The Metropolis

My first tryst with this city was more than a decade ago. It was a nascent metropolis then. With every road representing a tunnel formed by a canopy of trees on either sides, it seemed as if Sher Shah's dream of the Grand Trunk Road was finally being realized here. The individual houses, characterized by the mask of a demon's face (usually atop the main entrance), a solar tank on the terrace, and a stairway gracing the outside of the house seemed to be in perfect harmony with their ambiance. The city was a burgeoning metro that had not yet graduated in terms of cunning, complexity, and ruthlessness. The autowallahs, despite the bloodline of their profession did not have the guile that characterized their cousins in the other metros. All you needed to provide was the destination name, and your man-in-khaki would turn the meter on, and take you on a pleasant ride. The food you ate was simple yet unadulterated, much like the people you were likely to meet during a random walk across the city. They did their daily work, but also found time to help you, even if you did not speak their language. Even the gods seemed to bless the city with pleasant weather; A slight yet refreshing chill in the morning, a lukewarm afternoon and an ephemeral drizzle before the end of the day to condition the rise in mercury; Like the icing on a cake.

This was a city that had no metro-rails, no trams, no mono-rails, few construction sites, a single circular-design bus terminus, and a pygmy of a railway station (when compared to Howrah or The Victoria Terminus). It was perhaps an idyllic town amidst the wilderness at the time when its cousins (Calcutta, Bombay, and Madras) were already anointed either as a financial or administrative or military capital of the country by one or several erstwhile empires. Yet, it was striving to raise its green horn among these colossus of cities to claim its rightful place on the country's map.

Somewhere down the line, that desire not to be left out transformed into a passion and eventually a necessity. For better or for worse is a question that I cannot answer (since I haven't spent enough time with her off late). But Bangalore fought a mighty battle to be counted. A decade ago she was a little girl with her hair massaged lavishly in coconut oil, made up in braids and entwined with red ribbons and a strand of mallige. Today she wears a different coiffure, more in line with the occidental taste. Even if by chance you spot her without the Ray-Ban, the maskara will not let you peep into her eyes. She has discarded the old-fashioned pallu and has adorned the checkered Monte Carlo scarf. She is not afraid of the "whistles" any more, but dismisses them as compliments from mortals who suffer from a dearth of expression. The timidity has given way to a certain boldness that stands precariously on the border of being brash. But she does not care. She has taken the cultural swing by its horn and learnt to time a perfect Mexican wave.

Today, the locust-like increase in the number of multiplexes, office complexes, housing complexes, and a plethora of other complexes along with the numerous roads, boulevards and flyovers are a prima facie testimony that the city is fighting well against its aging adversaries, at least on the "infrastructure" front. The overweening billboards are replete with ambitious promises of a Home-Sweet-Home amidst the garden of Eden, for every Adam and Eve who cares to look up. The out-of-vogue individual home-owner too has not fallen far behind. He has draped every tree trunk and electric pole with advertisements that read "1BHK - 8000, 2BHK - 12000, 3BHK - 18000". The city has opened up to let in the Pied-Piper's mice. She has become the Promised Land (where milk and honey flows albeit at an exorbitant price) primarily for a stream of humanity who belong not to the biblical Jewish faith, but to a more modern clan called "IT". The little girl sure has transformed into a shrewd saleswoman. She has marketed herself well.

Today, the young women and men who tread her have a purpose in every footstep. The previously ubiquitous "chappal" has relinquished its popularity to the Nike and Marie Claire. Every T-shirt has an emblem of Armani, or LeeCooper or UCB on it, no matter how "country-made" the caption on its front may seem (I saw a "LeeCooper" which read "I can give headache to an Aspirin"). One secretly desires to voluntarily work for one of these T-shirt makers and provide them ones indigenous two-liners. Surely the idea of cottage industry isn't dead yet. Spike (the bull dog in the Tom and Jerry show) can now die in peace for his namesake now resides on (not "in") every teenager's head.

When you have a million mouths; They will eat. Bangalore knows that. She has strewn her roadsides with food stall aplenty. But, rarely will you find one that sells the traditional dosa, uthappam or kesari bath. No, she is too smart to know what sells among the Pied-Piper's minions. She will hold the Afghan, Punjabi, Bengali, Hyderabadi and other delicacies at the passer-by and stop him on his path every day, till ( like Pavlov's dog) one day he learns to stop by himself and crave for the dishes. It is a trick she has learnt well. As someone once said, "Its nothing personal, its strictly business".

Change to her has come with a compromise. Her honest men-in-khaki have learnt to shed the gentleman in them. They now resemble more a taxiwallah from Kolkata who can smell a tourist from a mile away and refuse to use the meter. They now "quote" a price when you quote a destination. You can dream of a "pleasant ride" still, but in a Meru Cab at five times the price. The canopy over her roads have become less verdant and the typical city-smog has hijacked the once clean atmosphere. The sea of red and amber lights along with the discord of horns on her roads are reminiscent of the infamous traffic-jams of Kolkata. However, through all the transition she has managed to maintain sanity. The innumerable parks that once earned her the Garden City tag; The roads that are kept clean by the timely sweeping of a diligent man; The coconut and maize vendor as you turn a street corner; The smell of coffee; The sight of Palash and African Tulip waiting patiently for a discerning eye. Together they have kept the redolence of the city intact. Bengaluru today is like an old friend who has transformed over the years. Yet her dimpled smile reminds one of the carefree days gone by.