Before my family made its way to the boondocks of Yelahanka in 2002, we lived in Bengaluru’s Rajajinagar 2nd Stage residential extension for 18 long years.
Among the many memories that I have of growing up in the Rajajinagar neighbourhood, the long walks with a school friend remain vivid. We would take breaks in between our half-hearted attempts at homework and walk to the Iskcon temple on West of Chord Road, a good kilometre or two. We felt very adult about it, walking to clear our mind and all.
Rajajinagar sat on hilly terrain and no two streets looked similar. We would often change routes to beat the monotony and sometimes discover the homes of classmates by accident. Cycling, too, was always exciting, and near the Kamalammana Gundi (KG) Grounds, a particularly challenging street with a really deep trough would leave us gasping for breath. Local cricket teams used the playground on weekends, and it was believed that a dilapidated bungalow overlooking the grounds was haunted. We would sometimes stand outside the compound wall and imagine we were seeing things.
In the post-Orion Mall era of today (and with it, the Brigade Gateway, the World Trade Centre, Sheraton hotel and, more recently, One Bangalore West—an uber posh apartment complex that is coming up in the vicinity), I decided to retrace parts of that walk. I was apprehensive, and had very little hope of finding the relics of my childhood.
The first thing I observe are the chequered lights of the World Trade Centre dominating the skyline, accompanied by the red safety lights of a gigantic crane hovering over a concrete edifice nearby.
The Ganesh Juice Centre near our school is still there—a mango milkshake used to cost Rs.5 then. The menu has now expanded to include butter-fruit shake for Rs.40 and an Arabian pulpy grape juice. On the opposite side of the road, a flight of steps leads to the Punyadhama Temple, which is still a fine place to sit and watch the passing traffic. A little further on, the many decades old Prabhu Sweets appears on the right. A frail-looking chap, whom we assumed was Mister Prabhu himself, used to serve us samosas during the tiffin break on Saturdays when we wouldn’t carry anything from home. His samosas had potatoes with peels intact, but they were tasty enough to be devoured hot. I see the signboard missing and ask the man at the Pavan Book and Stationers shop nearby if Prabhu is still around.
He says: “The shop shut down just a month ago. But don’t worry, his kitchen is still running. Go up this road and take the second left. It’s the second or third building.”
I heave a sigh of relief.
Continuing further down the road, the Bhaktha & Sons photo studio appears on the left. Right behind it was our favourite pastry shop; it’s no longer there. The shopkeeper there used to speak good English and seemed to be this well-mannered and perfumed specimen from another world, and we assumed it must be the Cantonment area in his case. His chilled Black Forest cake was an indulgence when we had the money.
Udupa’s, at the end of Chord Road, which once served the best idlis and sambhar, has met a similar fate. The idlis have now moved close to Navrang Theatre, I am told, and have made space for Malabar Gold and Diamonds.
From the Vidya Vardhaka Sangha Saptharishidhama, a Kannada-medium school, we would take a right and the street would begin its ascent. The houses ended abruptly and, with them, the street lights too. Back then, a rough and uneven path, interspersed with shrubs and a water tank, used to lead up to the Iskcon temple. We would linger, chatting in the dark, away from the city lights and thoughts of homework.
The Iskcon temple stood on a hillock then; rough steps led to the structure that looked like a makeshift warehouse with a roof made of asbestos sheets. Every year, during the painting contest that was organized there, my brother and I would happily settle down on the rock surfaces surrounding it and draw our masterpieces. Today, the temple is huge—multistoreyed, with the air of a luxury hotel—and opinions are divided on whether it’s a brilliant piece of architecture or an eyesore.
The 80 Feet Road, renamed Dr Rajkumar Road, now has offices of global banks. I assumed there would not have been any space for the humble Amba Bhavani Medical Stores and Santhosh Café of yesteryear. Miraculously, the former survives in its corner. There weren’t many pharmacists in the neighbourhood back then, and this store would remain open till 11pm.
I was eager to talk to its owner, Amarnath Singh; initially, I couldn’t recognize him. He filled me in on everything from the time of his birth at the KC General Hospital to the current family dispute between his brothers over a house in the same neighbourhood.
The Milk Colony Ground, which used to be a lake, is a builder-sponsored, manicured recreational facility with an athletic track and basketball courts. The White Horse bar nearby has thankfully survived the ravages of time. It is safe to assume that it is because of its timely reincarnation—fancy décor, neon signage, waiters dressed as sales executives and a brand new name, 1522 The Pub.
The Vinayaka Paper Mart, our friendly kabadiwala, has made it to 2015. My brother would spend time after school helping arrange stacks of newspapers to earn himself a book or two. It helped him build a library of Tinkle magazines, and Amar Chitra Katha and Tintin comics.
Balaji Stores—where my father’s friend, Ramaswamy uncle, would get his brand of cigarettes—is still run by Srinivas, who tells me that the rent for a single-bedroom house in the area is now as high as Rs.6,000 a month. Sri Keshava Stores and Sri Venkateshwara Provision Stores, both grocery shops, survive too, with very little cosmetic change. It is the skill and resilience of the Setty clan, I assume. They still have clients who buy on credit. And you can buy “loose” oil there.
Taking a turn into one of the by-lanes, I am delighted to see that very little has changed. Many of the houses still have little garden fronts, terraces with “rooms” for the adolescent son or daughter seeking privacy, the strong aroma of a hing (asafoetida) overdose from Brahmin kitchens, and coconut palms swaying gently where the architecture acknowledges their presence.
The streets have retained the unmistakable signature of this neighbourhood—little children out on the streets prancing about from one compound to another at 8 in the evening, away from the watchful eyes of parents.
(Appeared in the Mint Lounge, Feb 14th, 2015)
