One Red Bus, One Movie, and a Journey Back                                 in Time

                                   Sometimes, days are like never before or after.

One Red Bus(KSRTC) Journey

Just when you think you are finally going to have a day without much stress, somehow you end up having more. One of those days was today.

The original plan was simple. I was supposed to travel to my hometown, but work had other plans and the whole idea came to a full stop. Finally, I decided, Okay, let me travel tomorrow early morning.

You know how it is when you work in IT. What you plan and what actually happens are usually two different things.

So, the next day—that is today—I started with a very optimistic plan. Leave early, reach early.

With that confidence, I travelled all the way from Whitefield to Satellite Bus Stand. In my mind, everything was already planned. I would reach there, get an Airavata or one of those luxury KSRTC buses, sit comfortably and travel to my hometown.

But destiny had a slightly different idea.

The moment I reached Satellite Bus Stand, I could see the crowd. Actually, I had already got a small hint while waiting for the auto itself. There were too many people heading in the same direction, and somewhere in my mind I thought, Okay… today may not be that easy.

The moment I entered the KSRTC Satellite Bus Stand, for a few seconds, I felt like I had gone many years back.

Back to Those Red Bus Days

There was a time when this red KSRTC bus was almost my weekend partner.

Friday night, start from Bengaluru and reach Hassan. Spend the weekend there. Monday morning, catch one of the first buses, sometimes around 4 AM, and come back to Bengaluru.

That was the routine.

And festival days? That was a completely different experience.

Bus stands would look like some mass public gathering. People everywhere. Bags, families, children, shouting, conductors calling destinations and everyone waiting for that one bus.

The moment the bus arrived, getting a seat itself was an achievement.

You had to judge where the bus would stop, move along with the crowd, somehow get inside and capture a seat. Sometimes just entering the bus itself would make you feel you had won something.

I was also one among them.

Standing there today after so many years brought all those memories back.

Of course, I have travelled in KSRTC buses many times after that, but slowly it had become mostly Airavata, Sleeper bus, Ambari  and other luxury buses. The normal red bus had almost disappeared from my travel routine.

But today, after all my attempts to find a luxury bus failed, there I was again, standing in a queue for the red KSRTC bus.

And what a queue it was.

It felt almost a kilometre long.

Still, I stood there thinking, Okay, somehow let me get into the bus first.

By the time I finally got the ticket and settled down, almost one hour had gone just standing in the queue.

The bus would not start until everyone was issued tickets, so there was nothing much to do except sit and wait.

That is when OTT came to my rescue.

A Movie I Was Not Planning to Watch

While scrolling through the recent releases, I came across a Malayalam movie that had been getting quite a lot of attention—Bethlehem Kudumba Unit.

I have always liked Nivin Pauly.

There is something about his acting that connects naturally. Especially in these simple, feel-good movies, he somehow carries a special vibe. He doesn’t always need those larger-than-life scenes. Even a normal conversation or expression works for him.

His previous movie had also worked well for me, so I thought, Fine, anyway I am stuck here. Let me use this time.

And the movie started.

What a movie.

The story itself is actually quite simple. Ashley moves into a new neighbourhood and slowly gets to know Justin, an older unmarried neighbour. From those slightly awkward meetings, conversations, family members and people around them, a relationship slowly begins to take shape. The age difference between them becomes part of the story, but the movie doesn’t try to turn everything into some huge drama. It just lets these people talk, react, misunderstand, laugh and slowly understand each other.

That is where the writing worked for me.

Sometimes you don’t need a story with ten twists. Give a simple story to the right people, write the screenplay well and allow the characters to behave naturally—that itself can become such a good movie.

And then I realised it is from Girish A.D., the director behind Premalu. Fahadh Faasil, Dileesh Pothan and Syam Pushkaran are among the producers through Bhavana Studios, and the movie has already gone beyond ₹300 crore worldwide.

Then I understood why there was so much talk about it.

But there was one particular scene I simply loved.

There is a point where the heroine proposes, and Justin is this kind of character who doesn’t always immediately say everything running in his mind.

He goes away.

Then he comes back in his red car and asks her to get inside.

And now the conversation starts.

Hold on…

I am not going to tell you what happens.

Go and watch it.

But watch that scene carefully.

The proposal, the silence, the conversation inside the car, those expressions, that small smile…and somewhere in between, the car gives that small jerk towards the right and becomes steady again.

Such a tiny thing.

