I see the gaping hole where the trees once were, where I ate roasted corn with college friends
and think of myself as the person who still thinks of MG road as Bangalore's main road.
A flyover has snaked its way above the road we thought was full. The grey concrete dragon
will transform into the zipping silver of the metro. And like in Delhi, sparkling people will
swipe their cards with a New Yorker's ease
Down the road in a little corner, a small slice of an old friend's Rajasthani haveli remains, the ground floor converted into a glitzy store selling guitars, its board placed on top of the placard that says
Estd 1807. Only the first floor retains the architectural details stolen from a desert far away.
Beside the house, a little further ahead is the shop 'Show Off' clothing people who frequent the
Clubs around, clothes that shine only in those lights.
Opposite is Ram Prasad veg where they serve pungent beautiful sambar that I remember from breaks rehearsing a play at Baldwin Boys School.
I wonder if this happens to people who stay long in a place. But was talking to my friend Anasuya known better as Madam Mahila Mukti about how Bangalore was full of firsts for us, it was our first personal revolution, our first questions, our first foray into pain, into everything adult, the first signs of being grown up.
So many parts of the city glow like scabs on a child's skin. One is never sure if the beautiful, playful memories overpower the faintly painful nostalgia or the other way round.
But I'll always be back, I guess.
After all, I left then to Chennai and then to Bombay. And nostalgia is homeground.