The Blessings of Bangalore
April 16, 2023
Author: Deepa Ramesh
Editor: Lynn Sabieddine
Have you ever stopped to wonder how magical it must feel to soar in the air? To be one amongst lilac blue skies, where every cloud is a lantern that brightly illuminates your wings. To be detached from a world full of worrywarts and anchored by nothing other than faith and freedom. I’ve never had that experience myself, but I’d like to imagine that, up there, life isn’t viewed in seconds or hours but in memories.
On the house above the tailor’s stall, where the wind chimes sang their salutations to sunrise, my grandfather sat in his rocking chair and perused through the day’s newspaper. Not even the abrupt clanging of pans in the kitchen or the pandemonium of cars and motorcycles swerving through the streets could distract him. He had witnessed the Indian Independence Movement, the birth of television, and, more poignantly, the growth of four children who brought him endless joy when they first opened their eyes and wrenching heartache when they left Bangalore as fully grown adults. Yet, at the age of 85, nothing could faze or remove him from the monotony that seems so determined to pattern our lives in old age.
But that morning was different because the same house with its flaking walls and corrugated rooftop now had a new visitor, one with tufts of uncombed hair who played with stuffed animals, made up songs of gibberish, tripped over knickknacks, and always seemed to have a smile stitched on her face.
I was four years old, his youngest grandchild, and the one that, inevitably, he would spend the least amount of years with. That was why he wanted to ensure that the two weeks his granddaughter spent in Bangalore were ones she would never forget.
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After a traditional breakfast of idly and dosa, my grandfather insisted I join him by the sofa. He placed me on his lap and turned on one of his many nature programs on television. I vividly remember his enthusiasm as he pointed out the animals of the rainforest, the sheen of their pelts, and the homes they built in the winter. Unfortunately for him, I had the attention span of a fruit fly and spent almost the entire time complaining of a toothache.
However, before the show came to a halt to be replaced by a flood of advertisements, I saw a sight that took my breath away. Three parrots were hanging on treetops, watching the whole rainforest with rapt attention. Their pupils dilated in response to the light shined by the horizon, and their trills and whistles were unlike any other sound I had heard before. But what caught my attention was when they dismounted from nature and took flight. Their feathers enamored me; mildew green and midnight blue were two distinct colors, yet they blended together so perfectly. The act of parrots allowing their wings to brush against the air was both practiced and incredibly liberating. Is that what it means to be unabashedly free? To travel across jungles and hilltops while somehow managing to never feel a feather out of place? To accept that home can be found anywhere with anyone?
I doubt I had the words back then to properly encapsulate my feelings. But on every day that passed, as soon as I had woken up and got dressed, I asked my grandfather if we could watch that show together, and he always said yes, with a smile that made his eyes shimmer in pride. I had him wrapped around my finger. Those mornings spent in the company of birds, who made their homes in places so wondrous that I doubted they could even be real, fascinated and enchanted me. But it was only later in life that I realized how tightly those experiences wound themselves into my heart — they are some of the most treasured memories of my life.
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Gandhi Bazaar is one of the oldest shopping districts in Bangalore. From the stalls selling chaat and gulab jamun to the mannequins draped in saris spun from the finest silk, there is something available for everyone’s tastes.
For the unsuspecting child who stopped to gaze at her reflection, admiring the bindi on her forehead and the bangles cupping her wrist, it will always be the jasmine flowers whose petals danced across the sky before landing in her palms. I inhaled their saccharine-sweet scent and ran my fingers across the feathery edges, feeling my heartbeats soften as my cheeks alighted with glee. My mother, seeing my elation, bought some from a nearby vendor. She then clipped the jasmine flowers onto my curls with love.
I looked into her eyes; they sparkled like finely-mined diamonds. It seemed to me that in those sun-kissed petals, she didn’t just see her little daughter but the semblances of the girl she once was.
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Bangalore reminds me of a tranquil river, where people are dispersed and follow their own paths in life but are ultimately united by the shared experience of being part of a community with an unwavering capacity for love. In every small gesture, whether flashing a warm smile towards a young girl with a foreign accent and tentative steps or taking you into their homes and feeding you the food they spent hours preparing, you realize that home is everywhere.
However, cities don’t remain stagnant. They evolve, modernize, and break the limits of what we believe is possible. The Bangalore of my childhood is no more. New roads have replaced the old ones, rising entrepreneurs have made their imprint as the technology craze continues to hold the world in a chokehold, and the days of our elders are only growing more numbered.
But in this city of 13 million people, I’ll never stop viewing myself as the small girl nestled on her grandfather’s lap. Perhaps I’ll always view Bangalore with cream-colored lenses because of the child I once was, who knew nothing about what it meant to be swallowed by worldly concerns and to lose your shine with time.
Bangalore is both a reminder of what I had and what I’ve lost. I’ll never be able to see my grandfather again. All I have left is the memories, the sensation of warm hands across mine, the gilded puddles of light painting the house above the tailor’s shop in a golden halo, and the hope that by treasuring these memories, I can one day be like the parrots perched on the trees overlooking the world — spreading my wings and soaring in flying colors.
Image: Zoe Sinkford
