I would probably head to Church Street after work on a Friday evening. I’ll buy a 10-rupee cone of roasted peanuts from one of the several push cart vendors there. Maybe I will have a plate of panipuris, too, gawking at the giant graffiti on the Metro Station building. I might choose to be entertained by one of the several buskers on the street with a guitar or a typewriter. Or I would rather proceed to one of my two favourite spots in the paved street: the old Blossom Book House (near the end of the street) or the new Blossom Book House (near the beginning). As usual, I’d promise myself not to buy any books — for, that would just add to my guilt of possessing books that are unattended to — but I’d wander, like a child given free rein in a chocolate universe, from one section to another, briefly stopping to skim passages or smell old pages. As usual, before leaving the bookstore, I’d end up breaking my promise and add to my guilt.
On a late Sunday noon, I would go to Cubbon Park — the only day it is traffic-free. To beat the heat, I would gulp down two bottles (mango- and grape-flavoured) of Horticultural Producers Co-operative Marketing and Processing Society (HOPCOMS) juice. Even if it isn’t a hot day, I’d still drink two bottles -- for what’s a visit to Cubbon Park if you aren’t having HOPCOMS juice? I’d stroll through the 177-acre park, watching children skate, a group of youths reading poetry, another group dancing, a family blowing rainbow-coloured soap bubbles under a fully flowered pink poui tree, an old bespectacled woman walking her Golden Retriever, the polythene-gloved hands of a fruit bowl vendor chopping papayas with remarkable rapidity and a bashful couple sharing a sweet silence on a bench.
There are many places I’d be. At the Ranga Shankara theatre, watching a play. Or at the Kanteerava Stadium, cheering for the Bengaluru FC skipper Sunil Chhetri. Or at Koshy’s cafe (I am told this is where the city’s intelligentsia meet), eavesdropping on a conversation. Or at the daily gossip session at the restaurant opposite to my office.
But even if I am allowed to go to these places now, I doubt if they will be charming. For, without the people, these places are just a combination of bricks, gravel, cement and sand. They’ll cease to possess purpose or pleasure. There’s something about sharing everyday moments with people who are perhaps just passersby in my life — that’s what I miss doing the most in Bengaluru.
