Gandhi Bazaar, Bengaluru.
Credit: DH File Photo
The existence of Gandhi Bazaar, the iconic, buzzing centre in Basavanagudi, traces back to my own ancestors. Growing up in the vicinity past into my teen years, I still can recount many memories that bordered the central square, albeit a small tidy one. Distinct imprints of taste, sight, sounds, and aromas that I cherish every time I visit my hometown, Bengaluru.
Vidyarthi Bhavan, whose dose is unparalleled in texture and taste, to be slurped along with a slurry of chutney, welcomes me with a buttery aroma as I step into the familiar sight of a waiter with multiple plates balanced along the length of his arm. I share a table with strangers and, as always, end up with a conversation as delectable as the nosh consumed. I glance at the whitewashed wall displaying black and white pictures of legendary locals that most surely left with a satiated soul.
Ondu wine ‘u’—wafts a shout from the cashier towards the kitchen in the back, as an eager customer awaits his order behind a glass case housing colourful cakes and sweet dishes. Wine? Not quite; it is their moniker for the grape juice from Harsha Stores. Once my favourite beverage stop, it is no more in sight but has been replaced by a multi-storied shop.
I have never myself ever seen, let alone met, Subbamma of Subbammana Angadi, a tiny kiosk-like store. Legend has it that Subbamma personally prepared the various spice powders, chakli, kodbale, and other goodies in her little kitchen behind to be sold to the public. That this kiosk still has a long-following clientele despite its physical proximity to a larger competitive store only affirms my faith in brand equity.
Flower vendors line up on the main street alongside their carts with little mountains of flowers, women busily threading flowers into thick braids that look like coral and pearl strings. Voices crackling with mirth are cajoling customers into haggling on prices, measuring the strings by their arms. My mother had her favourite vendors—she never veered her loyalty from them—and when she did on rare occasions because of their absence, it was only with a visible reluctance of substitution.
I saunter by the Basavanagudi Cooperative Society, which impressively stands in the corner. Once headed in its presidency by my own uncle and later my mother-in-law, serving its purpose in fair-priced merchandise offered to local residents. I nod at the folks perched on stone benches, possibly discussing political and local issues, a fitting intellectual end to their day.
As I conclude my visit to Nanna Bengaluru, I sigh in content as I walk down the footpath of Gandhi Bazaar. The road is narrower, replaced with white top, the traffic heavier, the noisy buzz louder, and the shopfronts glitzier. That these changes seem to be overwhelming does not in any way diminish my feeling of homecoming. I succumb to my urge to chat with a familiar flower vendor who asks me about my mother.
I am home in Nanna Bengaluru.