The Sun, a Scooter, and a Missing BMW

It was 10 in the morning, a summer day in Mysore, Karnataka, April 2, 2025, to be precise. The sun was already flexing its muscles, gearing up to roast the earth like a tandoori chef with a grudge. I swear, it must be fed up with us—climate change and all that jazz. Maybe it was sitting up there, plotting how to spare Mysore’s people from its fiery wrath, thinking, “Let’s not overdo it today, poor souls.” Ha! Jokes apart, I had bigger fish to fry—or rather, a car to chase.

I set off toward the police station, not because I’m some law-abiding hero, but because my X1 has been missing in action for two months. I’d handed it over to a repair guy—a decent chap, mind you—who seems to have vanished with it. I paid him an advance, and I’m guessing he’s used it to patch up his own life instead of my car. I get it, he’s a poor guy, juggling family and survival, but here’s the kicker: you don’t keep customers happy by ghosting them. I’d been patient—calm as a sea before the moon yanks it into a tidal tantrum—but two months of excuses snapped me. So, off I went, armed with his photo and number, to nudge the police into nudging him. The inspector, bless him, probably did.

From there, I zipped to my in-laws’ place because my wife—home minister extraordinaire—never lets me roam free without a mission. It’s like my dad used to say: “Since you’re heading to the forest, grab some firewood on the way back.” She’d sniffed out that I’d be in the vicinity and tasked me with dropping off a food box. Classic. But my scooter? Oh, it was screaming bloody murder. The fuel gauge blinked like an angry toddler, whining, “Fill my tank, you inconsiderate human!” I obliged at a petrol pump, weaving through Mysore’s chaos—traffic snarling under an overhead bridge where a train rumbled past.

Now, here’s a sight: people dodging that bridge like it’s cursed. Why? Because Indian trains don’t mess around—their toilets dump straight onto the tracks. Liquid or solid, it’s a free-fall lottery, and if you’re under that bridge, you might just win a nasty prize. I paused, staring at this absurdity, wondering what kind of world we’ve built.

The train passed, the crowd scattered, and I pressed on through Ashoka Puram—past stray dogs, holy cows blocking traffic (Hindus love ‘em, don’t we?), and a gaggle of autorickshaw drivers clogging the road for some festival. Oh, the irony! Up in Uttar Pradesh, the government’s banned Muslims from praying on streets—“No clogging the roads with your faith, please!”—but here, our Hindu brothers were turning the circle into a festival free-for-all, autorickshaws parked like thrones. Majority rules, eh? No one bats an eye when it’s our chaos. Satire’s alive and well, but the double standard stinks louder than the train’s leftovers.

I dropped the food box at my in-laws’. My father-in-law, ever the gentleman, offered buttermilk. I declined—too much on my plate (figuratively, sadly)—and headed back toward the police station to sort out my car saga.

Panchavati, Mysore

On the way, my scooter practically dragged me into Panchavati Hotel. My tea craving kicked in like an involuntary muscle twitch—stop, sip, now! Inside, it was a circus: real estate sharks cutting deals, traders yapping, and loiterers hogging tables while the shopkeeper silently prayed for them to buzz off. I ordered tea and water, glancing out the window as my mind crept toward work emails. One from my manager popped up—technical questions galore. Great, a day of AI-assisted brain-racking awaited.

Then, a group of Muslim folks from Kerala walked in—sarees, smiles, and all—into this Hindu-epic-named joint. Panchavati hosting Ramayana’s opposites? The irony wasn’t lost on me. I grinned at the harmony of it—coexistence in a teacup. But I couldn’t help noticing a waiter’s side-eye. Maybe I imagined it, my biases playing tricks, but the media’s done a number on us, hasn’t it? Labels stick like monsoon mud. Still, they sat, sipped, and I felt a quiet joy—until my wife called.

“Where are you? The car? You’re late!” Home minister strikes again. I gulped my tea, paid up, and rode off, passing the red-painted district court. Outside, a micro-economy buzzed—tea stalls, photocopy shops, lawyers haggling. Cases piled up inside, justice creaked along, and life spun its messy web. I lingered, marveling at it: the ecosystem of chaos and survival.

Back at the police station, I got an update—my repair guy had been “nudged.” Maybe I’d see my BMW soon. Maybe not. Either way, Mysore’s sun, my scooter, and my wife’s to-do list had me in their grip. Another day, another satire-soaked spin through this wild, beautiful mess we call life.