Romance of shortwave radio

From across the seas, via shortwave http://bangalorebylane.blogspot.com/2011/06/from-across-seas-via-shortwave.html

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