Nagasandra Gate (13° 2'55.98"N, 77°29'48.69"E)

 

“Welcome To Bengaluru” says the faded text on the rusty sign that spans the road; on the other side it just has directions to the surrounding towns and villages. Today, those towns and villages have long since been swallowed by the city; one would actually enter Bengaluru’s city limits about fifty kilometres further up the road. Considering how much of the population is now gone, I wonder if it’s possible for a city to... contract? Uncouple from all the settlements it previously ate up, letting them be independent places and communities once more?

This ‘gate’ is now a ramshackle old thing, but it was built to greet visitors travelling in from the north-western parts of India on NH (National Highway) forty-eight. Many new forms of transport come and go. Some stay. But the fact remains that roads are still by far the most common way to move people and goods around this country; between its rural heart and soul and its urban machinery. It has been this way for civilisations and millennia all over our planet; some things do not change. Anyway, there’s a hell of a lot of slow-moving traffic out here; a monolith of vehicular mass inching forward towards a huge interchange a kilometre away, where it disintegrates into smaller fragments going their different ways to different parts of the city.

Today, I see a fleet of massive multi-wheeled vehicles carrying pieces of what looks like sewage treatment equipment. On the big flatbeds sit sections of pipe ten meters in diameter, disassembled pumps that will send effluent to the city’s many purification plants, and other bits of infrastructure I can’t recognise. If not installed quickly, all this stuff will probably languish in some underground storage facility as approval requests pile up on a desk somewhere.

I flip a coin that I always carry with me; heads means that this will be done on schedule to the day. It’s tails.

I decide to spend the day here and watch as thousands of vehicles and people make their way into Bengaluru proper with warmth, purpose and hope in their hearts. At least, that’s what the rusty old sign is supposed to inspire.

Personal Note: This next section could work as a series of short vignettes in the final book edit. Consult with team.

• The happy family, packed into a little pod. Children wide-eyed and excited to see ‘the big city’ and eat new flavours of ice-cream. Parents tired and cannot wait to end the day and go to bed.

• Students commuting into town to write an examination, I assume. All studying and looking nervous. A few of them look confident. Others look like they want to turn back and go home. But they do not. That shows spirit.

• Working people coming back home after the weekend. Morbidly hungover but mentally refreshed. Ready once more to be a cog in the machine. I know a good hangover cure.

• Traffic Police: We don’t really need human officers anymore, but there is one standing here as a redundancy if some system somehow fails. They are waving vehicles through like a conductor who has forgotten his set list. This is one of those cases where humans controlling other humans just does not work.

• There is a gaggle of people walking and looking at the traffic just like me. They are spotters; those who look for rare and expensive and interesting vehicles. What an interesting hobby that is. I never really paid attention to things like that beyond having a purely functional interest.

• Small stalls selling refreshments line this road; for those who need a break after a long journey or need to strengthen themselves for the long journey to wherever in the city they are going. It’s funny, actually... The owners of these stalls are probably happy when the traffic does not move. Business is business.

• There is a whole ‘nother story happening at the Metro station above me, but maybe I should cover that later...