From tricycle to shopping cart

In the day of supermarkets, hypermarkets, credit cards and Sodexo
passes, a few neighbourhood provision stores have been able to hold on
to their loyal customers. While more and more housewives and working
couples stroll the aisles of supermarkets with their shopping carts,
these provision stores and what were called “societies” and “ration
depots” were the main source of the monthly provisions for families in
Bangalore not so long ago.
In the old localities, these were dingy establishments with articles
falling off stone or cement shelves, overflowing gunny bags, leaking
tins and glass jars.
The shopkeeper’s assistant fords his way through the store looking for
footholds on the floor strewn with his ware to fetch your requirement.
The shop is packed with his supplies in every nook and corner and the
air thick with the overpowering odour of tamarind, red chillies,
grains and gingili oil.
The household generally gets its provisions once a month after the
head of family hands over the shopping list to the shop owner. Then,
the delivery boy on his tricycle brings home the goods which he
spreads on the red oxide floor in the hall. The members of the house
then tally the goods on the list with those on the floor and pay the
delivery boy.
Any additional requirement during the month too is procured on credit
by producing a little book in which the shop keeper enters the item
and its price. The carry bags were yet to arrive on the scene and one
had to visit the shop with one’s own cloth bag or wire basket or
stainless steel carrier, depending on what one wanted to buy. There is
invariably a “dispute” over the total in the book at the end of the
month, which is settled after much argument after it is discovered
that the little boy, who had been sent to buy oil earlier in the
month, had also helped himself to a bar of chocolate without the
father’s knowledge.
It is because of this credit facility that households preferred these
provision stores, though the ration depots and societies were cheaper.
Moreover, one had to regularly scan the newspapers to know when the
month’s quota of sugar had arrived at the ration depot before standing
in line to buy it.
Besides the provision store and the ration depot, there was the
ubiquitous “Kaka” store, traditionally manned by a benevolent looking,
pencil line moustached Moplah, to whom the housewife  generally
despatched her little son for emergency supplies like green chillies
or a bunch of coriander leaves, when an unexpected and uninvited guest
needed to be entertained.
Today, the long queues at the ration shops have been replaced by long
lines at the counters of supermarkets as the sales girl gets down to
counting coupons or tries to  coax the card swiper to respond.
vijaysimha@newindianexpress.com

Diwali time in ‘Bang’alore

Diwali time in ‘Bang’alore

Diwali was the most eagerly awaited festival for children and it was
common to hear fire crackers go off several days before and after the
festival. Over the years, owing to prices, pollution and pets, the
festival is being celebrated on a lower key in Bangalore.
Though one doesn’t hear fire crackers days ahead of Diwali to signal
the approaching festival these days, the retail revolution has ensured
that one knows the festival is round the corner with the papers,
pamphlets and super markets announcing sales. The advent of the
festival was also evident from the open display of fire crackers in
shops. Before the ban on selling crackers in shops came into force,
one went to the family’s provision store to buy the season’s supply of
fire crackers. The shopkeeper’s tins of Ovaltine and Tinopal would
make way for packets of aane (elephant) patakis (big red fire
crackers) and kudre (horse) patakis (smaller crackers), besides
rockets, flower pots and the like.
Besides provision stores, people bought their quota of crackers from
their work places. Employees of Bangalore’s public sector industries,
which were once the biggest employers in the city, brought home
cartons of crackers from their factories, which sold it to their
employees at a discount. It was also common for people to buy crackers
through chit fund schemes.
Once the crackers are brought home, some of them are unpacked and left
out in the sun, presumably to keep the powder dry. However, it is
common to see crackers failing to go off after they are lit. But when
the little boy gets close to it to check the fuse, “bang” it goes,
sending him scurrying for cover, leaving the incense stick behind.
Children also innovate with crackers, like covering a bomb with a tin,
only to see it shoot up into the sky once the cracker goes off.
On Diwali day, lamps line up on compound walls, the flower pots light
up the streets, the bombs echo off the walls, the rockets hiss and
blast in the city’s several neighbourhoods. There’s not a minute’s
silence. A view of the night sky shows rockets in every direction
shooting up into the darkness and ending with a blast, which is only
heard a fraction of a second later.
After an evening of lighting the firecrackers, the little boy goes
indoors and finds circles in front of his eyes and ringing in his ears
owing to the incessant bursting of crackers.
It’s one festival that the poor pet dreads. After repeated barking and
whimpering fails to stop the barrage of crackers, the cur retreats to
the bedroom and takes cover under the grandpa’s cot.
vijaysimha@newindianexpress.com

