The Old Bangalorean

The Old Bangalorean
You know you've evolved into an OB if you've been frequenting the same establishments for years on end
The Hindu

I GOT a mild start when a young man called me "one of those Old Bangaloreans". My surprise was not unmixed with a certain degree of pride, for I realised that the "Not From Here" label had peeled off me for good. I used to think that the real OBs were those who'd lived here since the Fifties and Sixties, but evidently the term is relative, and there's a whole new generation to whom I must seem a fount of wisdom on all things Bangalorean.

So what defines an Old Bangalorean? One could apply the same principle that the music industry does to pop hits: they become retro after 10 years. But I'm not looking for cut-off dates. Rather, I'm trying to put my finger on something more intangible... an outlook on life... a certain quality that defies time and the City-Cantonment divide. Ah, the great divide created by the British in 1799 and erased only in 1949, leaving a permanent impression on the minds of residents, causing the OB to make statements like "It's cheaper in City" or "She lives in Cantt area". But whether the OB lives on this side of Cubbon Park or that, whether his stamping ground is Coles Park or Krishna Rao Park, whether he buys his vegetables in Russell Market or Gandhi Bazaar, he can be identified by his way of life, and sometimes by his appearance.

A vanishing Cantonment stereotype is the old codger in dark suit and bowler hat who lives in a bungalow, speaks to Muniswamy the mali in English-accented pidgin Tamil, drives an Austin or a Morris Minor, and patronises India Coffee House on M.G. Road which he calls "South Parade". But let us do away with easy caricatures and try to pinpoint OB-ness. You know you're in the presence of an OB when you're greeted with "Yella aarama?" followed by the more familiar "Oota ayitha?" The best of the OBs are unfailingly courteous to one and all. Many upper-class OBs strike a free-and-easy relationship with their domestic employees, characterised by warmth and a touch of mutual irreverence. Perhaps it was born out of interdependence: back in the days when Bangalore was a small town, the high and the low needed each other for survival.

In many ways Bangalore is still a small town dressed up as a big city. When two OBs meet for the first time, in a matter of minutes they arrive at the name of a common friend. Then they shake their heads over the traffic and rue their inability to estimate the time it takes to get from one point to another. The pace of their city's growth unnerves them. Changing their jobs as rarely as they do their fashions, they are amazed by zippies who quit on Friday and start work elsewhere on Monday. What? Not adjusting leave against notice period? The zippie, whose vocabulary doesn't contain the word aarama, cannot dream of taking a one-month break between jobs.

You know you've evolved into an OB if you've been frequenting the same establishments for years on end. OBs buy their daily needs from family-run OB stores. If the shop's nameplate has the word "merchants" in it, and a "Sorry No Credit" board nailed to the main wall, so much the better, and never mind that it's closed for three hours in the afternoon. OB shopkeepers come in quite a range — silent, talkative, matter-of-fact, blunt, hearty, gruff — but the one quality they share is trustworthiness. A friend narrated his experience of getting his son's favourite toy repaired. After several vain attempts he wandered into an old watch shop in Malleswaram. It was empty except for the owner who was passing the time of day with some of his acquaintances. The man examined the mechanism, saw it as a challenge to his skill, and meticulously pared down a metal part with a file until it was just the right thickness. After twiddling and fiddling with the toy for half an hour he had it working perfectly. No charge, of course.

Reliability is a concept that the OB holds dear. It's what makes him instinctively head for the OB restaurant, not just the better-known MTR, Vidyarthi Bhavan or Udupi Shree Krishna Bhavan, but any eatery with a similar history, menu, and decor. He feels at home amongst wooden chairs and tables, shiny steel jugs of water, embossed, floral patterns on the ceiling in pale pastels, and a sign that says "No washing hand in plate". At Dewar's and Koshy's, his preferred watering holes, he knows the waiters by name.

Don't imagine you can enter an OB house and exit without "having something". The instant you cross the threshold you activate a sensor connected to the kitchen. If you plead lack of time and try to get up after two minutes you'll be told kindly but firmly that coffee is getting ready, "jusht-u". Even as your protest dies upon your lips, the tumbler will materialise on a tray with a tiny plate of one-sweet-one-khara. The vegetarian Alsatian will shyly beg you for crumbs and be led away to feast on its favourite snack: tomatoes. And the entire family will say goodbye to you when you leave.

OB-ness is no slave to time. It is an inherited quality. I am confident that you can encounter it 50 years from now.