Shradhanjali: A Morning That Changed Everything

This morning, we lost a colleague.

A man like any of us. On a bike, headed to work. A sudden skid. A speeding bus. A heartbeat silenced before the sun had risen high.
He had just become a father.

The weight of that truth stopped me. Somewhere, a baby waits to grow up hearing stories instead of memories, searching for the face of someone they’ll never truly know.

I ride the same road. I, too, have two small daughters—Siri and Sindhu—waiting for me every evening. When I heard the news, I imagined myself in his place. My girls waiting... but no door ever opening again.

It shook me. And from that ache, two truths emerged:

🔴 1. He wasn’t wearing a helmet.
It seems small—until it’s everything. We often skip it: it’s too hot, too rushed, too uncomfortable. But sometimes that one decision is all it takes to turn fate.

🕒 2. The Biometric Clock.
Our shift starts at 07:15 AM. It’s non-negotiable. We race against time, against traffic, against logic. The fear of a late mark becomes more urgent than the fear of not returning home.
Can a system not adjust for human life?

In a few days, silence will return. Schedules will resume. Another bike will replace his in the parking lot. “The show must go on.”

But I don’t want to forget. Not today. Not this man. Not the fragile thread we ride on each morning.

This post is my shradhanjali—my tribute. And also my pledge:

I will wear my helmet. Every time. No exceptions.
I will leave earlier, even if it means sacrificing sleep over safety.
I will speak up—not to blame systems, but to humanize them.

And to my daughters—if you ever read this one day—know that I promised to come home to you. I will carry that promise like armor.

And more than anything else, hug your children tightly each day. Let them know you’ll always do your best to come back home to them. Not just for you—but for their world.

To the one we lost today: your absence echoes, but your memory may save another. May your soul find peace.
May we all ride safer. Live gentler. And return home.

“It’s better to be Mr. Late than Late Mr.”

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