Why Malleswaram Railway Station Still Feels Like Home

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Malleswaram Railway Station — a place that never felt like “just” a station. A few months ago, someone forwarded me a video of an elderly lady speaking about the charm of Malleswaram Railway Station. She mentioned how, whenever her children visit Bangalore from Canada, one ritual remains unchanged. Her son insists on visiting the station, picking up idly from Raghavendra Stores, and eating it right there on the platform. I smiled when I heard that, because for many of us who grew up in Malleswaram, the railway station was never just a transit point. It was a quiet witness to our growing up. Even now, if I close my eyes, I can hear the metallic rhythm of trains slowing into the platform, the echo of announcements bouncing off the tiled roof, the smoky sweetness of roasted maize drifting from the bridge, and the soft warmth of idlies wrapped in paper from Raghavendra Stores. The station was never silent — but it always felt peaceful. For nearly a decade, ...
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The Paralysis of Choice

A desk overflowing with choices — the perfect metaphor for a modern mind.

I’ve always wondered why stepping outside my comfort zone feels harder than it should. With so many ways to spend time, I keep circling the same question: am I choosing what matters, or am I just numbing myself with options? Choice overload might be the defining anxiety of our era.

One moment I’m browsing an AI course on Coursera, convincing myself I’ll finally finish it. The next, I’m tempted to restart my Sanskrit lessons. And somewhere in that mental whirlpool, a random LLM video on YouTube quietly steals an hour I never intended to give away. It isn’t learning — it’s drifting.

I think back to my first iPhone 4. One model. One color. No storage decisions. Apple had already stripped away the noise. Life felt simpler when constraints were built in.

Today everything comes in infinite flavors — phones, courses, ideas, careers, spiritual paths, entertainment platforms. Abundance looks empowering, but it corrodes something essential. When everything is possible, nothing feels necessary. Too many choices fracture focus, weaken discipline, and blur identity.

And here’s the part I avoided admitting for years:
I’m not overwhelmed by choices. I’m avoiding commitment.

Choosing one path means surrendering the illusion that I can master every bucket — AI, Sanskrit, Vedanta, technical learning, creative writing. I want a slice of all of them. I know that’s impossible. So I stay frozen, pretending indecision is something noble.

That pattern cost me years. I spent fifteen years telling myself I would publish an “outstanding book.” A decade and a half later, I didn’t even have a draft. Perfection didn’t raise the bar; it muzzled me.

The only antidote I’ve found is constraint. A schedule forces me to choose. So I write during my kids’ music sessions; while they practice their ragas, I type my way out of excuses. I’m learning to give each bucket a defined place instead of letting them brawl inside my head.

Because in the end, life doesn’t reward the person with the most options.
It rewards the one who stops browsing and starts building.

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