<div align="justify">Some 20 years back, I was inducted to life in this city mostly by travelling around in an auto, for which I needed to pay ‘one-and-a-hoff’. The first thing I learnt was that curd-rice was an object of worship. It was not uncommon to come across news reports like, ‘Murugappa killed Sumana in a rage of fit over not having to eat curd-rice for dinner’.<br /><br />Initially, I disliked the phlegm-like temperature and consistency of curd-rice and, foolishly, chose to announce my view publicly at a wedding lunch. People choked on their vadas, the birds flew away from the rafters, and dosas crackled angrily on the hot plate. A dark, angry mob seemed to close in on me from all directions, perhaps to drown me in the cauldron of boiling rasam. Thinking quickly on my feet, I lumped two generous spoons of it on my plate, laughing nervously, saying, "I was just kidding!"<br /><br />I had not only made fun of curd-rice, I had made fun of gourmet curd-rice: the one with pomegranate seeds balancing on its wobbly body. Tch tch!<br /><br />I also discovered that Kiran was boy, so was Madhu. One day at work, my manager sent me on an errand to collect an important delivery from ‘Kiran’. After waiting in the lobby with a largish, unshaven man for 15 minutes, I learnt that he was Kiran. I was thankful that he was miles away from the Darr casting director and Juhi bagged the role.<br /><br />The new city was giving me new insights: for instance, what banana leaves were meant for. They were plates and also vehicle adornments. In Ayudh Pooja, they were fastened to the sides of cars, which then moved around like mini-forests on the roads. That day, the city was the Jurassic Park of the plant world. The good thing was this brought down the crime rate: since people were hardly able to see what or who hit them, the question of revenge-crime did not arise.<br /><br />I figured that here ‘software’ was a more lusted-after object than underwear. If one was not working in ‘software’, or learning ‘software’, or wanting ‘to do’ software, he or she was ascribed a poor rating: just below the tender-coconut seller and marginally above the SLV table-cleaner, which brings me to SLVs. Technically, one could not launch satellites from here, but, if you overdosed on the sambhar, the chilli-hit had the propensity to eject you to outer space. SLVs, named after a deity, were those small, efficient restaurants that churned out fresh, mouth-watering budget meals all day long. The great levellers where the CEO and the auto rickshaw driver stood at the same table, digging into yummy, steaming idlis.<br /><br />Finally, I learnt that Bengaluru had the highest traffic density in the country. So, for those who wanted to get from Point A to Point B, there was a useful tip: just stay at Point A: build a shelter, get a wife, have kids, and lead a nice life at Point A. Point A was Silk Board junction.<br /></div>
<div align="justify">Some 20 years back, I was inducted to life in this city mostly by travelling around in an auto, for which I needed to pay ‘one-and-a-hoff’. The first thing I learnt was that curd-rice was an object of worship. It was not uncommon to come across news reports like, ‘Murugappa killed Sumana in a rage of fit over not having to eat curd-rice for dinner’.<br /><br />Initially, I disliked the phlegm-like temperature and consistency of curd-rice and, foolishly, chose to announce my view publicly at a wedding lunch. People choked on their vadas, the birds flew away from the rafters, and dosas crackled angrily on the hot plate. A dark, angry mob seemed to close in on me from all directions, perhaps to drown me in the cauldron of boiling rasam. Thinking quickly on my feet, I lumped two generous spoons of it on my plate, laughing nervously, saying, "I was just kidding!"<br /><br />I had not only made fun of curd-rice, I had made fun of gourmet curd-rice: the one with pomegranate seeds balancing on its wobbly body. Tch tch!<br /><br />I also discovered that Kiran was boy, so was Madhu. One day at work, my manager sent me on an errand to collect an important delivery from ‘Kiran’. After waiting in the lobby with a largish, unshaven man for 15 minutes, I learnt that he was Kiran. I was thankful that he was miles away from the Darr casting director and Juhi bagged the role.<br /><br />The new city was giving me new insights: for instance, what banana leaves were meant for. They were plates and also vehicle adornments. In Ayudh Pooja, they were fastened to the sides of cars, which then moved around like mini-forests on the roads. That day, the city was the Jurassic Park of the plant world. The good thing was this brought down the crime rate: since people were hardly able to see what or who hit them, the question of revenge-crime did not arise.<br /><br />I figured that here ‘software’ was a more lusted-after object than underwear. If one was not working in ‘software’, or learning ‘software’, or wanting ‘to do’ software, he or she was ascribed a poor rating: just below the tender-coconut seller and marginally above the SLV table-cleaner, which brings me to SLVs. Technically, one could not launch satellites from here, but, if you overdosed on the sambhar, the chilli-hit had the propensity to eject you to outer space. SLVs, named after a deity, were those small, efficient restaurants that churned out fresh, mouth-watering budget meals all day long. The great levellers where the CEO and the auto rickshaw driver stood at the same table, digging into yummy, steaming idlis.<br /><br />Finally, I learnt that Bengaluru had the highest traffic density in the country. So, for those who wanted to get from Point A to Point B, there was a useful tip: just stay at Point A: build a shelter, get a wife, have kids, and lead a nice life at Point A. Point A was Silk Board junction.<br /></div>