But I loved it.

Nothing overdone. No unnecessary buildup. The conversation, expressions, awkwardness, small smile and love—all packed into one scene.

For me, that was one of the best moments in the movie.

Meanwhile, I Was Still on the Road

By the time the movie finished, I looked at the time.

11:30 AM.

And I was still somewhere on the Mysuru Expressway.

That itself tells you what kind of traffic it was.

This is an expressway where vehicles normally fly at 90, 100 or even more. But today there was this long line of cars moving somewhere in their 30s and 40s.

For everyone sitting in those cars, I am sure it was frustrating.

Strangely, for me, something nice happened.

After a long time, I was sitting inside a red KSRTC bus, next to the window.

And maybe because the bus wasn’t zooming, I actually started looking outside.

The World Outside the Expressway

World outside the Expressway

Most of the time when I travel on this road by car, the focus is different.

Road.

Traffic.

Speed.

Overtake.

Reach quickly.

At 90 or 100 kmph, everything outside the expressway just passes like a background.

Today, at 30 or 40, that background became visible.

There was actually a world outside this expressway.

Small roads running alongside it. Houses that I had probably crossed many times without noticing. Fields. Shops. Trees. People standing outside. Villages sitting quietly while thousands of vehicles rushed past them.

Maybe I had seen all of this before.

But I don’t think I had noticed it.

I was also surprised by how much had changed around this route in the last seven years. Places which once looked empty now had buildings. New shops had appeared. Roads had changed. Some familiar stretches were almost unrecognisable.

Funny thing is, sometimes travelling slowly shows you more than travelling fast.

And somewhere in between all this, I also started observing the bus itself.

Even the Red Bus Has Changed

A lot has changed in Karnataka Sarige too.

The red bus I remembered from years ago was much more basic.

Now there are better doors, CCTV cameras, speed monitoring, SOS switches and several other safety improvements.

The bus has moved forward.

Technology has moved forward.

Infrastructure has moved forward.

But one thing, unfortunately, still needs some improvement.

Us.

The way we keep public transport.

You could still see people leaving wrappers, bottles and other waste inside the bus. Some things were simply thrown around without a second thought.

And that made me think.

These buses, trains and public facilities don’t come from somewhere else. It is finally our own tax money coming back to us in another form.

We complain when buses are dirty.

We complain when trains are not maintained.

We complain when public places don’t look like the ones we see in some other countries.

But somewhere, we also have to ask ourselves a very small question.

How are we treating what we already have?

Maybe the government can provide a better bus.

They can install CCTV.

They can add SOS buttons.

They can improve safety.

They can build expressways where we can travel at 100 kmph.

But keeping the seat clean, putting a wrapper into a dustbin instead of below the seat, and treating a public bus like something that belongs to us—that part cannot come through technology.

That has to come from us.

What started as a frustrating travel day somehow became a little different.

A cancelled plan.

A long journey from Whitefield.

A crowded bus stand.

A red KSRTC bus that brought back memories.

A surprisingly good Malayalam movie.

And a slow journey on a road where I usually travel fast.

Maybe everything did not go according to my plan today.

But because it didn’t, after many years, I travelled again in that familiar red bus…and noticed a few things that I had been passing without seeing.

Note: The movie references in this story are based purely on my personal viewing experience and opinion. I have kept the discussion mostly spoiler-free. Movie names and characters belong to their respective owners.

 

Father…!! You Understand His Presence Only                        When He Is Not There

Father..!! 

The Fathers Who Loved Without Saying It

Today, while scrolling through social media, I saw too many Father’s Day posts.

Photos with fathers.

Old memories.

Stories.Some funny, some emotional.For a few minutes, I just kept scrolling.

Then I thought… why not write one? After all, if there is one person who deserves a Father’s Day post from me, it has to be my Hero.

My Appa.

But where do I start?

Do I talk about the father who never openly showed affection?

The father who would hand over his earnings to my mother and trust her to manage the entire family?

Or do I talk about the first and last beating I got when I was around 12 years old?

No…

My father is much more than that.

People often say that when you become a father, you start understanding your own father better.

I think that is true.

Especially for people like us whose fathers belonged to the generation before the 80’s.

They were different.

Not bad.

Not uncaring.

Just different.

They grew up in a world where men were expected to be tough.

A father was supposed to earn, solve problems, take responsibility and move on.

Emotions were kept inside.

Tears were hidden.

Love was rarely spoken.

