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The Urban Nostalgia: Bangalore Poems

Garden City, Amended


They still print “Garden City” on brochures.
I walk past the same gulmohar that has seen
three chief ministers and one flyover.
The garden is now a median
The city grew around the excuse.


Filter vs Adda

Bangalore offers filter coffee in paper cups
That was cool before the second sip.
I miss the steel tumbler that burnt the tongue
and forced you to stay.
Here even the adda has a deadline.


Silk Board Philosophy

At Silk Board, the traffic does not move.
It meditates.
Ten thousand engines practice
The art of going nowhere
with profound sincerity.


Rain on Residency Road

The rain here is polite.
It arrives, soaks the posters,
leaves before you finish the sentence.
In other cities, rain argues;
Bangalore’s rain files a brief and exits.


Language at the Signal

The auto driver speaks three languages
and none of them are complete
I answer in a fourth.
We reach an understanding
That is not on any map.


Cubbon at Dusk

Squirrels hold editorial meetings
under the same trees that once shaded
men who thought the empire would last.
I sit on a bench that has heard
better arguments than mine.


Start-up Skyline

Glass towers practice looking important.
Inside, young people invent apps
that will remind other young people
to drink water.
The city funds both the thirst and the reminder.


Old Bangalore, Night Shift

The bungalow with the rusted gate
still believes it is 1978.
A delivery boy rings the bell
for someone who no longer lives there.
The past takes a long time to unsubscribe.


Pub After Deadline

I order a beer in the colour of late copy.
Around me the city celebrates
having survived another weekday.
A journalist’s happiness
is always one edition behind.


Belonging, Provisionally

I am not from here.
The city knows this and still
Let me keep my umbrella,
my accent, my unfinished sentences.
Bangalore, like a good editor,
does not delete the outsider.
It just tightens the line.

Picture design by Anumita Roy

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