The callings and the calls

The callings and the calls

There are some hawkers' cries that one seldom hears in Bangalore
today. With changing lifestyles, certain trades have become redundant.
The knife-sharpener with his big wheel, the cobbler with his bag
laden with the hammer, anvil, twine and needle, the vessel polisher
with his bellows and coal to light a fire by the road, were a common
sight in the city's residential areas some time ago. Children used to
crowd around the tradesmen as they got down to work. As the knife
sharpener steps on his pedal and works up speed on the big wheel, the
big eyes on the little faces would gaze at the sparks that fly as the
knife kisses the abrasive wheel. The housewife pays him a coin and
beams at the newly sharpened knife as she gets into the house. Elsewhere, the
cobbler inspects the slipper whose sole opens like an alligator's
snout and smears the resin over it with a piece of rubber. He then
works a neat seam around the edge with his sharp needle and snips off
the twine at the end of the exercise. He pockets the 25 paise, and
proceeds on his way. After the sparks from the knife sharpener, it’s
the magical special effects of the vessel shiner that fascinate the children most. They watch as he prepares a furnace on the
ground by digging a small hole, filling it with charcoal. The
reluctant embers are then goaded into a flame by a bellow that huffs and puffs
furiously. He then works on the holes in the vessel with his hammer
and puts it over the fire. And then picks up a handful of white powder
and applies it on the sooty surface of the brass or copper vessel,
transforming it into gleaming silver when he rubs the powder with his
cloth. Today, with roads widened to the edge of houses or footpaths paved with granite slabs or concrete, there’s no place to dig the little furnace.
Moreover, the housewife uses stainless steel and non-stick vessels. A
loose sole on a slipper is an excuse to buy a new one, and there are a
host of branded knife sets tempting the shopper on supermarket
shelves.
Like these tradesmen, also missing are the blacksmiths working on the steel rims of the bullock cart, or an ox or horse being shod as they are made to lie on
their sides on the ground.
vijaysimha@newindianexpress.com

Green light to the future

Bangalore was a city made for waking and cycling, given its wide
footpaths, shaded avenues and its short distances. A half-hour ride
would invariably take you to the city’s outskirts. But today, a
half-hour crawl in your vehicle takes you barely a few kilometres,
given the traffic.
Now, while the metro promises to help you bypass the problem, it has
transformed the stretch of roads it traverses from its origin in
Byappanahalli to its destination on MG Road.
Byappanahalli on Od Madras Road, was really the outskirts and close to
the Isolation Hospital, where people with infectious diseases had to
be isolated far from the city. Now, Isolation Hospital is no longer
isolated and Old Madras Road hosts apartment complexes, super markets
and glitzy offices.
The metro then veers off Old Madras Road and cuts through
Indiranagar’s main thoroughfare, Chinmaya Mission Hospital Road. The
road, that was once desolate, had changed long before the metro
arrived. Save for a row of shops at the beginning of the road near
Adarsha cinema and a few near the intersection with Double Road, the
stretch only had a few KHB Houses and sprawling bungalows.
Though it was the main approach road to the locality, traffic was
sparse, with a few double decker buses lumbering up and down the road
periodically. And with no reason to widen it, the road was blessed
with footpaths, allowing its residents to do all their visiting and
shopping on foot. Today, the only walking possible in Indiranagar is
on the treadmills in the several gyms.
Leaving, Indiranagar, the metro presents a stark contrast as it crawls
past the historic temple car in Ulsoor. The tall, granite stone temple
car shed, that one saw vehicles, pedestrians and cows fight for space
on the narrow, bustling, winding road, marked by chaos and cacophony,
is now dwarfed by the tall metro piers. Today, the road that was once
and lined by old establishments and flower sellers, has been
straightened and widened, leading up to Trinity Circle.
And as it reaches MG Road, the metro obscures everything on the road.
The old colonial buildings, or what’s left of them, are the only
reminders of the road’s past.
Long before work on the metro was launched, planners and builders
presented a concept of the metro with artists’ impressions of the
metro on MG Road in the city’s newspapers. Of course, to the readers
would dismiss as farfetched and something one only sees in sci-fi
movies and comic books.
Today, it’s no longer an artists’ impression. The metro is here, in
concrete, steel and aluminium. With the metro, the city seems to have
put its past behind and switched to higher gear, literally taking
commuting to a new level.
vijaysimha@newindianexpess.com