Many of them would probably cry only when nobody was around.

And if something was troubling them, they would carry it alone.

My father was one among them.

He never openly told us he was proud.

He never came and hugged us.

He never sat and explained how much he loved us.

But today when I look back, I can see it everywhere.

In his actions.

In his sacrifices.

In the small moments which I never understood as a child.

Sometimes I feel ego was their biggest problem.

Not the ego we talk about today.

The kind of ego that never allowed them to bend.

Never allowed them to openly appreciate.

Never allowed them to say “I love you.”

But deep inside, they cared more than anybody else.

I am damn sure if my father had lived longer and crossed his sixties comfortably, he would have become the best grandfather.

Unfortunately life had other plans.My daughters never got the chance to know him.

And that is one thing I will always miss.My father was great.Not because he was perfect.

But because of the way he loved us.Let me tell you why.

The Tricycle That Cost More Than Money

The Tricycle

One of the oldest stories in our family is about a tricycle.

My mother still tells this story whenever she gets an opportunity to embarrass me in front of relatives.

I must have been around four or five years old. At that time we were not financially strong.

Lower middle-class family. My parents were still trying to establish themselves. Every rupee mattered.

And there I was. A stubborn fellow. I wanted a tricycle. Not tomorrow. Not next month. Immediately.

And because I did not get it, I decided I would not eat. Breakfast skipped. Lunch skipped. Now my mother was worried.

Today when I think about it, I feel bad for troubling them so much. But as a child, all I knew was that I wanted that tricycle. Finally my mother convinced my father. And somehow, the same day, I got one.

At that age I thought I had won. Today I see it differently. Today I see a young father struggling to earn, trying to build a life for his family, managing expenses and still finding a way to make his son’s silly dream come true. That tricycle was not just a toy. It was a father’s love. A love he never expressed in words.

The ₹150 Lesson I Never Forgot

Lesson i never forgot

Let me tell you another story.This happened when I was in high school. One Saturday I was in my father’s workshop. He was busy with work and did not have time to pay the electricity bill. He handed me the bill and some cash. I don’t remember the exact amount. Maybe around ₹150. For those days, it was not a small amount. The electricity office was hardly a few streets away. 

Simple job.

Go.

Pay the bill.

Bring back the receipt.

That was it.

I kept the money in my front pocket and started walking. Everything was fine. Until I reached the counter. I searched my pocket. Nothing. Checked again. Nothing. The money had disappeared.I still remember that feeling. My heart started racing. There were no mobile phones in those days. No way to call and inform. I walked back almost one and a half kilometres searching every inch of the road.

Nothing. The money was gone. Now I had a bigger problem. How do I face my father? The fear was not about the money. The fear was about disappointing him. Finally I did what every scared child does. I ran to my mother. I entered from the other side of the house so that my father wouldn’t see me. With my heart pounding, I told my mother that I had lost the money. Even today I feel mothers are the bridge in most families. Whenever children are scared, confused or in trouble, they automatically run to their mother. Not because fathers are bad. Not because fathers are strict. It is just how families work.

Mothers become the bridge. When my father came home for lunch, I sat in another room pretending to do homework. But honestly, I was not reading a single word. My ears were fully focused on what they were discussing. Finally, my mother told him. “Your son lost the money you gave him.” I was ready for the worst. The response shocked me. “It’s okay.” That was all. Just three words. Later when I stood before him with my head down, he patted my back and said, “Hope you learnt.” That’s it.

No shouting.

No anger.

No lecture.

Today when I think about it, I realise he understood something I didn’t. I had already learnt the lesson.

There was no need for punishment.

Fever, A Scooter Ride, and a Father’s Care

Father's care

Another incident is still very fresh in my memory. I was in college. One day after attending a couple of classes, I came back home. I was not feeling well. By afternoon my fever became very high. I was wrapped inside two or three blankets and lying on the bed. When my father came home for lunch, he saw me. He didn’t say much. That was normal. Few words. That was his style. A little later, I got up to walk towards the dining area. Suddenly everything went blank.

I fainted.

The next thing I remember was hearing my mother’s voice.

Panic.

Fear.

“Entha aaythu maga…”

After a few minutes when I regained consciousness, I found myself sitting between my father and mother on our scooter.

My father was driving us to the hospital.

Again, no dramatic words. No emotional display.

Just action.

That was his way of caring.

