he said.

That stick changed everything.

It carried my weight when my legs couldn’t. It gave balance where there was none. It didn’t remove the mountain. It made it possible to face it.

I climbed.

Slowly. Painfully. Successfully.

When we reached the top, the view wasn’t spectacular. Clouds had covered everything.

But the victory was internal.

When it was time to leave, I had to leave the stick behind.

It had served its purpose.

It didn’t belong to me.

It walked with me only as long as I needed it.

---

That reminded me of Mungaru Male.

Devadasa, the rabbit.

Gani calls him kelavu dinagala geleya — a friend of few days.

The rabbit didn’t talk. Didn’t crack jokes. But it symbolized love. And when love left, the rabbit left too.

Some companions are temporary.

But temporary doesn’t mean insignificant.

The stick that walked with me on that mountain.

The friend who motivated me.

The stranger who helped.

The loved ones who shaped me.

They all are sticks that walked with me.

They carried me when I couldn’t carry myself.

They didn’t stay forever.

But they stayed long enough.

---

And then I realized.

This bus seat behind the driver…

It was a stick too.

It carried me through boredom.

Through memories.

Through realizations.

Through time.

The conductor shouted,

“Mangaluru! Mangaluru!”

The movie ended.

I got down from the bus.

Quietly.

Grateful.

Not just for the destination.

But for the stick that walked with me.

Baanigondu Elle Ellide

I was waiting for the bus in a crowd so large that calling it a queue would be a lie.

There was no system—only chaos.

People pushed forward, stretching their arms through windows, placing bags on seats to reserve them. I stayed back. I had office-safe keys with me—not cash, but the kind of thing that can get you fired if lost—so I didn’t risk throwing anything inside. I stayed in the chaos, trusting luck.

Somehow, I got a seat.

There was no conductor that day. The driver himself collected ₹55 from everyone and started the bus. I was seated on the last row—two seats on one side, three on the other, with a narrow passage in between. The driver stood there, slowly moving and collecting tickets.

Then a blind man entered the bus.

He carried a small dhol-like plate and sang as he walked. I had coins in my wallet, but it was in my pants pocket. With two people squeezed beside me, even breathing felt difficult—opening my wallet was impossible.

Then I remembered: a ₹10 coin in my shirt pocket.

A girl sat in the seat in front of me. I gently asked her if she could pass the coin forward—person to person—until it reached the blind man. The passage was blocked, and the man was struggling to move.

She was asleep.

I didn’t want to touch her. Even with good intentions, it didn’t feel right.

I turned to the guy beside me and handed him the ₹10 coin, asking him to pass it along. A few others joined in. Coins moved hand to hand, and finally, the blind man received them. He blessed the giver—whoever he thought it was.

Later, he somehow crossed the driver, reached the last row, and placed his plate near me for change.

This time, I had money ready. I gave it directly.

For a brief moment, a strange thought crossed my mind—

What if he thinks I didn’t give earlier?

Then I realised: doing good matters more than being seen doing good.

The guy beside me—the one who passed the coin—could’ve kept it. He didn’t. He might not even have had money to donate himself. Yet, he chose honesty. He became nothing more than a courier of kindness, and that was enough.

The blind man moved on, singing an old Dr. Rajkumar song from the 80s—Baanigondu Elle Ellide.

I plugged in my earphones and played the same song on my phone. 🎧

I don’t even know which movie it’s from. Dr. Rajkumar did so many films that at this point, even IMDb might be guessing.

Somewhere between the jerks of the bus and the familiarity of the tune, I dozed off.

A few minutes later, I woke up.

The song was still raining in my ears.

I opened my eyes—and the blind man was standing right next to me.

For a second, my brain panicked.

What? How? Didn’t he get down? Is this some kind of loop?

Then I looked closer.

It wasn’t him.

It was Ayushmann Khurrana.

Or rather, Ayushmann Khurrana playing the blind man from Andhadhun.

My mind tried to negotiate with reality.

This can’t be real. Ayushmann Khurrana doesn’t take BMTC buses. Or maybe he does—method acting?

Before I could finish the thought, he punched me on the nose.

I woke up.

Still in the bus.

Still stuck in traffic.

