Namma ooru, Bengaluru

 The cooing of the koel on the tree outside my bedroom window before the crack of dawn is enough to make me want to wring its neck. Meanwhile, the rain tree, on which this musical but annoying creature with no sense of time sits, charms me every time I remember to look at it.  

It's funny how quickly one adapts to the beauty of nature, but Bangalore is quick to ensure that you don't get inured to it. It has a lovely way of changing its colors. The purple Jacaranda, the bright yellow or pink tabebuias and the copper pods with their yellow flowers refresh the jaded eyes every spring and early summer. 

You do manage one or two picnics before the rains come with depressing regularity. While initially welcoming it, it's plain as the nose on my face (although I do think my nose is not plain, it's chiseled like a Greek goddess's) that the city is not geared towards any excess water. 

I remember one evening, riding back home from work, on my bike, in torrential rain. I was caught unawares by a cloud burst and since I was already wet I figured there was no point in stopping. The bike was swaying in the currents of the water flowing on the road. After a bit, it seemed downright dangerous but there was no way to halt as I was surrounded by vehicles- mostly cars- all inching along, desperate to get home. 

I remembered at this inopportune time something my father had told me. The astrologer who had checked both my birth charts and my spouse's, had declared unequivocally that this marriage would not last 6 months. I knew without a doubt that the astrologer’s words, which I had dismissed in derision as unscientific and mumbo jumbo, were actually true. I was definitely going to die. That is how this marriage was going to end!

The task of trying to remember the date and count backwards as to whether 6 months had elapsed since our wedding prevented a full blown panic attack which might, in a contrarian fashion, have saved me.

Someone recently sent me a meme that buying a vehicle in Bangalore should be counted under  a housing loan since it's an immovable asset. 

It's true: driving can test the patience of a saint. I took about 40 minutes to cover the onerous distance of 100 meters today. I am open to being canonized. Mother Teresa would have been proud of my zen-like calm as I just sat patiently, cranked up the volume of the radio, and waited it out. I just sent a message of complaint to the PRO of the local MLA, who, honest to goodness, had already attended to each of my previous grouses. Beyond that, I didn't honk or curse under my breath. 

Is it the ghee-podi Idli, the friends who claim to be my BFFs but who refuse to drive till my house, the games of Code Name played in Cubbon Park, or the by-two coffees- what is it that makes this city, frustrating as it is, still the one place that feels like home?