When Kids Thronged to Doll Houses

When Kids Thronged to Doll Houses

Children in Bangalore looked forward to Dasara not only for the holidays and goodies but for the doll arrangement too. They loved to take part in the ritual of unpacking the clay dolls and toys from the old steel trunks on the attics and to scoop sand from the garden and spread it out in the hall to lay a little park. At the end of the nine-day display, they would then reluctantly let their parents put the dolls away and clear the park from the hall.
During the entire nine-day show, well-groomed little children in small groups would walk from door to door, dressed in their finery, inquiring if there was a doll display in the house. The house would invariably have a display and though the household is not acquainted with the little visitors, it would not only let them in willingly, but offer them special Dasara dishes on condition that the children sing a song. And  after gawking at the dolls, rendering the song and polishing off the last morsel from the plate, the toddler team would move to the next house.
The annual packing and unpacking invariably takes its toll on the dolls. A porcelain dog could lose its tail or a clay soldier his head and hence, as a custom, new dolls are added for each Dasara and they could  be clay, porcelain or wood.
The park would include a green patch which is usually ragi that's sown  in advance. An overenthusiastic boy sometimes mistakes mustard for ragi and after a few days finds white sprouts instead of a green hedge. And in an effort to squeeze in the entire collection in the park, the family is forced to let the clay tiger stand shoulder to shoulder with a porcelain lamb.
Besides the park, there's a dolls' gallery of different levels made out of the grandma's cot and the little child's study table, covered with the grandpa's white dhoti.
Strobe lights, little fountains and some themes would make up the display.
This used to be an annual ritual at homes in the city till recently. The shift from old bungalows with sprawling gardens and spacious halls to cramped apartments has meant the custom has fallen by the wayside. There's no garden from which to scoop sand from and no big hall to flaunt the doll display.
But though the tradition has been fading away to an extent, some staunch city residents have been making it a point to keep it alive. Shops have been displaying their collections and a whole lot of idols of Indian Gods of Chinese make besides traditional clay and wooden dolls are on offer.
vijaysimha@newindinaexpress.com

Jayanagar, from hiss to buzz

With the city growing at this pace, it is inevitable for some people to settle for life in the outskirts.

Pioneers of Jayanagar, today’s throbbing locality, would remember their extension as the outskirts that sprung up beyond South End, which really used to be city’s southern edge. They would remember the layout as a well laid out settlement with wide roads and pavements, with provision for all the civic amenities, but still were not in place. Today’s Jayanagar was a far cry from it was when it was just formed. It is hard to imagine today that its residents had to put up with mud roads, lack of communication and transport facilities. Autorickshaw drivers dreaded coming to the locality and venturing out after 7 pm was forbidden. There were a few shops but the most profitable trade seemed to be snake catching, for there used to be a cobra sighting practically every night.

With few people daring to build houses and move in, the nearest human habitation was Yediyur village, today’s VI Block. The Moplah’s ubiquitous “Kaka Angadi” here served as a green grocer and provision store. Lack of houses, however had an advantage as the vacant sites afforded short cuts to the nearest milk booth past the Aane Bande or Elephant Rock, a natural rock formation and a famous Jayanagar landmark, and to the nearest bus stand at IV Block. The end of IV Main, the beautiful Lakshman Rau Boulevard, was really the end of the world.

Soon, children got to stand outside their houses and cheer as the road roller levelled the first layer of asphalt in front of their houses. The Cauvery began to flow through the brass taps soon and the boulevard and vacant sites served as their play grounds. While the Madhavan Park ground and the pool next to it groomed budding sportspersons and swimmers, the new City Central Library introduced them to the literary world.

The Mini Market on vacant shop sites in IV Block was Jayanagar’s source for veggies till the big shopping complex came up in the late 70s on the land originally meant for the general hospital.

A couple of banks and schools which nurtured some of Bangalore’s well known citizens, made life livable and a hall called Shankar Krupa was the venue for the residents’ cultural pursuits.

Today, the metro may promise the residents quick access to the city centre but has taken its toll on Jayanagar’s famous landmark, the Lakshman Rau Boulevard. Its other celebrated landmark, the imposing shopping complex is abuzz with activity, but seems to have robbed its surroundings of the quietude that it once enjoyed. The pioneers, who once wondered whether life would ever be livable in Jayanagar, are probably asking the question again of their favourite locality.

vijaysimha@newindianexpress.com

Who dares diet in B'lore?

A glance at Bangalore's streets in the evenings makes one wonder if it is a city of starving souls. At almost every street corner, the scene repeats itself. As deft fingers of the roadside vendor mix the ingredients with expertise to come up with a titillating treat, fidgeting hands can't wait to grab the plate and dive into the dish.
From the days when eating out was an occasional diversion, to the present, where abstaining would bring on withdrawal symptoms, Bangalore now caters to every craving.
From Udupi style to Andhra and Chettinad and from north Karnataka to Punjabi and Bengali, there's something for everyone.
Restaurants were where barefoot waiters in dhotis walked up to your table, gripping four tumblers of water in one hand to take your order. Just one questioning look from you and he would chant the menu with all eloquence: "Idly, vada, dosa, kara bath, kesari bath, poori, rava idly, bonda...'', only to stop with the anticlimactic "By-two coffee" order from you. The strong smell of tobacco and the aromas of the sambar, coffee and dosa used to happily mingle, for the restaurants were places where smokers had their drags over a coffee. The loud conversations of the clients, the waiter's shouts to the kitchen, the cashiers bell, the dumping of the washed tumblers into the tray, all made for one noisy experience.
Today, with the advent of stand-up cafes, one bites and bolts. You can buy an entire meal from a hole-in-the-wall shop and savour Chinese delicacies off push carts where the spellings of the items are as original as their taste. This is another evidence of how Bangalore has gone global. Besides Chinese noodles, fried rice, Manchurians and mo mos, Continental and Mediterranean food too have gone to the streets.
The paani puri gaadi used to be the generic name for the chaat vendor on the cart. Today, chaat comes from across the country and challenges even the most daring foodie. Vada pavs, misal pavs, gol gappas, dabelis, kachoris, samosas, bread pakodas and papdis test the most conscientious dieter.
Today, everybody is looking for a share of the eating-out pie. Even the multinational food chains that boast uniform tastes across the globe, tinker with their menus to offer dishes with a desi twist. Bangalore, that had streets dealing in specific trades like pottery and jewellery, soon had entire lanes dedicated to food freaks like Market Road in Visweswarapuram, Ibrahim Sahib Street in Shivajinagar and Wilson Garden Main Road.
Who dares diet in Bangalore today?

