I crossed Hussain Sagar with a heavy heart. As the auto rattled across Tank Bund road in Hyderabad, my eyes fell on the Buddha statue that stood in the centre of the small, artificial lake. A familiar sight on my daily ride to work. Soon this and all the things that made up my life in this ancient city would be lost to memory.
While applying for a Master’s programme, I had chosen Hyderabad among all its South Indian counterparts. It was intriguing with its bazaars, monuments and palaces and inviting with its promise of modernity—IT giants, business schools, malls and multiplexes. Old world charm. New-age buzz. Now my days in this city were numbered.
Ranjith, whom I was engaged to marry in a few months, had received a job offer from a company in Bangalore. It was an offer no one in their right mind would refuse. So what if it meant folding up our life in Hyderabad and moving to neighbouring Bangalore? Bangalore probably had the most congenial personality of all South Indian cities. The weather was thermostat-controlled, the people gentle and welcoming, and the ambience cosmopolitan. Really, who wouldn’t want to be in Bangalore?
Ranjith, more than once, says, “If you don’t want to move, we won’t.” But it’s a lofty demand and I have no robust reason to back it up. Just a nameless disinclination that gnaws at me.
I had come to Hyderabad as a graduate student with the doors of my heart fully open. I leave for Bangalore with the doors tightly shut. I arrive in Bangalore like an uptight, fault-finding cynic. I tell the city, “The ball is in your court. Surprise me, prove me wrong.” But as anyone will tell you, you have to meet a city halfway.
My first impression of Bangalore was from a Malayalam movie called Butterflies (1993) starring Mohanlal and Aishwarya. In a song meant to showcase their life in the city, Mohanlal wears colourful suits, Aishwarya is dressed in neckties and blazers and, along with a bunch of kids, they prance around vacant tree-lined roads, parks and lakes. That film made me believe that everyone in Bangalore must be cool, hip and wild. But what I believed about myself was at odds with this image. I was a dull and sedate small-town recruit, a total misfit in a city brimming with fun and enterprise. How could I claim this city?
In Hyderabad, I was working as an editor for a publishing house. Bangalore had very few of them. What it had in plenty were BPOs and I reluctantly joined one of those. In a couple of years, I climbed the rungs of the corporate ladder. On the outside, it looked like an accomplishment. Inwardly, I felt smaller and smaller. In social situations when I was asked what I did for a living, I fumbled and mumbled.
Each day had the sameness of the other. Week. Weekend. Week. Weekend. Time blurred. On our first night in Bangalore, I had flopped on the bed and moaned, “Please can we go back?” Ranjith had laughed then. “It’s only been 12 hours. Give it some time.”
I do. I give it years. I visualise a day when I will run into the arms of Bangalore and collapse in a breathless embrace. But that day never comes. In a landlocked city, my eyes searched for the sight of water; the totality of a booming sea that offered a redemptive effect. I craved a glittering, quivering skyline to banish the gloom of the dark. I missed a distinctive cultural identity and aesthetic to which one could claim to belong. Bangalore felt too diffused and generic. I do not belong to Bangalore. Neither does Bangalore belong to me.
For youngsters who have grown up in Kerala’s conservative atmosphere, Bangalore offers the possibility of breaking free from social orthodoxy and reinventing their appearance, identity and purpose. It is the promise of every big city, a promise with such seductive power that Malayalees are reeled in by the busloads. So when I admit that I am not particularly fond of Bangalore, the most flak I get is from fellow Malayalees. Occasionally, someone asks, “If not Bangalore, then which city do you like?” I don’t know. It’s hard to convince someone of a feeling of estrangement that is vague yet persistent. I am annoyed with my own obstinacy too. Why can’t I just love Bangalore and move on?
After five fuzzy years of being in limbo, I finally bade farewell to my corporate job. I embraced the squandering, purposeless ways of the unemployed and explored the city that now lay open and inviting before me. I walked the streets. Watched movies alone. Visited Ranga Shankara for its sabudana vadas and Kalmane for its coffee. I savoured the staggering tree canopies and island gardens, overcast skies and afternoon showers. When Raghu Dixit walked on stage at an indie music festival, I screamed too. His ‘Ninna poojage bande mahadeshwara’ was my first favourite Kannada song. If the song belonged to me, could the city too?
There were glimmers of connection. But they were eclipsed by my longing for things absent.
A few more years rolled by. We moved to a green neighbourhood on the outskirts of the city. I became a mother and opted for a work-from-home job. I spent most of my time indoors. From furniture to rice, everything was bought, exchanged and returned online. My offline life shrank and its online counterpart expanded. The city was an idea I rarely had to encounter in reality.
The only exception was the daily drive to my son’s preschool. The car ride had to be a performance I put up for my toddler’s benefit. Nursery rhymes, games, storytelling—the works. No lull was ever allowed. Still, I treasured this chance that took me outdoors. When you are cooped up in the house, tending to domestic duties, it is easy to feel insignificant and worthless.
Each day after drop-off, I would hop over to Kaapi Katte and order lemon tea. I’d stand on the pavement, car key and purse in one hand, hot tea in another, devouring the city as much as the drink. This became a sacred ritual to combat the loneliness of motherhood, a ritual that brought me in contact with the city and allowed me to participate in its chaos and commotion.
If you ask my son where he is from, he says ‘Bangalore’ instantly. His identity is ‘Bangalore’ not Malayalee. I, on the other hand, may never have this connection. Yet, it is impossible to spend a long time in a city without developing some attachment towards it, however ambiguous or inconsistent. Bangalore may not be immense and rousing like Mumbai or proud and grandiose like Delhi. It is gentle and restrained. It has its subtle charms, nooks of beauty and grace amidst the madness of urban development run amok.
Like the heaps of avarekai beans on pavements in the winter.
Like the sound of birds in the Cubbon Park metro station playing on loop all day.
Like the presence of old-world bookstores Bookworm and Blossom in a street known for its restaurants and pubs.
Like the floodlit caverns of Chinnaswamy stadium, where I line up with the rest of the city each IPL season and fervently chant ‘Namma Ooru, Bengaluru’.
Perhaps, we have met halfway, Bangalore and I. We have shuffled our way towards the middle ground where warmth and connection begin. I don’t know. We are taking it slow, Bangalore and I. One decade at a time.
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