Still listening to Baanigondu Elle Ellide.mp3.

Glass Half Empty

Glass Half Empty

My office recently organized a chess tournament.

And since childhood, I have always been more Team Carrom than Team Chess.

I did try chess back then. I got brutally beaten.

In carrom, however, I could at least slide the pawns with some dignity. So we chose carrom, and I played it regularly until I was around sixteen.

Then came college.

Then unemployment.

Then office life.

Somewhere in between, the games quietly disappeared.

I always wanted to play cricket at work, but there were too few people. Enough for two teams, not enough for three times. So, like many dreams, we sacrificed cricket.

Chess, however, seemed possible.

I thought, “If I gave up chess, surely there are others who gave up too. And if I practice a little, I might actually beat them.”

So I said to myself, “Let’s practice chess.”

And I installed a chess app.

---

Over the years, I have learned one thing.

There are three types of advice.

First, good advice.

Second, bad advice.

And the third one is not neutral. It is not simple.

The third one is free advice.

Good advice is when I say,

“Cigarette is bad. Quit it.”

And I actually mean it, and I want you to act on it.

Bad advice is when I say,

“Oh, it’s fire. It won’t burn. Go ahead and touch it.”

I know it is bad.

You may or may not.

In life, we have all been bad-advice givers, and bad-advice receivers.

In the stock market they say, you either earn or you learn.

Life works the same way.

Sometimes you do not recognize bad advice.

Later, you realize it was bad.

And that realization itself becomes your lesson.

Which means, technically, you still learned.

And then comes my favourite category.

Free advice.

The kind you give whether someone needs it or not.

And then escape all moral responsibility by saying,

“Free advice. Take it or leave it.”

All this lecture is because I am about to give you one.

I will not call it good.

I will not call it bad.

It is free.

So here it is:

A man must have an addiction.

I know.

The word “addiction” usually walks with bad company,

junk food, drugs, porn, tobacco.

But take it in a neutral tone.

I know a person who cannot tolerate dirty dishes.

He eats. He finishes. He washes the plate immediately.

Some may call it OCD.

I call it addiction.

Another person I know is deeply into pooja.

He sees God in everyday objects and events.

That is also an addiction.

And then something happened recently in Bangalore.

A few months ago, the Karnataka government allowed full-body advertisement flexes on buses.

Like the Better Call Saul ads in Breaking Bad.

Any legal business can buy it.

One such brand was Vimal.

A tobacco product.

A bus with a full Vimal ad started roaming the city.

And then, a youth influencer recorded himself tearing the flex while the bus was stuck in traffic.

The driver did nothing.

Public safety is more important than one flex sheet.

The influencer said,

“Women and children don’t need to see this.

This is addiction. This should be banned.”

I was fascinated by the comments.

And even more by this Robin Hood act.

He did influence me.

No, not to damage public property. I will come to that.

But his action split my mind into two.

I was arguing with myself,

like Leo vs Damon in The Departed.

Who is right?

Who is wrong?

---

When I say, “A man must have an addiction,” I do not mean,

“Go and get addicted.”

I mean,

A man will have an addiction.

Whether it is good or bad, heroic or harmful, is not the point.

They say alcohol is bad and destroys families.

Yet we have seen people who drank every day and lived till eighty.

We also see healthy, fit young people die of a heart attack at thirty-five.

Coffee is socially acceptable.

But ten cups a day is still addiction.

The problem is not the thing.

The problem is the excess.

My addictions are coffee, music, and writing.

I consume them in limited portions, so they have not ruined me.

In fact, they keep me sane.

Some people are addicted to making their children’s lives better.

Some are addicted to their farmland doing well.

Some are addicted to achievement.

And some are addicted to doing nothing.

Even not wanting anything is an addiction.

So my advice, “A man must have an addiction,” does not mean,

“You are a man, go and enroll in one.”

It means,

“You are a man, and you already have one.”

You just do not know it yet.

---

Now, coming back to the chess I mentioned in the beginning.

I was quite addicted to chess for about two months.

I practiced.

I won.

I lost.

Brutally lost.

Back-to-back lost.

Then won again.

Then lost again.

It was very much like gambling, except I did not put any money.