The city’s furry residents

There is nothing new in the row over strays in Bangalore. The city has always had those who abhorred getting rid of dogs and those who completely eschewed these “furry foes”. The reasons why the dog dodgers shun these mongrels are many: Besides their barks and bites, the flea bags woo the neighbour’s pedigree Pomeranian, they empty their bladders on their scooter tyres, sniff out the kids from their hideouts when they are playing I spy or wake up the whole neighbourhood when the man is trying to sneak into the house without letting the wife know after a night out with the boys.

Among the dog lovers are those who consider strays as disposable dogs but use their foreign breeds to move up in society. While Alsatians and Pomeranians used to be the most popular pedigree pups some time ago, Hollywood hits and television commercials have triggered a mad rush for breeds like Dalmatians, Pugs and Great Danes. And with this, like the city’s population, its dog mix too has turned cosmopolitan, with a lot of mixed breeding thrown in. And so, one fire morning, the proud dog owner is aghast at seeing the pups from her spotted Dalmatian’s litter resemble the neighbourhood mongrel.

Dogs are sought for various reasons. For some it is fashionable to have a pedigree pet, some have them for the real love of animals and others to discourage burglars and salesman. Hence, today, besides the ubiquitous “No Parking” board on the gates of houses, the sign “Beware of Dog” warns anyone trying to barge into the house. But with a spurt in demand for pedigree breeds that command fancy prices, the very dogs that are reared to keep burglars away are stolen by thieves, who sell them off for a premium.

After acquiring a pet, naming it is another exercise in itself. While there are several common names that are typically given to dogs, a few owners name them after comic book characters like Jerry or Snoopy or famous dogs in movies like Benji.  The family sits around the uncomplaining new arrival in the house and drops names like Tommy, Jimmy, Timmy, Ramu…The little black Labrador, who is probably of a very high lineage, maybe the offspring of a prize winning pedigree named Maria, waits with his paws crossed as the most bizarre names fly around. His hope for a decent name finally ends. The little one then cringes as the family settles on “Karia” (son of Maria), but has no option but to answer to the name, for he is supposed to be man’s best friend.

vijaysimha@newindianexpress.com

A city of green thumbs

Bangalore’s famous public parks may have helped it get the Garden City title, but its residents too have ‘nurtured’ this image with their own little home gardens. The garden culture has always been a part of the city with its residents proud of the geraniums in their flower beds or tomatoes in the kitchen patches.

While the sight of old bungalows with large mango, jackfruit, neem or champak trees is becoming rare, the city’s residents are squeezing in vegetation in pots, on terraces, pergolas and window sills. With so much premium on space, the city’s horizontal growth has been curbed considerably, taking a toll on these stately old trees. And hence, like everything else in the city, trees too are growing vertically. This means, only the coconut trees have managed to hold on to their roots in the face of the steel and concrete invasion. In most homes, a coconut tree seemed to be a permanent fixture.  One can tell whether a locality is developed or is still a struggling settlement in the outskirts by looking at its skyline. The sight of coconut trees from any elevated spot is an indication that the locality has “come of age”. 

Gardens served not only to improve the aesthetics but also offered utility with the pious housewife picking the hibiscus from the compound , jasmine  from the creeper clinging to the barbed wire on the wall for her prayers, or pulling a few springs of curry leaves for her steaming rasam from the tree in the backyard.

The children on the other hand spent time on the guava trees, foraging for fruits on them with squirrels and neighbours for competition or sucked the nectar out of the hibiscus flowers, shooing away the humming bird and the mongrel, which has developed a taste for the buds. The dog however has no competitors for the ripe papayas that drop down to the ground and expose their insides.

Hence, most Bangaloreans today consider it a sacrilege to buy guavas and papayas off the carts and from markets since they could be had readily from one’s garden or the neighbour’s at no cost.

Neighbours are an integral part of the home gardens. While most exchanged seeds, cuttings, tubers or the produce, others simply pinched or “borrowed” pumpkins and gourds from across the walls. Like the garden produce, gardening implements too are borrowed and seldom returned.