When Life Tested Him, He Simply Stood Strong

Life Tested

There was another difficult time when my brother met with a serious accident while crossing the road.

His leg was badly injured. At that time my mother was away taking care of my grandmother who was unwell. The responsibility completely fell on my father.And he handled it. Just like he handled every crisis in life.Quietly. Without creating panic. Without showing fear. Looking back now, I realise fathers often carry burdens silently so that the family can stay calm.

The Day I Saw Pride in His Eyes

Day i saw pride

As time passed, I completed my studies and started attending interviews. Life was becoming difficult.

My father’s health was no longer good. There was not much income coming in. My brother was still studying. We were surviving with whatever savings were left. Even a small setback during that period could have affected the entire family. People will always say they are there for you. But when real problems come, you quickly learn how few people actually stand beside you. Then came the day I got my job offer. I still remember that journey back home. My father came to the bus stand to pick me up.

We travelled back together. Very few words were spoken. But throughout the journey I kept looking at him. And for the first time I could clearly see it. Pride. He never said it. Men from his generation rarely did. But I knew. His eyes said everything. That day I felt I had done something meaningful for him.

The Grandfather My Daughters Never Got to Meet

Never Got to Meet

Sometimes I wonder what life would have been if he was still here.

I never wanted anything extraordinary.

I simply wanted to make my father and mother proud.

I wanted to buy things for him which he never bought for himself.

I wanted him to enjoy life without worrying about money.

I wanted him to spend time with his grandchildren.

I wanted to see him teaching them things.

I wanted to see him become the grandfather I know he would have been.

With a small farm around, I am sure he would have happily spent his evenings there.

Looking after plants. Talking to neighbours. Playing with grandchildren. Enjoying a slower life.

Simple dreams. Nothing more.

Appa, There Is Still One Thing Left To Say

Appa

Today I see parts of you through Amma. Sometimes when she says something or reacts in a certain way, I see you. And I miss you. More than words can explain.

Appa…

If there is one thing I want to tell you today, it is this.

I loved you.

Maybe I never said it enough. Maybe we belonged to a generation where such things were never spoken openly. But I loved you. And I still do. If I ever get another life, I have only one request.

Let me live it with my complete family around me for as long as possible. One day, sooner or later, we will meet again. And when we do, I just want to hug you. Nothing else. Just a hug.

And tell you how much I loved you.

Before You Close This Page...

Before you close this page

For everyone reading this… If your parents are still around, spend time with them.

Please don’t let ego win. Life is much shorter than we think. Sometimes they may say things that hurt us. Sometimes they may be stubborn. Sometimes they may insist that their way is the right way.

It’s okay.

Pause for a moment.

Think again.

Call them.

Visit them.

Sit with them.

Have that conversation.

Because one day we will give anything for just one more cup of tea with them, one more argument, one more piece of advice, one more ordinary day.

Don’t wait for that day to realise their value.

Happy Father's Day, Appa

Miss you Appa… Always.

🛵 Hamara Bajaj… A Scooter-Full of Stories!☀️

 🛵 Hamara Bajaj… A Scooter-Full of Stories!☀️

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If you're a proud 80s or 90s kid, I bet your mind just sang this the moment you read it:

“Hamaraaa… Bajaaaaj!”
Goosebumps, right?

Those ads were not just commercials. They were emotions. Identity. Aspirations.
And thanks to a random YouTube spiral the other day — I stumbled upon some iconic 90s ads, and bang! There it was — the cement-grey nostalgia bomb called Bajaj Chetak.

And just like that, I was no longer in 2025. I was in my school uniform, dusty knees, hungry belly… and wide eyes, staring at a brand-new scooter outside our house.

Let me take you to 1998.

🛠️ Appa, The Bike Whisperer

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My father was a mechanic — not just any mechanic, mind you. He was the doctor saab for two-wheelers. People from across Hassan would bring their sick bikes to him — and they’d leave cured, humming again.

He had this contract with banks — used to travel across branches in Hassan district, repairing their vehicles. So a new bike or scooter parked at our house wasn't a big deal. But that day was different.

I came back from school, dragging my bag, ready to throw it and raid the kitchen… and I froze.

Right there, in front of our gate, stood a cement-coloured Bajaj Chetak, gleaming like a Bollywood hero’s entry scene.

I ran to him and asked breathlessly,

“Appa! Whose scooter is this?”
He smiled and casually said,
“Nammade kano. I bought it today. From now on, we’ll go everywhere together.”

