An average day. I log in to Twitter and there’s it, again. The decade old debacle on topic of reservation of jobs for local people. This time it channeled a series of hateful threads against the migrants and how they have disrupted the culture of the city. I get the anguish (no matter how politically driven), the people feel.
I’m someone who has settled in this city from the past 15 years. This state has given me my livelihood and an abode to live. In many ways than one can imagine, I’m thankful to this state. I do understand everyone’s frustration and its for the select few, every outsider has to feel the burnt.
There have been incidents where I have been harassed because of me being an outsider but that did not wavered me of my maturity of understanding that majority of the Kannadigas are peace-loving and helpful people. I have made friends, found tutors and even allies with people who have been living their all generations here. In these times when people resort to hate, I wanted to pen down what I felt for this city.
Dear Bangalore,
I never thought I’d call you home, but here I am, penning this love letter to you. When I first arrived on KR Puram station, fresh-faced and nervous, clutching my overstuffed suitcase and dreams, I had no idea you’d capture my heart so completely.
Remember those first few weeks? The chaos of Majestic bus stand, the aroma of filter coffee wafting from darshinis, the way my tongue stumbled over Kannada phrases? I was lost, overwhelmed, homesick. But you, Bangalore, you had a way of easing me in gently.
It was the small things at first. The elderly aunty in my apartment complex who’d nod and smile each morning, making me feel a little less alone. The flower seller of Munnekollal who patiently taught me the names of jasmine and marigold in Kannada. The colleague who insisted on showing me the best dosa spots in town, claiming it was his “duty” to educate this North Indian palate. The everyday gossips at tea stalls outside office…
Slowly, without me even realizing, you became more than just a city I worked in. You became home.
Home is that glorious nip in the air during December mornings, when the mist clings to Cubbon Park like a lover unwilling to let go. It’s the way my heart soared every time I caught a glimpse of your twinkling skyline from the bus, returning from office, voyaging through the electronic city flyover.
Home is belting out Kannada songs (badly) at a friend’s karaoke night, much to everyone’s amusement. It’s the fierce pride I feel when I successfully navigate a conversation in broken Kannada-English-Hindi with an auto driver.
You’ve changed me, Bangalore. You’ve taught me to slow down, to savor my coffee, to appreciate the beauty of a sudden downpour. You’ve shown me that ‘home’ isn’t about where you’re from, but where you feel you belong.
Sure, we have our moments. I curse your traffic, grumble about the metro construction, and sometimes long for the familiarity of my hometown. But then I’ll catch myself automatically saying “swalpa adjust maadi” when squeezing into a crowded elevator, and I’ll smile, knowing how deep your influence runs.
To the outsider, you might be India’s Silicon Valley, a city of startups and tech parks. But to me, you’re so much more. You’re the laughter echoing from Koramangala’s bustling pubs, the serenity of a sunrise at Nandi Hills, the vibrant colors of Malleswaram’s flower market.
You’re the city that took in a wide-eyed outsider and made him one of your own. The city where I’ve celebrated my highest highs and found comfort during my lowest lows. The city where I’ve forged friendships that feel like family, where I’ve grown, stumbled, and found my feet again.
So here’s to you, Bangalore, my unexpected home. Thank you for embracing this non-Kannadiga, for teaching me that ‘home’ is less about geography and more about the heart. I may not have been born here, but a part of me will always belong to you.
With all my love,
Dipan