A new patch of vegetables is watered under the watchful eyes of not only the owner with the green thumb but also the neighbour who’s green with envy.

vijaysimha@newindianexpress.com

Ritual of the Sunday Shower

Most Bangaloreans, not so long ago, set aside Sundays for their weekly bathing ritual. There is no attempt here to suggest here that Bangaloreans did not bathe during the rest of the week, though some feel they can be excused for not  getting into the shower, given the overcast skies and the chill in the air.
The Sunday shower differed from the daily ritual rinse in many ways and is not to be attempted on a working day, lest one misses the BTS bus to work. For, this weekly wash was no ordinary scrub, where one entered the shower with a tune on the lips and emerged with the towel drying the hair and the tune yet to reach the last stanza. The Sunday shower was an elaborate exercise that involved the entire household. The head of the house is assigned the duty of getting the huge copper cauldron of water boiling for which he has to stuff the fireplace in the bathroom with firewood, charcoal, cow dung cakes or anything combustible, including a broken rosewood chair or the children’s notebooks in times of emergency. And then, he’d work on the flames with the black iron blow pipe that would make a whistling sound as he empties the air from his lungs onto the embers.
One look at the neighbourhood from the terrace shows how many blow pipes are at work as the blue smoke billows out of the the long asbestos chimneys on the roof tops of all the houses in the locality. Chimneys usually have a perforated cap on the top to keep rainwater out and also to thwart the attempts of the mischievous boy wanting to drop his tennis ball into it, blocking the chimney and filling the bathroom with smoke.
The neighbour has no way of getting away by lying that he has had his bath. No smoking chimney, no bath.
For his efforts, the one working at the fireplace will get his scalp oiled with the thick viscous castor oil and the skin with the aromatic gingely oil. After several minutes of massaging the scalp and skin, the mixture of the washing medium is prepared. Soapnut powder and a green herbal powder are mixed in hot water and the compound is mixed thoroughly and applied on the hair after it is sufficiently wetted. Repeated applications of the mixture are made to remove the last traces of the adamant castor oil and then, as one steps out, the flaming red eyes from soapnut powder and smoke from the fireplace show that the weekly ritual is done.
Finally, one steps out of the house to feel the wind in the light, fluffy hair and announce to the neighbourhood that you haven’t skipped the bath.

vijaysimha@newindianexpress.com

Lalbagh

Bussing in Bangalore

Reporting hours early at the airport for a flight is now an accepted norm, but it wasn't uncommon to allow such lead time for public transport buses in Bangalore a few years ago. The city's buses were so notorious for delays, breakdowns and missed trips that any journey from point A to point B in the city, required detailed planning. It earned such a bad reputation that BTS, short for Bangalore Transport Service, was better known as Bittre Tirga Sigalla (Miss it and you won't get it again), or Banni Tholli Swami (Come, give it a push).
After an endless wait at the bus stop, commuters had to squeeze themselves into the red, rickety buses if they ever halted at the stops, and get ready to alight again since it would take ages to wade through the crowded aisles and reach the jam packed exit. And then, after one or two stops, there was more waiting on the bus to allow the conductor to finish issuing his tickets, licking his fingers each time he tears one off the pad.
Today's conductor carries little gadgets to print tickets, the buses are equipped with LED scrolling displays within and outside, with a GPS system announcing the approaching stop, they run on air suspension and have pneumatic doors, low-floors and some even have airconditioning.
Buses still are over crowded during peak hours but one can now afford to give such buses a miss and wait for one on which one gets a toehold, unlike in the past when a missed bus meant returning home or an autorickshaw ride. One would rarely be able to make a round trip to Malleswaram from Jayanagar in one day. If one walked past people waiting at a bus stop, it was not uncommon to see the same set of people with their faces showing greater anxiety and impatience, even 45 minutes later and with no bus visible on the horizon.
Though complaints still pour in about the transport system, BMTC, as it is called now, has been trying to keep pace with the city's growth.
With Bangalore's erstwhile outskirts now turning into the city centre, suburban buses, which used to ferry villagers, their farm produce and sometimes even their farm animals, are now the preferred mode of commuting for laptop laden techies. Smoking, which used to be a norm on these buses, has virtually been stubbed out, thanks not only to new smoking regulations but also because it is not acceptable today.
For a sleepy city with a leisurely pace of life, the erstwhile BTS didn't seem too out of place. But with Bangalore now on the move, it's citizens have no time for the lumbering old bus service.
And with the metro promising some hope, commuters can now finally commute and not just wait. But with the launch date, getting pushed again, Bangaloreans hope they don't have to wait for it like they did for the old BTS buses.

