Friday, December 30, 2011

Of the Maudlin City and Her Love Sick Slave

        On a very sleep deprived Friday morning, where my 12pm alarm tells a story about the climate, battling a running nose and eerie chills I seem to toil on with the most addictive ordeal of laziness. The flimsy blanket that my good buddy gave to me seems to be far cry from the cozy blanket I've at home, yet, the weather outside makes indoor chill seem like a cozy hearth. Revelling in doing nothing seems to be a special gift, and I get a little more perfect at it every passing day. As I'm about to continue with the whole shameless ordeal, the indomitable need to evade a phone call from home regarding "useless nocturnal activities" and such brings me, my keys. Brr! The chill slits my perpetual half closed Chinese eye sockets wide open. Even old black seems to have starting troubles. I ruthlessly open throttle and make sure the feller turns his rpm up and gets us on the way home.
                     Home. Where, "The best laid schemes of mice and men go often askew." As i pick up the phone while tapping on my gate, the call from grandmother says it all. A T-850 voice in my head says, Laborious chore time, shirk at your own peril! Wincing at the now obvious Herculean ordeal awaiting, in wintry dread I discover the nature of this daunting task: A two hour bus ride to the airport and a two hour cab ride back. And the generally enviable task of receiving my gammy's pampering younger brother. Which now looks like cold shackles in the middle of Siberia. At the risk of foregoing lavish generosity that he bestows upon on me whenever he visits, I contemplate my plan of action(or the lack of it). Then in full confidence, my grandma takes me hand and benevolently gives me the bus fare and an extra fifty bucks as service charge. Being the incredible sulk that I am, and sensing no escape route i pull on my woolens and embark.
                  My journey takes me to some unusuallly stereo-typed places. First stop. Banashankari bus stand. Now, here, is a place that has never looked picturesque since it came to be. Litter, badly managed traffic, loud hawkers ... typical tatty market place types. As I walk towards the inside of the newly constructed terminus, I can't help but notice that the roads have been newly asphalted and things aren't as clattered as was the case before. In fact, it seems to have got a pleasant face lift. Then again, must be the scarce traffic, I think to myself. But there's definitely upgraded vibes. The auto ride to Jayanagar, under overcast skies, and poetic climate unearths a sudden architect-ual interest. On and off the Nanda theatre road, magnificent houses with big driveways and lawns that are such a scarce luxury make me beg to clutch a DSLR and capture these intimate moments with south Bangalore, with a romanticism that is fresh and intriguing. The bus journey takes me through Residence Road, my beloved St.Joseph's Boys High School, that looks as magnificent and proud as ever, and one look into the compound and I swoon to the several thousand memories in each square inch of that sacred land.  The third world rapture of these old parts up north, are staggeringly intoxicating.
                   Continuing on, and a short nap later, as the bus pulls into the terminal the intricate inter-twining roads, the aesthetic gardens, the highly advanced architecture and the sight of orderly traffic is refreshing. Inanimate and abstract love consumes me fully.  This joy, this delightfully hidden Bengalooru that resurfaces for adoring eyes only. As I greet my uncle and we sit inside the taxi, I rest my spent eyes. Weary from the beauty of Bangalore, and her discreetness when revealing it. The best of us fumble when it comes to defining love, and yet here i seem to have (in very apologetic extended banter) perhaps found some modest way to relate to this perception. This fascination with the intangible. A dance with Bangalore and her legend! To be a son of the soil, is truly the best honor she could bestow upon me. She flirts with my resolve to stick to her hustle-bustle reputation. I seem to lose all my premonitions, mad with adulation. After a birth and twenty long years, I seem to have witnessed the pinnacle of her beauty, and in hopeless drunkenness, I wish to be treated to her wine again!
                   The pen i hold is inspired, and with her as my parchment, I paint her to you with the pristine majesty that she bestows upon us with her delightful game of hide and seek! Les teintes de l'amour.