Beyond Bangalore in Bengaluru

 

If someone told me that just a few kilometers away from MG Road, in the heart of modern cool shades-mini skirt Bangalore, I would find a place where women in jeans was an unusual sight, I would have wanted to go see for myself. No one told me this, so it left quite the mark when the husband and I landed in the Muslim heartland of Bengaluru one aimless Sunday evening. 

It started with an innocent question, "Been to Russell Market?". "What's that? Where's that?". So I dragged him there pronto.

After getting dropped off near St Mary's cathedral, we entered the Russell Market through it's fragrant entrance. Whoever thought of crowding in the flower shops at the entrance thought right. It's quite a welcome to the more smellier insides. For me, this nearly 100-year old market is a symbol of self-reliance and defiance. The vendors of the market are made of stern stuff - after their shops and goods burned down in 2012 (supposedly a short-circuit fire, a reason no one buys) they pooled in all they had and resurrected the market. They saw no point waiting for a dithering BBMP, which wanted to raze it to the ground instead of preserving it and cherishing it. (I recall the much-hyped, much renovated, 'heritage' markets I went to in Kuala Lumpur.) Russell Market is in such good shape today, you can hardly tell that it was a pile of ash a few years ago.Go there to buy. The vendors don't really entertain time-wasters.

We wanted to explore the area behind Russell Market, so we walked on. Just the usual pete stuff. Lots of everyday shops, then the specialized areas begin. There are shops which stack 15-feet tall columns of the aluminium biryani-making pots that are the hallmark of the ubiquitous Ambur dum biryani stalls.

A few minutes of wandering around the lanes looking around, and suddenly I realized that I was the only woman around in jeans, and worse, the only one not wearing a full black burqa. There was the occasional jasmine-wearing, sari-clad Tamil lady, but no one in jeans. We walked on, crossing some shops selling bright burqas and headscarves.It just didn't feel like my idea of Bangalore, at all. Yes, ok, I am saying it, I am not a fan of that full-body-covered-to-prevent-lustful eyes concept at all.

A few feet down, we came upon what seemed like a gathering of angry men, with some one addressing them quite loudly. Shutters suddenly downed all around, and we decided we had better turn around to more familiar territory. In this time and day..one never knows.

On one side of the road, a big mosque. On the other, a really huge status of the Hindu goddess Mariamman. And of course, life, and horns bustling around. Tall lights in the circle, with five little lanes radiating from it. Mopeds and autos will run you over if you are not careful. Shops selling everything from simple beef fry, to every imaginable body part of the cow/buffalo prepared in it's own unique way. We got beef biryani from one of the respectable looking shops. And after a few auto wars, made our way back to M G Road metro station. And I will admit, it was nice to see mini skirts and jeans again.

When Goa calls

 

The first time I went to Goa, I simply couldn't understand what the fuzz was about. It was hot, too hot for November. It was a girl gang trip, and like most of the girl gang trips I've been on, all was never well. Petty differences, Infantaria, hot beaches, hot sun. I didn't get it. I was quite sure I wouldn't return.

The second time, oh, that was another trip altogether. A carefree, unplanned, aimless trip. With a..erm..the chappie I eventually married. Maybe it was that novelty, or that quirky supermarket in Anjuna, or the really cheap but good rooms, or maybe it was love... Goa etched itself into my mind. I remember it as if it was yesterday... getting lost as we rode around in the Activa and not really worrying about it. Joking about how everyone talks about that one little cheap shack where they had the best fish curry of their lives, but hoping we could find one of our own. That distinct cool nip in the air as the road rose into slightly higher ground. Hot afternoons neutralized by the cool breeze and chilled beer and great fish. 

We couldn't get lunch around 3 at Vagator, because everyone was asleep. Siesta time, we were told. Charming, I thought. But some kind souls took pity on us and served us their left over fish curry in the veranda-cum-cafe of their home.
I returned to Goa, with another gang of girls, desperately trying to recapture the magic. But women are another kind of travel company altogether. Yes, there was the free booze at Tito's. And we had the craziest time dancing away, while being watched by lonely men, but the bouncers were comfortingly close and we really couldn't care less. But I've realized since then (to my complete shock), that traveling in a mixed group or with a group of men is when I've had the best times.

I've been to Goa in the heat of April, and the relative cool of November. But seeing Goa in August was like renewing my vows. The most gorgeous shade of green cloaks every nook.


No craggy brown peaks, just reams of undulating green. Green life sprouting everywhere, even the walls have plants with full-sized leaves growing on them. And there's beautiful bright green moss coating the orange laterite everywhere.Even the seaside sported it's own variation of green seaweed.

And finally, in August is when we discovered OUR little shack with cheap fresh fish. Unluckily for us, they charged us double of what they were charging the taxi guy at the adjacent table. But that king fish and mackerel fry was the freshest I've had outside of my seaside hometown. And for someone living in fish-deprived Bangalore, that was my Alleluia moment.

Goa will always bring images of fresh butter garlic squid, strong cocktails, afternoons so hot and humid you can feel it weighing down on your brain, afternoons just right for lazing in a shack with beer and fish, cool evenings by the beach and long, never-ending rides on an Activa.