<p>Cities have a way of holding onto memories, tucking them into corners and crevices where time stands still. That might seem impossible in today’s Bengaluru, but those memories linger in buildings—some still standing, others refusing to be erased by modernisation. Landmarks like India Coffee House, Higginbotham’s, the Deccan Herald office, Cauvery Emporium, St Mark’s Cathedral, and Opera Theatre resist being swallowed by the glass and chrome of the new skyline. These spaces are not just physical structures; they hold stories, conversations, and bonds that pull us back time and again.</p>.<p>As a college student, I remember wandering through Higginbotham’s, running my fingers over book spines I couldn’t always afford. Those afternoons felt timeless, filled with the rustle of pages and creaking wooden floors. From there, I’d head to the Deccan Herald office, clutching an internship request and hope. Later, a friend would wait for me at India Coffee House—our refuge of scrambled eggs, toast, and endless coffee.</p>.<p>Back then, Bengaluru wasn’t just defined by its grand institutions; it thrived in its quieter corners too. The Coir Board showroom, with its rough textures and earthy scent, felt like a rebellion against modern retail. It was about how it made you feel—rooted, grounded. The Bible Society of India building still stands, though shuttered, its windows staring out like tired <br>eyes holding onto a fading sunset. Binny Mills showroom was more than just a store; it was a cornerstone of the city dressing hundreds in crisp new uniforms.</p>.<p>Koshy’s remains a timeless chapter in this city’s story. Time slows down there, as if respecting the weight of all the conversations it has cradled over the decades. You can sit by a window, watching the city rush by outside, yet inside, there’s a strange serenity—a stillness that feels earned. The steel teapot, stubbornly timeless, might be the same one that poured tea for me 25 years ago.</p>.<p>Who could forget the Old Opera, Rex, and Galaxy theatres? Before streaming platforms, these iconic halls were our escape. Rex, with its velvet seats and grand curtains, and Galaxy, with its cavernous interiors and buttered popcorn scent, were where love stories unfolded—both on-screen and off. The front-row seats—or Gandhi class, as it was called back then—afforded us the same joy when the curtains rose.</p>.<p>What makes these places special isn’t just nostalgia; it’s connection. They remind us of who we were before the glass towers redefined the skyline. They remind us that a city isn’t just a place to exist; it’s a place to belong. To me, the past isn’t a weight; it’s a foundation.</p>.<p>As we step into a new year, I remember the walks down these roads and the comfort of those structures that allowed me to become my own person.</p>.<p class="bodytext">Bengaluru, with all its contradictions and charms, deserves to be remembered—not just in history books, but in our footsteps, routines, and hearts.</p>
<p>Cities have a way of holding onto memories, tucking them into corners and crevices where time stands still. That might seem impossible in today’s Bengaluru, but those memories linger in buildings—some still standing, others refusing to be erased by modernisation. Landmarks like India Coffee House, Higginbotham’s, the Deccan Herald office, Cauvery Emporium, St Mark’s Cathedral, and Opera Theatre resist being swallowed by the glass and chrome of the new skyline. These spaces are not just physical structures; they hold stories, conversations, and bonds that pull us back time and again.</p>.<p>As a college student, I remember wandering through Higginbotham’s, running my fingers over book spines I couldn’t always afford. Those afternoons felt timeless, filled with the rustle of pages and creaking wooden floors. From there, I’d head to the Deccan Herald office, clutching an internship request and hope. Later, a friend would wait for me at India Coffee House—our refuge of scrambled eggs, toast, and endless coffee.</p>.<p>Back then, Bengaluru wasn’t just defined by its grand institutions; it thrived in its quieter corners too. The Coir Board showroom, with its rough textures and earthy scent, felt like a rebellion against modern retail. It was about how it made you feel—rooted, grounded. The Bible Society of India building still stands, though shuttered, its windows staring out like tired <br>eyes holding onto a fading sunset. Binny Mills showroom was more than just a store; it was a cornerstone of the city dressing hundreds in crisp new uniforms.</p>.<p>Koshy’s remains a timeless chapter in this city’s story. Time slows down there, as if respecting the weight of all the conversations it has cradled over the decades. You can sit by a window, watching the city rush by outside, yet inside, there’s a strange serenity—a stillness that feels earned. The steel teapot, stubbornly timeless, might be the same one that poured tea for me 25 years ago.</p>.<p>Who could forget the Old Opera, Rex, and Galaxy theatres? Before streaming platforms, these iconic halls were our escape. Rex, with its velvet seats and grand curtains, and Galaxy, with its cavernous interiors and buttered popcorn scent, were where love stories unfolded—both on-screen and off. The front-row seats—or Gandhi class, as it was called back then—afforded us the same joy when the curtains rose.</p>.<p>What makes these places special isn’t just nostalgia; it’s connection. They remind us of who we were before the glass towers redefined the skyline. They remind us that a city isn’t just a place to exist; it’s a place to belong. To me, the past isn’t a weight; it’s a foundation.</p>.<p>As we step into a new year, I remember the walks down these roads and the comfort of those structures that allowed me to become my own person.</p>.<p class="bodytext">Bengaluru, with all its contradictions and charms, deserves to be remembered—not just in history books, but in our footsteps, routines, and hearts.</p>
