Saturday Morning, Bangalore

Picking up "Norwegian Wood" just after waking up had become second nature to me by now. It was a Saturday morning, and after working in corporate for just eight months, I had come to truly appreciate the significance of the five-day workweek. Saturdays and Sundays were the only things keeping me running for the other five days.

I woke up from a deep sleep at 7 AM without an alarm—my body clock had locked into that schedule. I picked up my book, stepped outside, and settled on the couch. Instinctively, I wanted to switch on the lights, but something about reading in the dim glow of the morning, with only the faint, cloud-filtered daylight streaming through the window, felt just right. The weather wasn’t too different from other days in Bangalore, yet it carried that unique hill-station breeze. Each gust of wind whispered an invitation—I needed to go outside today. I wanted to.

Usually, I preferred staying in, reading books, watching YouTube, and, lately, indulging in vlogs. I had unexpectedly fallen into the rabbit hole of YouTube vlogging content and found myself enjoying it. Today, however, I actually had plans to go out—but in the evening. Looking at the weather, I wasn’t sure if it would hold until then.

I continued reading, removing the oddly shaped bookmark I had folded absentmindedly, as if attempting origami on the fly. One of my friends from Delhi had arrived in Bangalore on Thursday for an assessment, and she was leaving today. We had planned to go out for an early dinner before I dropped her off at the airport. I read for about half an hour, a habit I had established for weekdays. Initially, I had adopted the idea of avoiding screens for the first hour after waking up—something famously promoted by Jeff Bezos. Apparently, research suggested it could improve cognitive abilities throughout the day. I wasn't sure if it worked, but I did love reading this book. It was engaging, sometimes heavy on the heart, but always too captivating to put down.

After finishing my reading session, I freshened up, brushed my teeth, and peeked out the window. All the while, my mind was searching for an excuse to step outside. By now, my cousin—who shared the apartment with me—was also awake. We usually slept in until around 9 AM on weekends, but my early routine must have triggered his weekday reflex as well.

Then, suddenly, I had an excuse. I hadn't filled up my bike’s fuel tank in a while. Yesterday, on my way back from work, the petrol indicator had been blinking at me. Perfect. I told my cousin I was heading out to get my bike refueled. He seemed a bit puzzled but likely assumed it was for my evening plans.

I took my bike out of the parking lot. The moment I started riding, I noticed how the weather still felt exactly as it had when I first looked outside—almost as if it had been paused, waiting for me to finally step into it. As I rode, the sharp, cold breeze occasionally brushed against me. It might not sound enjoyable to some, but I loved it. That shiver-inducing sensation didn’t feel uncomfortable; rather, it was as if the wind was talking to me, tickling me, embracing me in its icy grasp. Maybe it was because I had spent nearly twenty years in Delhi’s scorching heat that I had developed such an appreciation for the cold. Winter had always been my favorite—far preferable to sweaty summers.

I guess I inherited that from my mom. She loves hill stations. Every family trip we took was always to a hill station—sometimes new, sometimes familiar. It was never about the destination; it was about the weather. Those crisp mornings, the quiet family walks down winding roads, the gardens we explored together—those were the moments that made them special. I used to get annoyed when she insisted I wear my cap or zip up my jacket. I preferred the cold against my skin. But as a child, I got sick easily, so her concern made sense. Back then, I never thought about consequences—I just lived in the moment, free of worry. Perhaps that’s why childhood memories are so precious.

I reached the petrol pump and got my bike refueled. By now, the wind felt gentler, or maybe my body had simply adjusted. Instead of heading straight back, I decided to explore. I searched for an empty, peaceful road where I could ride slowly and soak in the weather. Being a weekend, the usually chaotic Bangalore streets were relatively quieter. For once, the roads didn’t feel like a never-ending race where everyone was desperate to be at the front.

I rode along the same route I took daily to and from work, but today, it felt different. Maybe it was the lighter traffic, maybe it was the weather, or maybe it was simply the fact that I wasn’t on my way to work. The road felt scenic in a way I had never noticed before. After a while, I turned onto a deserted cemented road that matched the overcast sky’s muted hues. To my left, I saw a park filled with swings, yet there were no children playing—most were likely in school. Not everyone got to enjoy the privilege of a five-day workweek. My school had been six days a week as well, but after four years in college and nearly a year in the workforce, I had become accustomed to the rhythm of working five and resting two.

Even with less traffic, Bangalore never truly slept. There was always movement—someone in a rush, a persistent stream of vehicles, young riders enjoying the thrill of their sports bikes. Since the day I arrived here, Bangalore had always felt like a city of fulfilled dreams. The luxury cars, the grand apartments, the bustling malls—everything seemed to echo the aspirations of those who had finally “made it.” It made me realize how, despite our uniqueness, we are all connected by some shared desires and ambitions.

I had been riding without a destination for a while, lost in thought. Eventually, I decided to turn back. As I retraced my path, I noticed how much my eyes wandered—not just to the road but to the buildings, the parks, the people. Everything felt more scenic, more significant. I glanced at my speedometer and chuckled—I had been riding at barely 10 km/h. On a weekday, I would have been bombarded with honks and angry shouts by now.

This slow pace reminded me of when my dad was teaching me how to drive. I was the only one in my family who had taken up science, so everyone assumed I knew everything about cars and bikes. I loved that—it made me feel smart and unique. But when it came to actual driving, I wasn’t as adept as I thought. My dad would often scold me, like any father teaching his child. One day, frustrated, I decided to drive absurdly slow—never exceeding 20 km/h—just to annoy him. It worked. He was furious. Later, I regretted it. It was a pointless act of rebellion, and I had made him angry for no reason. That memory stuck with me.

But today, I was driving slowly not out of defiance, but out of joy. If my dad were here, I would have shown him how wonderful it can be to drive simply for the sake of driving. Of course, he would still be annoyed at my speed. But I now understood his frustrations, his constant push for me to be better. It had once felt suffocating, but after living on my own, figuring out life, I finally saw his perspective. I even understood why he still asked me about my expenses. It wasn’t about control—it was about protecting me, about passing down wisdom earned through his own mistakes.

Lost in thought, I barely noticed I had reached my apartment. I parked my bike, stepped into the lift, and thought about my evening plans. It had been a long time since I had met my friend. I wasn’t sure what we would talk about or where to take her—I hadn’t explored Bangalore enough to have a favorite place. Most likely, we’d have dinner at a mall, do some window shopping, and then head to the airport.

Reaching my room, I set down my helmet, placed my keys and watch in the drawer, and sat on the couch. Out of habit, I reached for my phone. There was a message—a snap from my friend. It was a picture of the skyline from her window, captioned: “Bangalore Dreams”

I chuckled. Looking out my own window, I noticed a single ray of sunlight piercing through the thick gray clouds. The sky was clearing. The weather had finally resumed its usual rhythm. My precious, stolen time with the frozen morning had come to an end. And so, it was time to return to my usual Saturday.