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.