Big city edges out little bird

"Dear sparrow, please come back. All is forgiven." That's the bird lovers' plea to the humble house sparrow that's been missing from Bangalore for some years now. The little bird used to be an integral part of every household not so long ago. Ventilators, attics, ledges and the shelters of tiled roofs served as nests for these feathered families, where entire generations found their wings.
The tiny tots in the house were always fascinated by these fluttering and chirping friends and tried to befriend them everytime these birds hopped around on the floor picking up the remnants of the grains left over after the grandmother's rice cleaning session.
To some, the birds may have all looked similar, but little children who had been watching the birds fly in and out of the house, could easily tell one from the other. The birds too, like the human inhabitants of the house, had occasional arguments, probably over the upbringing of the nestlings or for returning late to the nest and created a racket, with each one trying to out-chirp the other.
Dry grass and bits of cotton and coir from the mattresses usually made up the cosy nests, where small, grey, speckled eggs used to be hatched. Every time the birds returned to the nests, the bare, skinny nestlings would begin their little squeals in chorus and stop only after they got their fill.
Soon, they'd grow feathers and wings and the adventuruous of the siblings would venture to discover the big bad world, only to drop down on to the floor, unable to finds its wings. It is then left to the inmates of the house to return the sheepish bird to the nest, before the pet mongrel or cat tried to make a meal of it.
Bangalore's growth and its citizens' lifestyle seem to have pushed the little birds out of the daily life here. With houses having sprawling compounds, it was customary to keep the front doors open during the day. This allowed these birds to fly in and out at will. This also allowed the neighbourhood's children and the old woman next door to walk in. The former with a ball and the latter with the latest gossip. Today, with front doors opening directly to the road or the corridors in the case of flats, leaving the door open would mean inviting trouble in the form of pollution and "pests" of every kind. Gradually, as the old big houses with those high Mangalore tiled ceilings made way for new houses, the nests too disappeared. And with the city getting warmer, the ceiling fans ran throughout the year, keeping the birds away. And then, with the communications revolution, the mobile towers are said to be affecting these birds.
Citizens today no longer wake up the chirping. The only twitter at homes today are on the laptops and PCs.

B'lore's choking on plastic

The ban on thin plastics is here and Bangaloreans hope this would mitigate the city's garbage problem to an extent. Though plastic alone is not the cause for the mess, it is a big eye sore and the most conspicuous. Plastic bags lie around, fly around, stick to trees and shrubs, get into cows' stomachs and just don't go away. Higher population density, lack of dustbins and citizens' tendency to litter without conscience, have only added to the menace.
Some time ago, people used to scorn at those who didn't dispose of garbage properly. But today it is common to see Bangaloreans drop toffee wrappers, coffee cups, banana peels, pamphlets, paper plates and soft drink PET bottles wherever they like.
With a ban on plastic, it could be back to those old cloth bags, the 'brown paper packages tied up with strings', or the once familiar all-purpose bags made of plastic wires in which an uncle brought home a puppy and carried with him a papaya from the garden. It could be the time again to relive the pleasure of discovering a surprise gift, making a rustling sound while unwrapping a brown paper package that your dad brought home and exclaim with joy as you find fire crackers, or colour pencils, or your favourite book in it.
If the ban is indeed enforced strictly, one cannot leave home without carrying a bag since one will not be able to stuff tomatoes into one's pockets. And in any case, with today's inflation, one is forced to carry a bag as one steps out of the house -- to carry the money to buy your things!
Today, everything comes in plastic -- milk, coconut water and the full course of a meal from your favourite restaurant -- rasam and buttermilk included. One could soon be able to make omelettes by breaking plastic eggs.
Bangaloreans sure are accustomed to the convenience of polythene. With the city known for its fickle weather, plastic bags keep the shopper's head and bottom dry from the falling rain and the wet motorcycle seat respectively. But surely, when it comes to the overall good of the city, they would certainly be willing to put up with a little inconvenience, with their patented phrase: "Swalpa adjust madi."
And if they can learn this, there is no reason why they can't unlearn this new found habit of littering without qualms. But that's another story altogether.

B'loreans love their weddings

As the wedding season starts in the city, the Bangalore Press calendars hanging on the walls of the city's homes begin to have their dates circled. More often than not, there is more than one wedding on a single day and the invited households begin to brainstorm on whether to attend the morning ceremony (breakfast included), lunch or reception. After some guess work on the guest list, a decision is made on whether to avoid or attend the morning event or the evening get together. If the wedding is on a working day, the decision is generally based on convenience or Bangalore's notorious weather. However, it's the menu that's the overriding factor on most occasions. One would then have to decide on the idlis or upma and piping hot coffee for breakfast or a multi-course spread for lunch or bisibele bath and curd rice for the reception buffet .

Wedding invites are either made personally or pop up in the mail boxes. The contents of the cards are carefully noted. The lunch and dinner timings are marked, the map and bus routes studied and accordingly leave applications are forwarded to the bosses. Though some cards mention that presents must be avoided, carrying a gift is a must on such occasions. Generally, the wedding couple is paid back in the same coin, meaning, depending on what gift the couple's family had given during the invitees' wedding, a gift is bought accordingly. Those unable to make a decision, generally insert a currency note and a `1 coin and hand it over to the couple with "best wishes".

