Mansi

Bangalore is a 21st century Indian hill station. The first morning of this two week stay in Bangalore had me up as early as at six on a Sunday morning, jogging shoes and all, ready for my run. While Sundays are traditionally my day offs, I have had too many skips to afford another day with no exercise.
The sun, my mom told me later, on my second round out with her for her walk (a la 8:30), doesn't bother the Banglorean till after nine. The exercise window in the mornings then is from six to nine - a cool three hours. Compare that with my exercise window in Delhi - 5:50 - 6:12am.
Bangalore is my home town turned city turned metropolitan. Each time I come back to this city, I realize how different it is to when I lived here. This is, what you'd think, natural of anybody's experience when they return to the city of their teens. In contrast, this time around, descending down from the skies, I felt a sudden burst of warm feeling. Unlike touching down at Bhuwaneshwar or Mumbai, no matter what I see from up above, I know what's on the ground. It is the recognition of a deep level of intimacy that is almost like a gene - the collective map of all my experiences in this city - embedded in my matter. I felt tears at the corner of my eyes. I wondered why I left to begin with.
As I got out of the aircraft and down the flight of steps, a cool breeze greeted me, floating about me, not curious, just friendly. In Delhi, I need to brace myself for the weather, no matter what season. In Bangalore, I don't have to even hold my breath. I can continue doing whatever it was I was doing, because the weather here (bar a few thunderstorms) will not be demanding.
The previous week, I had spent a hurried four days at Dharamsala. Running on that Sunday morning, I started to realize that Bangalore is a 21st century Indian hill station. In place of wayward tea stalls, one will find equally strategically located Shanti Sagars and Sukh Sagars. Opening early, purposeful, these are efficient machines, dedicated to brutal industrial standards. Be in dosas, idlis, vada sambar or the ever-popular coffee, everybody is allowed and catered for.
My grandpa and I used to visit the Shanti Sagar at Indiranagar. I'd take him, dressed in a black coat and white trousers on my bike to the Ulsoor branch of Canara Bank. Sometimes it would feel like all the pensioners of Bangalore (once known as the Pensioner's paradise) were there, ready to collect their dues. In the last few years of his life, Accha would sit in one of the back rows and let me take his pass book to the counter. The clerk would recognize the name and look up. I would point to the last row and my grandpa would (on cue) stand up. A curteous nod from the clerk would have Accha grinning, glad of some attention despite the tumultous times of change he witnessed all around him. The clerk would then direct me to the cashier counter with a round steel token. Grandpa would then move up and we'd both sit in front of the counter, eyes drifting from the electronic token display board to the many old and older people around. Sometimes I would take his hand in mine and just hold it. He liked that and I did too. When our token number flashed on the board, I would spring up. The transaction complete, the two of us would head out, hand in hand, to my bike. Once on, we'd take the long route back, getting on to the Ulsoor (Now Hulsoor) road and cutting into CMH. We'd park right in front of the Shanti Sagar and head inside to a two-seater table. Some days Accha would order a coffee. On special days, he would order puris too or even a masala dosa. I don't remember the conversations we had, they weren't important or long. We'd both then get back on my bike and head back home. Accha would get out of his coat and trousers, neatly putting them away. He would then pull out an ironed munde, comb the hair above his ears (for Accha was mostly bald) and lie down.
Running by the Shanti Sagar, I wondered if Accha and me defied their fast paced culture. Perhaps that's why I never wanted to order anything there. Unlike the Sagars in Delhi, where it is a sit-down restaurant, the Sagars in Bangalore are walk in restaurants. People come by, place their orders, eat, pay and leave. There is not much love lost between customer and waiters. Some sagars have no seating alltogether. Tables are placed out on the pavement and everybody huddles around sipping one by two coffee.
What about the mountains you might ask? Where can we find the sheer inspiration that the mountains can stir up in our hearts? In Bangalore I find the people's enthusiasm for technology inspiration in plenty. Just like the dualadhar mountains weave in and around one another, so does the built landscape of Bangalore peak up and down, almost falling upon each other. Driving down airport road, that was many years ago my cycling route, I couldnt keep track of the Intels, IBMs, and Accentures. Almost every STD booth also doubles up as an Internet cafe. No matter bike, car or bus, someone is carrying a laptop. While my Mom laments the Internet, she is in the minority. Mom wanted to go for Parineeta today and she cursed the Internet when I told her the show was sold out. It's the Internet, she wailed, robbing her of her ticket.
Just like the hills, the floating population at Bangalore is considerable. Just like the spiritually inclined tourists will stay back for the extra month, the technology inclined equivalent will try his or her luck with Bangalore. Italian football teams, 'Get with Bangalore' guides written by American consultants at Accenture, this city is still not demanding of its visitors. It is still inviting, ready to jolster up another baby onto it's hips, despite cramps and weak knees.
To Bangloreans, the weather is a curse. It's never too early to pull out a shawl, nor too late to just about everything else. Allergies, common colds, spondilytis and for everything else, there's Devi Shetty and Nimhans. To everybody else, this is great holidaying weather.
While Bangalore rivals any hill station in just about every aspect, the one true winning aspect above all else, is the quality (or lack of) of our roads. While in a hill station, one can lazily gaze upon boys and young men herding goats or riding donkeys in and out of potholes; In Bangalore, we have motor bikes, hurdling their passengers in starts and swift runs to their destinations. Nothing idylic there. It's all about being possessed and honking at someone ahead and clearly to your right!!!
All in all, its early days yet but I think this trip is going to be more about me than about Bangalore. There's a part of me that fears that I might admit that I didn't like Bangalore to start with - or another that feels that this city was not good for me. Whatever the case, it will be a bitter sweet parting. Bangalore will not hold on and I, forever one to let go too soon, too easy, might just refuse this time around.