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.
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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.