The womenfolk, of course, have to make another decision. On what sari and jewellery to wear. On the big day, they're off, all decked up with gift wrapped presents in one hand and the invite in the other, referring to the map now and then.

On arrival at the venue, after the customary greetings and courtesies, one takes the queue to the wedding altar to hand over the gift, with one eye on the other queue to the dining hall.

With the formalities done, it's over to the dining table, waiting in front of the bare plantain leaf. Gradually, the empty spaces on the leaf begin to get occupied by mounds of delicacies of varying sizes. As the servers walk along the row of leaves dropping off dishes, the diners who first accept the offerings gladly, by and by go slow as the belt begins to feel tight. As the server arrives with the next dish, the diner's indecision is obvious as his left hand tells the server he's had enough but his right hand clears the leaf for him to serve his favourite puliyogare. The right hand generally wins and as the last course consumed the guest finally lifts himself from the seat with much effort.

The purpose served, it's final goodbyes with smiles on the red paan stained lips, and the carry bag containing the customary coconut and beetle leaves replacing the wedding gift in the hand.

vijaysimha@newindianexpress.com

Greeting or loaded question?

Bangaloreans greet each other like people in any other city. "En samachara? Channagi iddira?" (Any tidings? Hope you are fine). But there is another form of greeting that is probably unique to typical Bangaloreans and probably speaks for their obsession -- food and drink. "En samachaara? Oota ayitha?" Or "Kaapi ayitha?" alternatively, "Tippan ayitha?" (Had your lunch....had your coffee...or had your snack?...depending on the time of the day).

While eating out has become a pastime for many Bangaloreans today, food seemed to be central to the city's residents from time immemorial and that's probably why references to food were brought to greetings and to talk of the time of the day.

Most of the time, the greeting is made for want of anything specific to say. And when in doubt, the Bangalorean takes recourse to what he knows best, and that is food, knowing that the other person would not take offence.

And by convention, to the question "Oota ayitha?", the other person replies, "Ayithu", though the growls from his hungry tummy nearly drown out his acknowledgement. It's probably his way of saying, "Consider it done."

There are others who go a step further and make a normal greeting but don't follow it up with the customary question but instead gesture to the other person with a clenched fist, the thumb sticking out and moving towards to the mouth, accompanied by the question: "Kaapi?" as an offer to have coffee with him, but deep within, hoping the other person won't accept the invitation. And as the person politely declines his request with a shake of hand and the reply "Ayithu", there is relief for the person who makes the offer.

Bangaloreans not only think using food to greet people is safe and convenient, but also believe it is a sure way to calm an angry Bangalorean, if ever there was one. When a purchase manager at a factory, who is behind time on his payments to his suppliers, is unable to convince the salesman that the cheque will be ready "soon", he tries the time tested solution. "Let's talk it over lunch at our cafeteria." And by the time the last morsel on the plate is polished off, not only are traces of anger in the salesman wiped out but any of memory of why he came to the factory is blanked out. The confrontation changes to congeniality and they part ways with handshakes, and priorities fulfilled.

vijaysimha@newindianexpress.com

Bangalore rocks, standing tall

Bangalore is known for its undulating landscape, interspersed by rocky outcroppings here and there. Though some of these granite edifices have been turned concave by quarrying over the years, a few famous landmarks still remain.
The imposing Lal Bagh rock, Ragi Gudda in Jayanagar, the Bugle Rock in Basavangudi, Mount Joy, Ramanjaneya Gudda and Kumara Parvata in Hanumanthnagar towered over the settlements around them and used to be visible from miles away. And alternatively, a view from atop one of these mounds afforded an unrestricted view of the city. But the rapidly transforming city scape has changed all that.
Standing on Lal Bagh's rock and watching planes make a gradual descent at the HAL Airport on the eastern horizon used to be a popular pastime. Not anymore, for, not only have commercial flights stopped landing at the airport but even if they did, new high rises limit the view to just 200 metres.
Climbing on to one’s terrace, one could get an unrestricted view of at least one of these giant rock formations, for, the only things taller than these landmarks were the tall fir trees here and there. One did not have to scale a multi-storied building to get a view of the city's green expanse. With landmarks jutting out of green clumps, one could tell one locality from the other by just standing on one’s first floor.
Besides these mounds within the city, for many years till recently, two other great edifices associated with Bangalore’s history always remained visible to the city’s residents.
The blue, two-humped outline of the Savandurga hill dominated the western horizon of most parts of south Bangalore for many years. Though it is around 60 km from the city, close to Kempegowda's Magadi, the hazy blue hill never failed to catch the eye, dwarfing everything else around it since it is the highest natural feature for miles around.
While the grey contours of the hill show up early in the morning as it bathes in the sunlight, by noon, it turns to a moody blue and finally a dark purple as the flaming ball of fire slowly disappears behind its peaks. And during monsoons, it assumes a heavenly aspect as the two peaks just jut out of the grey-white clouds that hang over the hill like a halo.
Similarly, the citizens of the north of the city boasted a faint view of the majestic Nandi Hills, which showed up distinctly on clear mornings.
And like Magadi's Savandurga, Nandi Hills too, associated with Tipu Sultan, is closely linked to the city’s history.

