It’s a Friday morning in Doddanekundi - that brief window when the city pretends to be sane. Ceiling fan humming, coffee mug sweating, a faint Kishore Kumar song escaping my playlist (“Zindagi ek safar hai suhana…”).

I roll out my Isuzu V-Cross - my dear bull. A beast too big for these roads, too kind for my cholesterol, too clean for Bengaluru. The city’s still half-asleep, the air smells of wet tar and ambition, and I tell myself: “Bas ek short drive, clear the mind, clear the arteries.”

But, haha… Bengaluru has other plans.

Act I: When Auto Meets Ego

Just as I slide into that meditative left lane, an auto swoops in from a parallel universe. No indicators, no logic, just full Bollywood entry. His side panel kisses my Isuzu’s fender - a love tap, mechanical and meaningless.

My bull doesn’t even flinch. The auto? A bit dented. The driver? Dramatically offended.

He waves me down like he’s auditioning for “Roads Got Talent.” “Ruko! Gaadi side mein lagao!”

Now, I’ve seen enough Bengaluru mornings to know: this is not a conversation; this is theatre.

So I roll down the window halfway - therapist mode on. “Kya hua, bhai?”

He puffs up, channeling pure Bangalorean Tapori: “Utaro! Neeche utaro! Aise kaise chalega?”

I stare. “Chalega toh traffic ke hisaab se hi, bhai.”

Then comes the golden dialogue - straight from the auto mafia rulebook: “Pehle chasma utaaro, phir baat kar!”

Excuse me? My Ray-Ban suddenly becomes a political statement.

For a brief, foolish second, I consider taking them off. But no. This is not his movie. “Mereko chasma rehne do, bhai. Cool dikhna toh important hai - aur patience bhi.”

He circles the car like a hawk circling a drone delivery. Knocks once on the window, as if summoning the ghost inside. By now, a small crowd gathers - Bengaluru’s national sport. No one intervenes, everyone judges.

After a few more taunts, he realises this audience wants drama, not action. His auto, his pride, his morning - all deflated. He retreats with a mutter about “aaj kal logon mein tameez hi nahi.”

Ah, the irony.

I roll up the window, take a deep breath, and turn the volume up. Kishore continues - unfazed, timeless.

Act II: Bengaluru – 1, Bhargav – 0

As the adrenaline fades, something else seeps in - that strange sadness of living in a city that constantly tests your kindness.

Even the Isuzu feels tired, too much steel between me and the world. My electric cycle waits in the corner of my apartment parking - dusty, loyal, slightly squeaky, like an old friend who says “chal yaar, tu aur main hi bas.”

So the next morning, I trade four wheels for two pedals.

Helmet on, heart hopeful, caffeine loaded - I set out again. The clouds hang low, plotting rain, and the crows already start their morning staff meeting on the wires.

For five minutes, it’s perfect. Wind on my face, legs syncing with the rhythm of the road, Kishore replaced by the city’s heartbeat. I pass temple-return aunties, sleepy stray dogs, and that one uncle who jogs in jeans.

I think: “Yes! This could be Europe. Or at least Hyderabad on a Sunday.”

But then, reality returns in Dolby Surround.

Act III: Enter the Chaos Orchestra

A BMTC bus lunges from nowhere - horn loud enough to awaken gods in Whitefield. Scooters dart past like caffeinated mosquitoes. And autos - my old frenemies - see me as bonus points in a citywide video game.

No cycle lane, no footpath, just Bengaluru’s signature - potholes with personality. I swear some of them have seen empires rise and fall.

Still, I pedal. Brake. Smile. Survive.

Once, a pedestrian walked straight into my path, phone glued to his ear. We apologised so profusely we almost exchanged LinkedIns.

Act IV: Pedalling into Perspective

Cars see me as a nuisance. Buses don’t see me at all. Cops only see me if I forget my helmet. But I keep going, because in this madness, pedalling feels like prayer.

Every ride is cardio, courage, and comedy combined. I pedal not just for health - but for sanity. Because the city takes everything from you - time, patience, space - unless you earn it back, one pedal at a time.

And sometimes, amid the honking and potholes, you see it - the quiet kindness. A biker who gives you space. A kid waving from a school bus. A stray dog jogging beside you for half a kilometre, just for company.

Moments so small, so absurdly human, that they save your faith in this messy, beautiful, mad city.

Epilogue: Cities and Second Chances

Some evenings, when I park my cycle, I still miss Hyderabad’s leisurely chaos, Kolkata’s poetic clutter, Mumbai’s midnight honesty. Bengaluru, though - she’s an acquired taste. She’ll frustrate you, confuse you, mock your GPS… and then, on one unexpected day, she’ll drench you in rain and laughter and make you fall in love again.

So I let her.

Friday mornings will still come with honks, autos, and egos. But I’ll keep my chasma on, my playlist loud, and my heart open - because somewhere between the bull of steel and the bicycle of hope, there’s still space for joy.

And that’s enough.

Stay pedaling, stay hopeful,
Bhargav Achary

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