Bangalore Rising

Sundarbans. 27 th December, 2016 Just as the needle edged past ten p.m. on a still, dark, moonless night, a small fishing boat slid silently out of its berth, with a party of nine aboard – the boatman, the tour guide, and seven wide-eyed city-bred men & women. As the boat swished its way into the deep and murky waters of the Gangetic delta, it kicked off two of the most magical hours I’ve ever spent in my life. A few hours back, eighteen tired bodies had returned to our temporary home in the Sundarbans eco village, after a ten-hour day on a modified fishing trawler, touring the various islands of Sundarbans, wonderously taking in the flora and fauna that the mangroves offered. After resting our tired limbs for a few minutes on bamboo beds in our room, we headed to the dining hut fifty yards away. Mowgli (yes, he is one of the threesome that runs this very interesting tour/village) and Om were on hand, dishing out plates-full of piping-hot pakoras and black tea (milk is a ...

K S Sadasivan, August 3, 1926 - May 24, 2014 24th May would mark a year of my dad’s passing, after fighting a losing age-related battle. He was hale, hearty, and healthy till 2011, when a relatively minor stroke started his slippery slide down. He lived a full life, and I believe, enjoyed almost every moment of it. While I am sad at his passing, it would be wrong to call it untimely. Like men his age, my dad too was a proud man. He loved being fawned upon, but despised being attended to. If the male attendant tried to help him up from the chair, he would be curtly admonished. He never liked being bathed; the attender was expected to get a bucket of warm water ready, place the soap, and towel close by, and leave the bathroom. It was tough for us to see this proud man slowly wither away; from a healthy 75 kilos into a 45 kilo bag of skin & bones – gone were those healthy cheeks, the fat around the belly, and the not-so-obvious muscles. But he never lost his humor, or his...

Back in the ‘70s, Southern Avenue was a tree lined, quiet street. Jolkhabar was across the street, famous for its spongy rosogolla, divine lal-dhoi, and yummy dhakai porota. The pantu-da’ar chaa-aar-singara’ar dokan   was diagonally opposite, sharing a wall with the panwallah who also made mouth-watering begun-bhaja; the puchka-wala sat right next to them at the corner of Southern Avenue and Lake Place. There was also the uniquely-Cal bhelpuri wallah who sat outside Mehta House, with just the 30-feet width of Lake Place separating him from the puchka-wallah. The bhelpuri-wallah had this gigantic, yellow, metal trunk with wheels. When he set up shop by opening the humungous lid, it exposed a massive tray with a million compartments. He would pull out two sheets from a glossy magazine tucked on the side, convert them into a short wide cone, put a handful of various lip-smacking stuff into the cone, toss in some gooey liquid, give it a nice swirl, garnish it with some sev and c...