vijaysimha@newindianexpress.com

From across the seas, via shortwave

Today’s living room is a veritable gizmo gallery with LED TVs, home theatres and BlueRay players fighting for space and attention. It’s a far cry from the days when households huddled around an old shortwave radio, with a cobweb kind of mesh running across the room serving as the aerial. Tuning into the station was a delicate art and as one groped for the right frequency, the radio protested all along, making funny noises. And one had to keep the ear tuned constantly to the set for there was never saying when the request would be played, unlike today, where you can quench your thirst for music by turning your iPod on and off like a water tap.
Like the TV addicts who surf channels with remotes today, avid shortwave radio enthusiasts knew every frequency on every band and had the programme guides memorised. As the day progressed, more stations came on air, and as the frequency got congested, the expert would deftly switch the band and turn to a new frequency and resume his listening.
The crackling Murphy or Westinghouse was a constant in the rooms with only the listeners changing, except when there is clash of programmes as the sister wants her weekly British Top Twenty while the brother refuses to change the tuner from BBC’s Test Match Special.
For the listener, there were other obstacles too like the poor reception, where the singer’s faint voice on Australia’s National Top Hits gave him the sense of distance between Melbourne and Bangalore. Add to this the cold war games of the erstwhile USSR, which made it a point to jam your favourite programmes with its Radio Moscow World Service which tried its best to counter the BBC and VOA’s version of the news.
Pop music shows on the BBC, Radio Australia, VOA, Sri Lanka Broadcasting Corporation and Radio Kuwait were popular among Bangalore’s youngsters, who frequently sent in song requests and took part in contests, winning tee shirts, programme guides and other prizes in the bargain. Saddam Hussein not only robbed Bangaloreans of their favourite programmes with his invasion of Kuwait but the first Gulf War that followed saw the advent of 24-hour cable TV, which hastened the demise of shortwave radio.
All India Radio Bangalore had its own request show on medium wave called Your Choice on Sunday afternoons, which more often than not was her (announcer’s) choice, since the studio collection seemed to be limited to just a few LPs. And as she read out the names of the listeners who made the request, there was a cheer from the small crowd around the radio, only to be replaced by disappointment for the broken record would refuse to proceed beyond the second stanza, which goes on and on till the announcer has enough of it and turns to the next request.
With modern radios coming with just the AM and FM modes, the shortwave radio, surely seems to have sung its swan song.

From grease to glitz

Before Bangalore acquired its infotech sheen, it was a thriving nuts and bolts town not so long ago. Its industrial scene was dominated by big public sector industries and several manufacturing firms. With the terms ‘BPO’ and ‘software’ yet to be coined, the city’s youngsters, watching these factory buses pick up and drop their employees, aspired to join the workforce of these big engineering firms. Most companies boasted their own buses with their unique liveries, and at the beginning and the end of shifts, these vehicles outnumbered the red and silver BTS buses on Bangalore’s roads. And the executives who brought their own Lambrettas, Vespas or Jawas to work, were the envy of their colleagues.
And with the outskirts just a short walk away from the city centre, for some, factories were only a quick bicycle ride from home. A ‘shining’ example is today’s glitzy Koramangala, which was once ‘way out’ but is now considered a ‘far out’ hangout by youngsters. The postal address may still read ‘Industrial Area, Koramangala’, but the dominant edifices today here are shimmering  glass and chrome malls, IT firms, restaurants and corporate offices.
The flexi time that techies choose at work today, seem far removed from the fixed shifts of the manufacturing days. As the sirens went off, one set of workers trooped out with cotton waste sticking out of their greased pockets while another batch trickled in for the next shift.
The engineering era also spawned Bangalore’s own breed of dabbawallas who used to collect tiffin carriers in rexine or cloth bags hung on bicycles. The  housewife left a bag containing a three-tier stainless steel lunch carrier at the doorstep for the dabbawalla to pick up in the morning. After several ‘pick-ups’ along the way, he’d huff and puff away to the factories. Later in the afternoon, the bag would return to the doorstep to the accompaniment of the cry Carrier! from the dabbawallah, with the contents polished off by her husband at the factory.
Today’s infotech firms that pamper their employees with ‘abnormal’ pay and perks in an effort to tackle the problem of staff turnover, must be wondering how those old assembly line giants retained their workforce. It would be a matter of pride for a factory employee to flaunt the wrist watch that he ‘earned’ for completing 10 years of service at his factory. Something unthinkable today, for if the employee doesn’t hop the job for a more lucrative one, his company would retrench him in a downsizing exercise.
And in contrast to the five and even six-figure salaries today, families celebrating their factory-going bread winner’s annual hike of `200 was not uncommon.