“So, how’s
Bangalore?”
Whenever any
relative or friend of mine asked me this question last year, I offered them a
standard answer that only differed in the order of the descriptions.
“Pleasant
climate.. Young and energetic people.. Continuously expanding construction
sites.. Day-by-day worsening traffic.. Really beautiful girls..”
The last
part of the answer was always accompanied by a sheepish smile. And I was so
proud and happy that my answer served as a testimony to the general perception
of this once-favorite-retirement-spot.
But for the
past 2-3 months, I have been made to reconsider my perception of this city.
It all
started with my house-hunting efforts.
Till then,
the places I had visited in Bangalore had mostly been malls and a few parks. Having
been surrounded mostly by the corporate crowd in such places, I had also
assumed what most of the outsiders assume about this city.
"Bangalore is a city of young people hugging their computers 5 days a week, then moving on to hug their beer glasses and romantic partners over the weekends in pubs and malls
and incredibly-priced theaters."
But the farther
I traveled from IT parks and the deeper I entered residential areas,
especially ones with houses as old as me or more, I realized a mistake I had
committed.
I had never
included the non-IT/non-corporate people of Bangalore in the equation.
Which I
believe is a very common mistake.
Bangalore,
in that sense, is starkly opposite to Chennai.
Chennai,
when thought about as a city, serves primarily as the home of innumerable
middle-class families, burdened by loans and earnest dreams, earning their daily bread from government offices and
manufacturing units. The IT/corporate
crowd, though continually increasing, still is a minority.
Since the
reverse seems to be true with Bangalore, it makes me wonder if it is time that the
minority rose up in revolution.
At least,
for the sake of Kannada.
Once the
IT/corporate crowd is removed from the equation, thinking about Bangalore
offers a new perspective. Possibly, the real perspective.
This is a lost city.
****
Imagine that you are X and you have been living in a house for close to 2 decades. Naturally, the people down the street will refer to your house as 'X's house'.
As time passes, you realize that your house is too big for you and you are also attracted by the prospect that you can earn easy money by renting out a small portion of your house to some other person. You decide to go ahead with your idea and rent out a small portion to a young guy named Y.
After Y's entry, something unexpected happens.
Y is so young and so full of energy and so easy-going that it is just a matter of weeks before 'X's house' starts getting referred to as 'Y's house'. The newspaper-delivery guy, the milkman, the grocery shop owner - everyone acts as if 'X's house' never existed. For them, all that strikes a chord is 'Y's house'.
When such an identity shift takes place, how would you feel?
****
This is a lost city.
****
Imagine that you are X and you have been living in a house for close to 2 decades. Naturally, the people down the street will refer to your house as 'X's house'.
As time passes, you realize that your house is too big for you and you are also attracted by the prospect that you can earn easy money by renting out a small portion of your house to some other person. You decide to go ahead with your idea and rent out a small portion to a young guy named Y.
After Y's entry, something unexpected happens.
Y is so young and so full of energy and so easy-going that it is just a matter of weeks before 'X's house' starts getting referred to as 'Y's house'. The newspaper-delivery guy, the milkman, the grocery shop owner - everyone acts as if 'X's house' never existed. For them, all that strikes a chord is 'Y's house'.
When such an identity shift takes place, how would you feel?
****
This city has lost itself.
As a result, its real people have lost their identity.
But then, what about the visitors?
By visitors, I do not just acknowledge the engineering graduates who leave behind their families and enter this city to embrace workplaces where their actions and restrictions would anger our selfless freedom fighters.
By visitors, I also include the construction workers who come to this city from their tiny villages located hundreds of kilometers apart, just so that the cement and the mortar and the varnish that they breathe in, reaches their family as sufficient money for two meals a day.
By visitors, I also include the innumerable pani puri sellers and innumerable small-scale eatery workers who pin their hopes on the corporate crowd still wanting to indulge in Indian cuisine.
What about these visitors?
I see lost identities there as well.
For the past 2 months, these thoughts have made me look at this city in a new light.
Not a very bright, sunny one but a dim, subdued, wintry kind of light.
At times, I look around at the roads and trees and the mix of old houses and new towers and experience a feeling of pain.
I also look at the sky and wonder if the continually forming grey clouds and constant drizzles are the outbursts of this city's pain.
Even now, as I am finishing up this post, I look outside my window and notice a grey sky. It stirs up in me an emotion which I have earlier experienced on days when my mom had been sick yet had taken the effort to prepare food.
I decide to climb up to the terrace and spend some time with the about-to-cry sky.
Perhaps, as a slow drizzle starts, I could start listening to the heart-wrenching 'Ennaku pidithal paadal..' from Julie Ganapathy and lose myself in the pain filled tears.
As a result, its real people have lost their identity.
But then, what about the visitors?
By visitors, I do not just acknowledge the engineering graduates who leave behind their families and enter this city to embrace workplaces where their actions and restrictions would anger our selfless freedom fighters.
By visitors, I also include the construction workers who come to this city from their tiny villages located hundreds of kilometers apart, just so that the cement and the mortar and the varnish that they breathe in, reaches their family as sufficient money for two meals a day.
By visitors, I also include the innumerable pani puri sellers and innumerable small-scale eatery workers who pin their hopes on the corporate crowd still wanting to indulge in Indian cuisine.
What about these visitors?
I see lost identities there as well.
For the past 2 months, these thoughts have made me look at this city in a new light.
Not a very bright, sunny one but a dim, subdued, wintry kind of light.
At times, I look around at the roads and trees and the mix of old houses and new towers and experience a feeling of pain.
I also look at the sky and wonder if the continually forming grey clouds and constant drizzles are the outbursts of this city's pain.
Even now, as I am finishing up this post, I look outside my window and notice a grey sky. It stirs up in me an emotion which I have earlier experienced on days when my mom had been sick yet had taken the effort to prepare food.
I decide to climb up to the terrace and spend some time with the about-to-cry sky.
Perhaps, as a slow drizzle starts, I could start listening to the heart-wrenching 'Ennaku pidithal paadal..' from Julie Ganapathy and lose myself in the pain filled tears.
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