The city of no fans. Where ACs are irrelevant luxuries. This is where I turn into spoilt-brat daughter, sleep, eat, chat, shop. It's the city of prawn curry dosas, sweat-shirt and knapsacks. I don't understand it's narratives, but I am told it's a very vibrant one.
In June 2001, we had driven upto a hilly nook in the city,hidden amidst eucalyptuses, with a little arrow saying the National Law School of India University. Without it, the only way of figuring our way would have been to ask for the Naagarbaavi Laaah Kalej. The same drive today speaks of truckloads of cement, shacks of construction workers, uprooted eucalyptuses by a court order (they dry up groundwater), a swank, boat-shaped NAAC building, iron-rods at the Circle promising broader roads and better communication with the city, glass-window-shops displaying sequined dupattas on lissome maniquins.
I can't be political here and critique the pressures of incoming capital on this little once-carefree surburb, because I have too many memories associated with this drive. I have traversed this uphill and then downhill road -in my dad's long car, in a friend's khataara maruti, on bikes of hip boys, in auto rickshaws with drunken girls. I don't miss this suburb, as much as I miss my world, that once used to be, in this suburb.
The city grows more malls, iron rods sproutfrom in between people's bedroom's windows, just as software giants get ready to take it down the Singapore valley. Meanwhile, a queer bird still sits at our balcony, even as the old haunted house behind is being torn down by some real estate messiah.