Growing up I never thought Indian roads were loud. Even when I saw foreign travellers constantly made videos about it. It was until I went to a foreign country and actually got to experience their roads. It wasn't just small towns or designed tourist spots. These were metropolitan cities filled to the brim. Humans, dogs, cars, the occasional pigeons. Yet there was something significantly differently between the streets of those countries and India.

No, it wasn't the lack of trash or dust (I did notice that too). It was how silent the roads were.

There wasn't a lack of cars or any other sort of vehicles on the streets. But what lacked was the constant honking. It was surprising at first, then came acceptance of a new system. But then came a question - why aren't Indian roads like this?

You try to cross a road at a zebra crossing there will be a car aggressively honking so it doesn't have to stop for you to crossing the road. Even if a city bus stops at its designated stop you have to look left and right before exiting because a 2-wheeler will jam itself into that tiny space between the bus and pavement to get ahead of others. Why is that?

Recently, I have noticed many people online talking about how Indians lack empathy. And I can't help but make a connection between the lack of empathy and disregard of traffic rules in India.

A car doesn't stop or a 2-wheeler comes extremely at a zebra crossing because they think "me first" "i shouldn't have to wait for others". Vehicles honk even in roads moving forward because they want to get ahead of others. An open space is a challenge to see who can twist their vehicle in 5 different ways to take up said space. A vehicle breaks the red light and gets angry when the opposite car does the same because 'rules are for thee, not for me'. And the next person in line does the same. And the cycle continues. The mentality of "I should reach my destination faster than others". And unfortunately everyone in the herd is thinking the same thing.

What I saw outside India is people making space for others. A car stops much farther a zebra crossing. Space is left open for ones who might need it more urgently. Or just left alone. Vehicles stand in line waiting for the red light to become green. And when it does, there isn't immediate honking rather slow acceleration.

That is my observation.

Until next time!

There’s a theory on the internet. As unserious as it sounds, if you sit with it long enough you might believe it. That you don’t choose a cat. The cat distribution system chooses for you.

The logic is simple. Cats appear in people’s lives unannounced — on doorsteps, inside their house, under cars or 2randomly coming onto your lap as you are having dinner at an outdoor restaurant with your friends, like they’ve always belonged there. Some people wake up one day and have a pet cat. That's it. No research phase. No long-term desire. Just vibes and fate and a creature that decided to stay.

And then there are people like me.

People who keep asking, quietly and jokingly and a little desperately: where is MY bilai (cat)?

The phrase doesn’t mean I want a cat immediately. It means I haven’t been chosen yet. It means I’m waiting.

The cat distribution system is chaotic and deeply unfair. It hands out cats to people who claim they’re “more of a dog person” and bypasses those who have saved hundreds of cat videos, who stop mid-walk to acknowledge every stray, who already know what kind of food they’d buy, what name they’d choose, how they’d rearrange their life just a little to make space.

Some people talk about the system like destiny. They talk about it with reverence, like it’s a spiritual experience. “She showed up during a thunderstorm.” “He followed me home for three blocks.” “I couldn’t leave her there.” These stories are told the way people talk about love — accidental, inevitable, meant to be.

For them, being chosen confirms something comforting: that good things arrive when you’re not trying too hard.

For me, waiting feels strangely personal.

You start wondering if the system has rules you don’t know about. If you missed a sign. Or if you were skipped. If there’s a checklist you haven’t completed yet. Maybe you’re not ready. Or worse, maybe you are ready but will never get chosen and live your whole life catless!!

This waiting exposes an uncomfortable truth: wanting something gently, without demanding it, is still wanting. And wanting, when unmet, even if you don't show, starts to hurt.

There’s a particular ache to watching other people be chosen. Not just by cats, but by life in general. The cat becomes a symbol — for companionship, for softness, for something you have always wanted to have and working so hard to achieve while others get it without any sweat.

The internet turns this longing into humor. Memes help. Jokes soften the waiting. We laugh about the system the way we laugh about astrology or manifestation — half-believing, half-ITS JUST ROCKS. It’s easier to say the system hasn’t picked me yet than to admit I want something I can’t control.

Because that’s the real tension underneath the joke. Cats don’t respond to effort the way people think effort should work. You can’t optimize your way into being chosen. You can’t apply. You can’t prove yourself. Cats arrive when your routine is fragile. When your plans are loose. When your life has space — not in the literal sense, but in the emotional one. They show up when you’re slightly off-balance, when you think you’re in charge, when you’re not expecting responsibility to look like a warm body pressing against your leg. Maybe the people who “weren’t looking” didn't never want a cat. They probably didn't expect to have one right now.

That’s the part the Cat Distribution System never explains.

Waiting, then, isn’t passive. It’s a kind of holding pattern. You notice the cats you pass on the street. You learn to admire without ownership. You practice care without possession. You walk away when you have to, even when something in you wants to scoop a small, fragile life into your arms and declare it yours.

Where is my bilai? is not a demand. It’s a question asked out in the open air. It’s a recognition that some forms of love can’t be rushed, even when you’re ready. Especially when you’re ready.

The system isn’t testing worthiness. It’s indifferent to longing. It doesn’t reward preparation or punish desire. It operates on timing, coincidence, and an animal’s unbothered intuition.

And maybe that’s the quiet lesson. That not everything meaningful arrives on our schedule. That being chosen isn’t t

he same as being deserving. That waiting doesn’t mean failure — it means you’re still available to be surprised.

One day, maybe, a cat will sit somewhere near me and decide I’m acceptable. It won’t announce itself as destiny. It won’t explain why now. It will just simply stay.

Until then, I wait — observant, slightly hopeful, pretending I’m fine about it, joking about systems and fate and algorithms that don’t exist.

Still asking, softly, with no one in particular in mind:

Where is my bilai?