Time was the investment.

There were days I woke up at 2 a.m. just to play.

Sometimes I won and played again, just for the kick.

Sometimes I lost four matches in a row and closed the app out of frustration.

Yes, I was consumed.

But I was also in a safe zone.

And suddenly, the glass was not half empty anymore.

It was half full.

There are many moments in life where something we see one way, at one point in time, suddenly starts making sense differently.

A Marwadi friend once said something during our hostel days:

“I looked at myself. I was not good-looking.

I cleaned myself many times.

But the mirror was dirty.”

Which means, even if we are good, the measuring unit that defines us might be broken.

And even if we are ugly, and we buy a brand-new mirror every day, it will not lie.

It will still show the beast as we are.

So the quote works both ways.

The glass is both half empty and half full.

Now go have that water, or whatever is in the cup.

Because a man must have some addiction.

That’s all, folks.

Looney Tunes. The End.

Are you Challenging Me?

Wow,

I didn’t think of it this way,

But man —

Corporate life

Can be hard.

Sleepless nights,

No luck in

Finding love

Either.

Disturbed by my own thoughts,

I took a walk.

Scooby still sleeping

After all the hard work

He does —

Chasing squirrels,

Real and imaginary.

Maybe we are Scooby,

In a way —

Chasing life,

Dreams and such,

Some caught,

Some missed.

I walked four miles,

More or less,

Legs shaking

When I came back.

Scooby ran to me,

Jumping,

Ready for the run,

With trembling legs.

I asked him,

“Are you challenging me?”

Scooby smiled.

And just when

I was about to count three,

He ran off —

Chasing a squirrel.

I went home

To chase something else:

Getting ready for the office,

To chase mine.

Between Places - A Horror Poem

In the dark,

Between two places,

I was driving

After work.

I was alone,

Singing along —

A bit tired,

But still enthusiastic

Enough to sing.

I thought

Someone was following me,

So I checked

The rear-view mirror.

There was no one

Behind.

But to my surprise,

There was Annabelle —

Grown-up-ish,

Sitting there,

Singing the next lines

Of the same song.

I got scared.

I screamed,

But no sound came out.

It was like

I was on mute.

And that woke me up.

I realised

I had dozed off

While driving.

Was it a daydream?

A night dream?

A dream while conscious?

I don’t know.

Hard to tell.

I stopped the song,

Got out of the car,

Parked properly.

And the couple

From 13B,

In the car opposite mine,

Parked almost

At the same time.

I looked at them —

And the woman

Looked like

That same Annabelle girl.

Older now,

Married,

With a loving husband

And such.

I went my way home,

Kept singing.

And when I came back

The next morning,

There was a small cloth piece —

Like the one

From the Annabelle doll.

Now I don’t know

What’s real

And what’s imagination

Anymore.

A to Z Poem

Anything can happen

Be prepared

Care for the world

Drive the motive

Easy as it may seem

Friends are not forever

Gifted, we think

His creation

In this world

Just we are all

Kidding each other

Laughing out loud

Meeting

New people, places

On the road

Profound happiness

Quitting isn’t an option

Recharge yourself

Slow and steady

Talking to self

Under the bridge

Very high hopes

We never give up

Xceeding oneself every day

Yeet yourself toward the future goal

Zzzz

Cannibaldoggo 🐶

Idk if this funny in general but I'm blushing about my own joke since yesterday 🤣

I was walking home after work, and I saw a Chimtu 🐶 stray dog resting near those street food kabab egg rice stall, I observed they usually hang out there and by end of day, the vendors may give a piece or two leftover, so they are like self appointed watchdog and when the work is over, they're paid 🐶
Now we have established backstory, coming to yesterday, I was walking, and saw a Chimtu 🐶 paws strched and licking their legs, maybe grooming like a catto in a dog body or removing ticks or something, Chimtu buisness, I wouldn't know. 

I said, buddy, you're eating your own leg piece (chicken leg piece, often referred as leg piece), and I said

Buddy you're eating your own leg piece, don't be a cannibaldoggo 🤣🤣 and that doggo gave a bad joke look and I went away laughing,
This did not happen, but I imagined in my head and it was too good funny🤣