By the side of a winding, pot-holed, one-way road near Victoria Layout, where buses and cars and scooters and bullock-carts snake their way to their daily bread, there is a stretch of unused land, where suspiciously bright green weeds and foliage abound. Separating this lushness from the road is a wall. And upon this, the history of generations lies hidden.
The wall will tell you of yesterday’s inauguration of the Bangalore Metro by the Prime Minister. ‘Hearty Welcome to Hon’ble Manmohan Singhji – Respectful MLAs and Worshipful Mayor’. Walk a few steps... peel away a few months… and there’s a more worn poster, a local potboiler... "Starring Rajesh... Lust on the Orient Express". Agatha Christie’s legacy to the Kannada world. And so on. If you peel back the layers, you’ll find other hidden gems. Protest notices, Bangalore heroines, more political welcomes. Dating back even to the 80s! ("Bangalore welcomes Shri Rajiv Gandhi on the auspicious... [tattered text]... pooja has been arranged.")
The wall itself is mostly chipped, broken in parts, held together largely by the collective glue of two decades of posters.
Monday, June 26, 2006
Saturday, June 10, 2006
Friday
Friday evening. The end of a rough week. Email deadlines. Other such.
In post-prandial lethargy, we wandered out of the Underground and into Covent Garden. And there, amidst the last of the stalls shutting down for the day... a man with a guitar and a mike... alone in the middle of the square.
He played. We sat. He played on. A small circle of listeners now. Pink Floyd. The Who. Strings plucked into the night. A nearby pub was doing good business. More listeners, more mugs. In another world and time, in the dusty grounds of a college campus, a rock show had just ended and scaffolding and amps were being taken down. A few stragglers lingered in the moonlight, and somebody in a black T-shirt and torn jeans struck up a tune, in the general vicinity of the Humanities and Sciences Block. Passers-by stopped and sang along, out of tune and enthusiastic. Other reclined on the grass.
In the background, the barman was signalling last drinks but no one noticed.
In post-prandial lethargy, we wandered out of the Underground and into Covent Garden. And there, amidst the last of the stalls shutting down for the day... a man with a guitar and a mike... alone in the middle of the square.
He played. We sat. He played on. A small circle of listeners now. Pink Floyd. The Who. Strings plucked into the night. A nearby pub was doing good business. More listeners, more mugs. In another world and time, in the dusty grounds of a college campus, a rock show had just ended and scaffolding and amps were being taken down. A few stragglers lingered in the moonlight, and somebody in a black T-shirt and torn jeans struck up a tune, in the general vicinity of the Humanities and Sciences Block. Passers-by stopped and sang along, out of tune and enthusiastic. Other reclined on the grass.
In the background, the barman was signalling last drinks but no one noticed.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