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💥 Boom! Childhood Upgraded 

That was it. That line. It changed everything.

Suddenly, we were mobile. No more waiting for KSRTC buses that never came. No more standing like sardines in a crowd.
We had our own ride.
And oh boy, we had plans.

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👨‍👩‍👦‍👦 Scooter Geometry: How to Fit Four on Two Wheels

Now if you’ve never seen four people on a Chetak — let me break it down:

• Little Brother in front, sitting like he’s the one driving (his job: keep his hand on the horn and press when Appa nods — "Horn maadu!")

• Me in the middle — the official sandwich.

• Amma at the back, slightly tilted, balancing grace and groceries.

• And Appa, our family’s very own bike stuntman.

Somehow, there was always just enough space. Maybe it was magic. Maybe it was muscle memory. Maybe it was Amma adjusting her sari and sliding just 3 inches back to make room.

Whatever it was — it worked.

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🛣️ The Great Subramanya Journey Begins

One fine Saturday, we had a family function at our grandmother’s house in Subramanya.

School was only till noon, and we were supposed to leave immediately after.

12:00 PM: Bell rings.
I’m waiting outside my brother’s classroom like it’s the last train home.
He runs out, we lock eyes — no talking.
We start walking home like two kids training for the Olympics. Brisk. Focused. Mission Scooter Ride.

12:30 PM: Amma’s packing the bags. Rice and Rasam on the stove.
1:15 PM: Appa still not home. I’ve started circling the house like a lion in a cage.
1:30 PM: Gate creaks. He’s here.
Smile on his face. Tools in his hand. And my heart doing backflips.

Lunch was demolished in record time. Rasam down the throat like energy drink.
By 2:15 PM — Operation Chetak Launched.

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🏍️ Riding With the Wind… and a Backache

The road from Hassan to Subramanya is pure cinema.

Once you cross Balupet, it’s like God switched on the air conditioner. Trees on both sides, coffee estates, mist playing hide and seek.

But here’s the real twist: the seat.

I was perched right on the edge — that cruel bump between the front and rear seat — and oh, my poor backside.
But did I care? NO.
Because I was on a journey. A real one. Not in a dream. Not a game. A live-action adventure.

My brother was pretending to steer.
Appa was gliding like a jockey on a horse.
And I was… shifting left and right every five minutes to keep my blood flow alive.

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🌀 Sakleshpur to Kempu Hole: The Test of Chetak

By 4 PM, we hit Sakleshpur. Took a short break — not for tea, but for back relief.
Then came the ghats. The real thrill.

Curvy roads, blind turns, monkeys on both sides, and one Chetak with a family of four, dancing through it all.
The scooter had hand gears, so you could see Appa’s hand moving like a magician — twist, clutch, shift, accelerate.

Just after Kempu Hole reservoir, Appa opened throttle. The scooter flew.
Well, okay, it coughed and crawled — but in our heads, it flew.

By 6 PM, we passed Gundya.
It was getting dark.
7:30 PM: We reached Ajji mane (grandma’s house) — tired, sweaty, but glowing with pride.

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⛩️ Temple, Tummy, and Trip Back

The next day, after the function and the mandatory 18-item lunch at grandma's place (including that payasa made with love and ghee), Appa decided —

“Let’s stop at Kukke Subramanya Temple before heading back.”

So we did.
We prayed, we clicked photos (on film camera, of course), and then we began the journey back.

This time, I sat with a towel under me — #SmartBoy
The wind was cooler, the roads more familiar, and our bond… stronger.

We weren’t just riding.
We were living.

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❤️ Final Thoughts: Four on a Scooter, Forever in Memory

That Chetak wasn’t just metal and wheels.
It was a memory machine.

It taught us balance — not just on roads, but in life.
How to adjust, how to share space, how to enjoy the journey even if you’re sitting on the edge.

So next time you hear the jingle —

“Buland Bharat ki buland tasveer… Hamara Bajaj!”

Close your eyes.
And remember that one ride, that one laugh, that one sandwich seat between Appa and Amma —
Where your whole world fit on two wheels.

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When the Breeze Brought Back a Friend

    🌿 When the Breeze Brought Back a Friend

                                      A nostalgic reflection on friendship, time, and unexpected reunions

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🪴 Balcony, Breeze, and Bees

There’s something magical about a weekend afternoon. Especially when you’re sitting in your balcony, wrapped in the soft hum of a garden that’s alive — buzzing bees, nosy butterflies, and overconfident squirrels treating your guava tree like it’s theirs.

