I recently changed jobs. This new one has a “hybrid” policy—two days a week in the office. Sounds modern and flexible until you realize your colleagues are in a different city and you don’t have a team in the first place. But rules are rules, and so, I go.

  As a good middle-class citizen, I live on rent in a far-flung corner of the city. About 15–20 years ago, this area was basically wilderness—with maybe a few cows and one lonely tea stall. But thanks to urbanization, it’s now called “prime future development.” Whether it falls under the city’s jurisdiction or the neighboring district is still an ongoing debate between municipalities. Even Google Maps is confused.

  My office, of course, is in the heart of the city. The distance? Just 12 kilometers. The time? Anywhere between 1.5 hours and traffic so bad, you start wondering the concept of cities.

  Yes, I own a car. No, I don’t drive. Not because of fuel prices (though those help), but because if I drive, my stress begins long before I even open Outlook. With traffic like this, the morning chaos kicks in somewhere between the steering wheel and the first honk. So I avoid it.

  Also, there’s something mildly ridiculous about cruising solo in an air-conditioned hatchback while the city bakes and the planet quietly warms up around you.

  So I take the traditional middle-class route: autorickshaw from home to the bus depot, bus to the metro station, metro to the office area, and finally a 300-metre walk. My city has three seasons: Hot, Hotter and Hotter with Bonus Humidity. During peak summer, the temperature says 40°C but feels more like a personal attack.

  My office bag, provided by the company, was clearly made for a consultant in Singapore—someone who carries a sleek laptop, maybe a stylus, and drinks imported coffee. I, on the other hand, treat it like a survival kit: laptop, charger, wireless mouse, phone charger, headphones, sunglasses, computer glasses, pen, notebook, water bottle, lunchbox (thank God for my wife), ID card, and existential dread. The bag wasn’t built for this life, but it has no choice.

  If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

  Autorickshaw bookings are their own mini-drama. After three cancellations, one suspiciously long wait, and some classic fare negotiations, I finally reach the bus depot—just in time to see my bus rolling away in slow motion. Now I have two choices: take an alternate route bus with a metro line change, adding roughly 52 minutes to the journey (scientifically confirmed via Interstellar), or wait 40 minutes for the next bus. Already half-roasted, I decide to wait.

  Wearing my sunglasses, I try to look nonchalant—somewhere between mildly important and vaguely mysterious. People look at me and wonder why someone who looks so sophisticated is waiting at a bus stop. I sometimes wonder myself. If it weren’t for my EMI and the lack of inheritance, I might be somewhere else too. One man even said I looked like a hero. I’m still unsure if he was mocking me, or drunk, or both.

  Eventually, the bus arrives. I grab the ideal seat—near the door (easy exit), not under direct sunlight, and definitely not a reserved seat. Slowly, more people get in, and we all start sweating together. A free sauna, if you will. Somewhere in Scandinavia, someone’s paying thousands for this experience.

  Then comes the pause—the driver and conductor take their time finishing tea, gossip, or perhaps solving global issues. Finally, the driver gets in, turns the key... and the radio bursts to life.

  And that’s when it happens.

  The song: “Ra Ra Ramaiya.”

  I don’t know what it is about old songs. Maybe it’s the rhythm, maybe the nostalgia, maybe just the timing. That tune, out of nowhere, slices through the heat, the stress, the chaos, and lifts everything for a moment.

  Suddenly, I’m not sitting in a crowded, humid bus with a bag that’s cutting into my shoulder. I’m back in a cooler, softer version of life—barefoot, happy, with a plate in my lap and music playing from the corner of the room.

  And just like that, all of it—the traffic, the job, the distance, the debt—melts away.

  One song.

  One moment.

  And somehow, it saves the whole morning.