The Forum Museum (12°56'2.69"N, 77°36'39.36"E)

 

One thing I really miss seeing at the mall is old people taking their first ever step onto the escalator. In a small way, it used to be a testament to the ability of the human spirit to survive. Human beings in the twilight of their lives, in a world they scarcely recognise from their youth, still able to get over their fears and come to terms with the fact that the ground is moving beneath their feet; this is always an endearing sight. Their kids or grandkids would always record the moment for posterity, and no matter what, the old person would eventually take that one step. I would always imagine going down is a bit scarier than going up, right?

Ah- who am I kidding, reminiscing in this manner? Nobody knows what I’m talking about. I guess that’s a common theme in my life now; my generation are today’s grandparents, and escalators were as common as water purifiers when we were growing up. That world, the one in which they were ever unfamiliar to anyone; that world is gone. Of course, so is the notion of the mall as a concept. Malls have been dead for a long time now. I miss the mall. It was a magical place. The aptly named Forum Mall was Bengaluru’s first, opening its shiny glass doors sixty-seven years ago; that makes this oasis of casual shopping and college students’ first dates older than every newly retired government employee on the planet. It’s now the Forum Museum; maintained to look and feel how it did when it closed in the late 2030s. Things look a bit archaic now, but my memories make me feel right at home as I did all those years ago.

I watched a 2-D ‘movie’ alone for the first time here. It was incredible. I could buy whatever I wanted at the counter, but I didn’t have much money, so the smallest possible popcorn tub was all I got, but I did not care. I walked around the place marvelling at the mood lighting, the smell of the place, the anonymous darkness of the theater. The movie made me cry. They said the name of the movie in the movie, and that one experience made me think that was the coolest, most far-out thing ever. This place had it all. Fast food from companies outside India. The most amazing shops that sold electronics, watches and other really expensive things. Of course, I could never afford any of it, but they allowed me to just walk into the shops and stare at the stuff on display. There was a huge bookstore; nothing more than a silly novelty today, but quite an important place at the beginning of the century. I remember standing there at five in the morning once; one of the most popular books in history at the time was being released, and all us youngsters convinced our parents to let us skip school and stand there in the line, waiting for the store to open.

I can still smell. In my mind’s nose, the freshly baked cookies whose scent wafted through one section of the third floor. I got a voucher for that very shop after winning a spelling bee (back then, if you knew the spellings of words, you were considered smart enough to compete against other kids; someone would say a word, and you had to spell it – a bizarre relic of my time.) I remember buying a little box of cookies and being so proud of myself. They did not taste great. Maybe it was a faulty batch or something. Before I left Bengaluru, I was a teenager, often standing around looking at other teenagers with their partners. That was a rough time for a formative-years person struggling with their image of self-worth. I’m sure I looked strange to all of them. The one thing I could afford was an ice-cream and maybe a book if I was lucky. I definitely could not afford any of the clothes. They said ‘50% Off’, but they were unreasonably expensive to begin with. I always used to wonder who could afford those clothes when they were not discounted. I did not know about fast fashion back then. That’s another thing that’s gone now.

The walking and air-conditioning (which is what we used to call Temp-Adjust until the twenties) were always free, and so the mall, more than anything else, was a meeting place. Elderly people taking a break from the sun. Students taking a break from the rigours of attending classes. Me, people-watching. People using the bathrooms before going to their next destination. Shoppers. Paupers (which is an old word for what we call ‘frogs’ today.) I used to like rhyming things as a bright-eyed poet. I am now a failed one.

As I walk out of the museum after a short browse in its gift shop, which is filled with ‘maps of the old city’ and ‘road maps’ and ‘reusable nutrition gel tubes’, I come to the conclusion that the mall, and this mall in particular, was really Bengaluru’s health monitor. When it was healthy, the city was healthy. And now it’s gone, and the city will soon be gone, too.

The mall is dead. Long live the mall.

The glass doors slide open on their own as I leave. They were another one of my favourite things about this place.