After lunch, the swing chair becomes a portal. The breeze tugs at your thoughts, your body relaxes, and your mind… well, your mind travels. Not forward — but backward.

So come, sit with me. Close your eyes. Hear the bees hop from hibiscus to jasmine. Somewhere nearby, a bird composes a melody. And if you’re really quiet, you’ll hear laughter — not today’s, but from years ago.

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💬 The Friendships We Thought Would Last Forever

There was a time when we thought our school best friends would be part of our forever. That we’d always call, always meet, and never lose touch. We promised to attend each other’s weddings, name our kids after each other, maybe even grow old in the same colony.

But life… life has other plans. Careers, cities, families, responsibilities — they stretch us out like butter on hot toast. Slowly, those daily conversations shrink to yearly greetings. And then — silence.

Until one day, something stirs the memory.

For me, it happened in a metro.

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🚇 A Metro Ride into the Past

It was one of those rare Bangalore afternoons when the metro wasn’t packed like a tiffin box. A true miracle. I could actually stand without someone breathing down my neck. Legs weren’t twisted like yoga poses. I had full body positioning! Trust me, in Bangalore metro terms, this is luxury.

As we passed through the railway station, two elderly men — somewhere in their early sixties — boarded. They spoke Tamil, with a lilt that came only from Palakkad. Their laughter had no filters. Loud, honest, and filled with something pure — a time before smartphones, before Google, before everyone had LinkedIn but no one had time.

Let me translate what I overheard. Don’t worry — I wasn't eavesdropping. They were practically announcing their life stories over the PA system.

Friend 1: “Hey! You da? After so long!”
Friend 2: “Macha! I’m good! What are you doing here?”
Friend 1: “Going to a friend’s daughter’s wedding.”
Friend 2: “Which friend?”
Friend 1: “Vishwanathan’s daughter.”
Friend 2: “Eh! I’m going to the same one. He was my colleague!”
Friend 1: “What a small world! We were childhood friends. Haven’t seen each other since school.”

And just like that, the dam broke. Memories came rushing.

Friend 2: “Yes, yes. Life, da. Took us everywhere. Retired now. But see, destiny made us meet — in Bangalore metro of all places!”
Friend 1: “Remember the days we travelled from Walayar to Coimbatore for school?”
Friend 2: “How can I forget? And what about Rajesh Unni and Prabakaran?”
Friend 1: silent for a moment “Rajesh... passed away two years ago.”
Friend 2: “What? That health freak? The guy who drank bitter gourd juice like water?”
Friend 1: “Yes, macha. Life’s unpredictable.”

And then came the line that hit me like that one autorickshaw that always jumps the signal:

Friend 2: “When we were young, we chased jobs and money. Now, we have both — but no friends. The friendships we had in childhood were the purest. No ego. No expectations. Just hearts wide open.”

They exchanged numbers. The train arrived at their stop.

Friend 1: “Come da, let’s get down. We’ve got a marriage to attend and memories to relive.”

And just like that, they walked away, laughing, leaning on each other, into the city — and into their past.

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🏫 The School That Lives in My Head

I still had a few stops left. But my mind had already slipped back to those old school days — where the benches held secrets, the walls had witnessed dreams whispered between classes, and friendships were as simple as sharing a pencil or saving a seat during morning assembly.

So many friends. Some still around. Some drifting in and out like radio signals. Some only names on faded photographs.

They were classmates, lunchbox warriors, backbench philosophers, exam-time saviors, and those who stuck around long enough to become family.

Some were seasonal. Some, eternal. But each one? Real.

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🎒 Life, Laughter, and Letting Go

We often think friendship is about consistency. Daily calls. Weekly updates. Birthday reminders.

But maybe, it’s also about silent understanding. That even after years, when we meet — at a wedding, a bus stand, or a random metro — we can talk like nothing ever changed.

So to all my friends — whether we talk or not — thank you.

You were part of my story. A scene, a chapter, a bridge. You helped me laugh when I had no reason to. You showed up when I didn’t expect you to. And even if time pulled us apart, I still carry a little bit of you with me.

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💌 Until We Meet Again…

If you ever see me staring out the window, smiling quietly in a crowded metro, don’t be surprised. Maybe I’m not thinking about work. Maybe I’m just remembering you.

Because friendship never really leaves. It just takes the scenic route back.

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